dvr is the name of summer home in grumpy old man land

I don’t understand people who don’t love the Olympics. I mean, what’s not to like? Who watching TV is like, no no I would prefer to watch something without real drama or meaningful suspense or a touching back story. I prefer not to root for underdogs or celebrate greatness or swell with pride for the accomplishments of my fellow man. I would rather watch something like The Bachelor. I mean, come on! The ads ABOUT the Olympics are better TV than that crap. What is wrong with you? (Seriously. Have you seen that Dan Jansen ad?)

I know that the Olympics is #1 in the ratings, but I can’t believe that something like 12 million people opted for, well, The Bachelor. I am even mad at my Idol fans. As you well know, I love Idol. I do, I really do. I have, in the past, chosen Idol over social occasions or, you know, interacting with humans. But the Olympics top Idol. No contest, no question. (Those of you familiar with the transitive property might then conclude that the Olympics also top interactions with real people, but I would remind you that doing so is a logical fallacy.) (And totally true.) The whole point of the Olympics is about the whole world watching, the whole world coming together. Why wouldn’t you want to be a part of that? Yeah, I think there is a repeat of House on tonight. Maybe we should just watch that.

Now, it is the Winter Olympics, which some people consider to be the inferior one. First of all, I don’t really think there is an inferior one. They are both awesome. But I think that people prefer the Summer Olympics because of gymnastics. The Summer Olympics is full of sports that people don’t care about—anything on a horse or a boat or some of those obscure sports you didn’t even know were Olympic sports (Badminton? Judo? Trampoline gymnastics?!). The Winter Olympic sports, however, all fall under a similar category of moving quickly on frozen water—and typically, whoever does so the fastest wins. So if you like one, you really should just like them all. (And you should like them all).

Now don’t get me wrong. I’ll watch any Olympic event. I’ll watch badminton and judo and trampoline gymnastics. Hell, I’ve been starting each day this week by watching curling (yes, that does mean I’ve been getting up around 1 PM). I still don’t have a firm grasp of how it is played, and the only real conclusion I can make is that the Americans suck at it. But it is still better than anything else on TV. Also, the commentators are Canadian, so I get the enjoyment of hearing about trying to push the stoone oot of the hoose. (Also, if you are like me, you are wondering where the “second of all” went. Well, full disclosure, I’ve had some beer while writing this. So, somewhere in there.)

So, who are these people who don’t watch the Olympics? There are people who don’t like sports and people who don’t like America, and people who don’t like either. But really, what DO those people like? I assume Gossip Girl.

Still, there are exceptions to my love. Most times, when I watch TV, I think to myself “I could do that!” Sure, The Practice, I could be a lawyer. Yeah, Scrubs, I could be a doctor. Absolutely, The West Wing, I could work for the President of the United States. No problem. So, when I watch the Olympics, I think, wow I wish I were skiing or short track speed skating or playing hockey or riding down in some kind of sled! That looks so fun! But when I watch cross country skiing, I just get tired. They are just doing so much work. Like, so much work! And I am sitting around, eating Oreos, drinking beer, watching my ass make an indent into the chair I am in.

It is similar to my dislike of people younger than me who are more successful than me. Like, why are you trying so hard? Are you trying to make me feel bad about myself? It is just a reminder of how entirely average I am. Oh, you at 19 are winning Olympic medals? Well, I at age 19 was being a completely average student in college. I also had gained a considerable amount of weight since high school. Oh, yeah, I was also a part-time tutor at TWO DIFFERENT Score! Education Centers AT THE SAME TIME. 25 cents an hour more than minimum wage, baby! That’s seven whole dollars!

But I think as I get older, I just have to get over it. Like, okay, am I going to do that at age 30? Hate all successful twenty-somethings? At some point I crossover from disliking successful people who are younger than I am to just disliking successful people. I feel like I’m sitting right at the horn, age-wise, when most people who will be successful are becoming successful. Next Olympics, things will have tipped. So as I desperately prevent taking up permanent residency in Grumpy Old Man Land, I will celebrate the success of these young whippersnappers winning their gold medals and basking in international acclaim. Way to go, guys! I’ll be watching, no matter what (with American Idol on the DVR, assuming I ever learn how to use a DVR) (Seriously, it asks me so many questions that I don’t know the answer to! Maybe I’ll just try to record it using a videotape).

jesse, father of david... you know, david and goliath... right, his dad.

I set a goal to wake up at 10 AM on Tuesday. So when I woke up at 2 PM, I showered, got dressed and headed out to the mall. I know that I live in New York City and could go shopping in SoHo and walk down 5^th Avenue and all of that. Meh. I went to the mall. I was just going to Macy’s and the Gap anyway, maybe smell some Cinnabon along the way. And while there, I remembered I love shopping for ties. They are arranged so neatly in their little color wheel. It’s all so sensory. I want to rub my face all over it. But I resist, for the most part.

I am regularly tricked by the salesperson rhetoric. I don’t know why I am so trusting or so naïve, but I sincerely believe they care about my day or are legitimately complimenting my taste. Thanks, I say, with a big grin. I do enjoy the bold combination of lime green and chocolate brown. I feel like it’s a daring take on earth tones. I get a lot of generous nods in response. I wholly imagine when I’m old and alone, I will buy plenty of things sold by door-to-door salesmen and send my money to anyone on TV who seems like a nice young man.

It even happens in the most mundane of interactions. Like getting carded. I get a lot of odd looks at my ID because it is an out-of-state license (and, more likely, because I’m 25 and the picture is a 15-year-old Jesse with a mouth full of braces). So sometimes, they do the check questions. “What’s your sign?” What the bouncer doesn’t realize is that he’s about to get a whole thing about my opinion on astrology. Surprise! “Well, I’m a Capricorn, but I’m not sure how much I believe in that kind of thing. I mean there is absolutely a sense of connectedness we all have, especially to the natural world. And I do think there is something to be said for that. But, can we predict the future based on our birthday and the stars? Well, that I question.” I get a polite nod.

Once, it was, “Oh, you’re from California? So am I. Where did you go to high school.” Oh, that person did not know the package she opened. “Well, let me spin you a yarn about a little place called Archbishop Mitty! Sit tight, Trader Joe’s Wine Shop lady. This will take a while.”

And while we’re on the topic, why do people whose job it is to read IDs all day not know how to read an ID? Like, you have heard of a middle name, right? You might even have one. I get “Jesse Williams” more times than I can even know what to do with. First of all, it doesn’t even say “Williams” it says “William.” Second of all, what do you think that word after that is? My title? Jesse Williams, Duke of Hall. Did you just get lazy? I read two words, no more no way no how! Any words beyond that are lost! (Also, if this were a spoken word piece, this would absolutely have been said using the Emerald City Guard voice, which is a voice I like to pull out every now and again.).

And while we’re on THAT topic, an interaction concerning my name I have more often than “Jesse Williams” goes a little something like this:

Sign-in table person: Last name please?

Jesse: Hall.

Sign-in table person: Hong?

Jesse: …no no. That is not at all what I said. That is what you wanted to hear.

It has happened so often that I start spelling it and adding a “like the room.” To the end. To no avail. “Hall, H-A-L-L, like the room.” “Hong?” Yes, that room we all have. Our Hong room, spelled like it sounds, H-A-L-L.

And while we’re on THAT topic, why do people expect that “Jesse” is short for something? “What do you think it is short for?” I ask. “Jes..s…ica?” Yeah, that’s what I thought. Although once I did say “like from the Bible,” which increased confusion. “Jesus?”

What was I talking about? Rubbing my face on a table full of ties? Yes. So, I love ties. And I bought two. This is about as exciting as it gets nowadays, folks.

yeah, i'm about 8% sure i have a bed sore

Somehow, many days have gone by and little can be said about them. I’ve had an interview here and there. I headed out to Flushing to hang out with my best friend Corinda, my unemployment office representative. At some point I made a pie. Mostly, I’ve sat around looking at the job listings I’m not qualified for and eating food at my desk (and by desk, I mean bed). It has become hideously obvious how much of my life was defined by my job now that I don’t have one. This whole weekend went by without leaving the apartment (and by apartment, I mean bed.) (Just kidding. I had to use the bathroom sometimes, and once, I answered the door to get my Chinese food.)

I did go to my first pub quiz, which was a fine event. It was mostly just drinking some beer and surprising myself with my knowledge of the inane (What Olympic ring color represents Europe?) and of the things that no one should know because they shouldn’t exist (What is the full name of this season of The Bachelor?). I also knew how old J.D. Salinger was when he died, the number of boys in The Pet Shop Boys, and who sang “I Wanna Know What Love Is.” But I did not know any of the sports questions, did not recognize a single celebrity on a page of pictures, and did not remember the 2007 Oscar Winner for Best Picture. Well, I did know that the bantam in bantamweight was for a chicken but had no idea about fly or feathers. Chickens have feathers but can fly. Well they can sort of fly. Better than, say, I can fly. But really, how would I know about those weight classes? Clearly I was always a heavyweight. What did I need to know about the other ones?

So, overall, I would classify myself as a great third member of a trivia team. Someone needs to know sports. Someone needs to know pop culture. Those are two big pillars of trivia. But then you need a Jesse, who doesn’t recognize Sienna Miller or know anything about the Pittsburgh Steelers, but has a loose grasp on literature, Bible characters, state capitals and Jenny’s phone number (you know, 867-5309).

Sidebar: Just as I think I’m a good third team member on a trivia team, I think I’d be a great third commentator for a sports broadcast. There is the main guy, who is probably a venerable newscaster of some kind. Been around forever. Bob Costas or Greg Gumbel. Then you have someone who has played or coached the sport. Jerry Rice stopping by. Brian Boitano saying things like “Triple Salchow, Triple Toe Loop!” You know, an expert with anecdotes a-plenty. And then you have just some third person who just fills in the gaps. It goes like this:

Guy #1: So, here you have it, 3^rd and 3. This has been tough for the team all season, these third downs blah blah blah

Guy #2: You said it, Guy #1. In cases like this, you want to stay focused, work on getting the ball down the field. Back in ’89 when I was blah blah blah

Guy #1: And here’s the snap. He’s looking, looking, throws it. Incomplete!

Jesse: Oh, they really wanted to catch that pass.

They help you know what’s going on. “Well, Smith finished the course in 3:45, so he’s going to want to get at least a 3:44 to qualify.” They help you empathize. “Oh, I bet she’s disappointed she missed that shot.” They even help in those tough spots when you can’t figure out the math. “Well they’re down by 2, so they’ll need at least 3 runs to win.” I feel like if anyone can get paid to do that, I’m just as deserving. How hard can it be? Anyway. Sidebar out.

So, pub quiz was all in all jovial affair. But it could have gone another direction. See, there is competitive Jesse and there is everything’s cool Jesse. Thankfully, throw a few beers in regular Jesse and he turns into everything’s cool Jesse, not competitive Jesse. Competitive Jesse might have vehemently complained about the question “What is the only sequel to win an Oscar?” Competitive Jesse would have said, “I think you meant ‘what is the only sequel to win a BEST PICTURE Oscar’ which is a flawed question and even still, my answer of Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King is correct (and you can clearly see I wrote The Godfather Part II first before doubting myself). So I think what you REALLY meant was ‘what is the FIRST sequel to win a Best Picture Oscar.’ Right? That is what you meant. Right? Because I think you should be a little more careful with your words, mister.” But everything’s cool Jesse let it slide. Why? Because everything’s cool! I got my Brooklyn Lager, had a couple of hot wings, and am feeling good.

Competitive Jesse would have also gone apeshit on the drunk Irish lady (yes, it is important to the story that she is Irish) who accused us of cheating. (Do you want to see all the texts I’ve sent?! Do you want to look at my internet history on my phone?! You best back down because you do not go around accusing people of shit without backing it up, bitch.). Competitive Jesse would also have been more upset that we lost (by ONE point. Well technically two to win. But by one question, for sure. A single question like, what was the FIRST sequel to win the BEST PICTURE Oscar.). But competitive Jesse is nowhere to be found. Happy to be out of the house Jesse was, well, in the house.

So, I don’t know how much I would make pub quiz a regular thing. Competitive Jesse has not seen the light of day lately, but he is always lurking underneath. That is a beast best kept deep down. Oh! Speaking of, for those of you keeping count at home, my winning streak of FreeCell came to an end. 676. (I believe I literally screamed “No!” out loud). The new current one is 16. But it just doesn’t feel worth it any more. Yeah, I need a job.

in related news, the number in the FreeCell sentence was updated twice while writing

Anyone who has been unemployed for a while knows that your days just begin to meld together. Weekend. Weekday. It’s all about the same, especially when you are still awake at 4 AM and still asleep at 12 PM. So, day in and day out, there isn’t much to report. Today, I ate some food! Although, my winning streak on FreeCell has now passed 450. Excitement abound.

But, with all this free time, I have taken up to reading only the finest writing available on the internet—Facebook fan pages, comments on Youtube videos, ew.com articles, you know, generally high brow material. And can I just ask, what is with people and spoilers? Like, HA HA HA I know something about this show that you don’t (but will become public knowledge in like two weeks anyway). Wow. That is so impressive. I cannot even believe how cool that is. You really must be a better person than I am to have that soon-to-be-moot and ultimately inconsequential information.

There is this whole culture out there of “I know something you don’t know” or, worse, “I knew something that you now know before you knew it, which still makes me a better person.” There is a whole Facebook page devoted to something like “I knew that band before it was big!” Like, the number of people who openly brag about knowing about Owl City before he became mainstream is pretty astounding. How is that impressive? How is that something that you would say out loud (or, you know, to the internet). It’s not like you have exclusive Stones demo tapes or something. It is a dude with one album and a runaway hit. Yeah, I heard Owl City before he made it big, too. It was called Death Cab for Cutie. (Har har har).

Spoilers are worse though. The whole name-dropping game of hey I knew about this person before you did is just being ass for being an ass’s sake. Which is annoying enough. But, people who insist on posting spoilers on comment pages or Facebook news feeds are showing off to the detriment of others.

Person A: Oh wow I’m so excited to read this book! I can’t wait.

Stranger: I ALREADY KNOW WHAT HAPPENED THIS HAPPENS AND THEN THIS HAPPENS I’M SO MUCH COOLER BECAUSE I ALREADY KNEW SEE I KNEW I KNEW IT I KNEW IT FIRST.

Person A: … page one …

Whatever happened to just watching or reading or seeing something and enjoying it? Is that not okay any more? I don’t think it is a ridiculous thing to ask. I mean, isn’t that the whole point? Do people now go into movies thinking, wow I can’t wait to see this but good thing I already know everything that happens? And whom are you trying to impress, internet? I mean, who is like, oh wow that DID happen! Thanks, superguy2125 (worst fake internet alias ever)! You ARE smarter than I am!

I do remember once as a kid spoiling the end of the movie Phenomenon to a friend. With fury in his eyes, he tried to ruin the ending of something I was excited about and had not yet seen: Independence Day. Sad for him, he had not yet seen it either. EARTH WINS, he shouted. Turns out, he was right. Sorry if that was a spoiler, but if you haven’t seen Independence Day yet, what the hell is wrong with you?! (But you totally should).

My brother, on the other hand, took a different route. Every birthday party or Christmas morning or any other present opening time (what other present opening times are there? Damn you, rule of threes), he would state, as a person began to open a present, “I know what it is!” And after the present was opened, he would announce, “I knew it!” Now, if you want to drive an eight-year-old Jesse absolutely nuts, do that. NO YOU DIDN’T! YOU DID NOT KNOW! TELL ME NOW. WHAT DO YOU THINK IT IS? WHAT! JUST SAY IT FIRST! SAY IT FIRST! (Eight-year-old Jesse was pretty high strung). His game was simply to say he knew more than the room, despite any evidence either way. Part of his game was also probably to drive me nuts.

Now, maybe these people actually do know more than I do. Maybe they have some insight into why they are not the worst people ever. Maybe the great spoiler in life is that blessed are those who ruin the endings of movies, for theirs is the kingdom of God. But if it is, just don’t tell me.

the third tier is still high enough that you'd die if you fell from it...

I don’t front. I am a huge American Idol fan. Intellectuals and snobs may turn up their noses, but I just don’t care. I love it. Well, I loved it. In the past few seasons, it has been quite abusive to me (when I have showed it nothing but love), but that’s not the point. The point is that I am a huge fan. Perhaps bigger than you’ve ever met. I don’t just watch the show and enjoy it. A good portion of my brain space is irreversibly committed to who sang what knowledge. Or to contestants you probably don’t even remember (I love you, Nikko Smith). And sometimes it pops out in what could be embarrassing conversations. Embarrassing if you front, which if you read my first line, I do not. Conversations like:

Person: Wow, I can’t believe Adam Lambert sang “Satisfaction” [on season 8 of Idol]. I wonder what it took to get the Stones to release that song to be covered.

Jesse: Well, Bo Bice sang it in season 4.

Person: Really?

Jesse: Oh, and Gina Glocksen sang “Paint It, Black” in season 6.

Person: …

Jesse: Yeah, you just got schooled.

Perhaps you are wondering to yourself, who was the 11^th contestant voted off in season 3? Why that would be Matthew Rogers. What song did he sing? That would be “Amazed” by Lonestar. You know who else sang a Lonestar song? Well, Anthony Federov sang one in season 4 (“I’m Already There”). Perhaps you are wondering what song Katharine McPhee auditioned with. Well that would be “God Bless the Child.” Mikalah Gordon also sang that song on the show (2^nd week of the semifinals) and for the season 4 CD.

I have had a two-digit number’s worth of dreams in which I am a contestant (and one in which I was a contestant on So You Think You Can Dance. I had told everyone I know to watch me on the show and then it dawned on me that I can’t dance. Panic.). I have without irony used the sentence, “I worry what I would pick for ‘Country Week.’” I have correctly predicted, based on the theme, what a contestant will sing multiple times (two weeks in a row I said, “ugh I bet he’s going to sing/ruin X” right before David Cook came out and was right [“Always Be My Baby’ and “Music of the Night”]). And boom goes the dynamite.

But, despite all of this, I would not classify myself beyond the 3^rd tier of fandom. I truly believe there exists at least two higher echelons of fans. I have never spent money on any Idol merch other than music (which I argue is the one piece of merchandise you are supposed to buy. Right? It is a music show. Shouldn’t you buy the music?). That is, I have never seen the show in person or attended any of the tours. I have never bought a t-shirt or poster or anything like that. So, there is a level of fan that does that, which has to be higher than me. If you are walking around sporting a t-shirt with David Archuleta’s smiling face on it, you automatically outdo my knowledge that Diana DeGarmo came out first in the semifinal rounds of season 3 and sang “I Got the Music in Me.” (Seriously, I got like a B- on my British Literature quote identification midterm. This ability cannot be used for good, only evil.)

But then there is that top tier: actually crazy people. I make no claims of sanity, and those Jordin Sparks-clad fans are certainly not excluded from the tea party, but there is a level of crazy that runs just inexplicably deep. For example, nothing having to do with American Idol has come remotely close to making me cry (nor should it). I would never, ever, ever enter the world of online message boards about the show. Ever ever ever. Ever. The extreme emotional connection people feel and, for some reason, have to share with this online community of fellow crazies is stupefying. Something about the level of anonymity combined with the actual disconnect from the show (were you on it?) and the reality that it is just a TV show (yes, just) creates this perfect storm of overreaction and misplaced passion that could knock a moving freight train out of its tracks. There exists this legion of superfans that send hate mail to votefortheworst.com and make signs to hold up at their televisions for, presumably, contestants who cannot possibly see them and organize petitions to get their “unfairly” ousted favorite contestant back on the show.

But this isn’t Idol’s fault. I actually believe it is the other way around. American Idol didn’t make crazy fans out of these people; these people were always crazy. Like really, actually, I don’t know if they should be allowed to drive, please tell me these people are not responsible for children crazy. The kind of people that, after revealing their obsession, you discreetly feel for your keys should the need for a weapon arise. The kind of people that don’t seem to notice that your eyebrows had permanently risen since they started talking to you. The kind of people that you don’t make sudden movements around. These people, they just happen to direct all that crazy toward American Idol. Anything that has regular fans has crazy fans. TV shows, celebrities, comic books, Barack Obama. In fact, I bet things you didn’t think could have regular fans have crazy fans. I’m sure there are people out there with deep emotional attachments to the varieties of pudding or the styles of nail clippers or the brands of decks of playing cards.

Also, just to go back a tic, I hope that the inventor of the caps lock key, the inventor of the YouTube comment, and the inventor of “reply all” are sharing a table in Hell for crimes against humanity. Just saying.

and i didn't need to upload it, as all those songs are already on my computer...

I’ve been having trouble sleeping. Well, no. I’ve had absolutely no trouble sleeping from 6 am to 3 pm. That’s been effortless. I have had trouble sleeping like a regular diurnal mammal. So, in between when I decide to go to bed and I actually fall asleep, I have been getting a lot done. For example, I have upped my winning streak on FreeCell from the low to the mid 300s. But, I felt that I could perhaps be even more efficient. So last night, I decided to go through a stack of unlabeled CDs to label them.

I found some weird things. I found a mix CD that was labeled. There was “[undisclosed name]’s mix” written on the front, along with the date and the #7. The date harkens back to a more innocent time, pre-9/11 time when we had boy bands aplenty, J. Lo had not yet met Ben Affleck, and Aaliyah was still alive. Ah, the halcyon days of yore. In any case, here is the playlist (seriously, you can’t make this stuff up, folks):

1)‘N Sync – Gone

2) something Indian

3) Theme from (the original) 90210 (which you now sadly have to clarify)

4) Linkin Park – Crawling in my Skin

5) from Rent – Rent

6)‘N Sync – Dirty Pop

7) something Indian

8) Blu Cantrell – Hit ‘Em Up Style (Oops!)

9) J. Lo – I’m Real

10) ‘N Sync – Do Your Thing

11) Mandy Moore – In My Pocket (a very poor quality version)

12) ‘N Sync – Celebrity

13) Xtina, Pink, Mya, Lil Kim – Lady Marmalade

14) Willa Ford – I Wanna Be Bad

15) from Moulin Rouge - Hindi Sad Diamonds

16) Jordan Knight – Give it to You

17) Aaliyah – Are You That Somebody (RIP)

Full disclosure: the tracks showed up in my iTunes without labels. I had to look them up (by reaching into my memory and instantly knowing the songs). Also, I was trying to detect a theme for the CD. And I couldn’t even come up with a joke answer. Something using the word bling?

Also also, let’s talk about 2001 in music for a second. Napster was in full swing then. Music was apparently doomed forever, and the sale of music would never be the same. Number one selling album that year? Linkin Park. This album went like ten times platinum. Things were free and still (somehow) legal, and something like ten million people spent actual money on the Linkin Park CD. Just saying.

Meanwhile, back at the farm, I had come across something even weirder. There was a CD with just two documents on it. One was a set of notes and the other was an essay written by, well, I don’t know. Not by me or anyone I know. WHERE DID IT COME FROM? And, if you are me, you would naturally start to play out the first twenty minutes of Enemy of the State in your head. Did Jason Lee drop this in my shopping bag before he rode his bike in front of a bus?! Is Gene Hackman standing on my roof?! Are a bunch of people going to try to kill me?! What is going on?!?! (Apparently, in my head, I am played by Will Smith.) (I imagine that actually casting the role of me would involve doing a wikipedia search to see if William Hung is still around and then calling the South Park guys to see if they still have the puppet they used in Team America).

I think it was someone’s homework. I hope that person worked it out, as this CD been in a box for years. In any case, I can cross that off of my list. CDs I never look at have been messily labeled. Good. So that way when I put them back in the box and not touch them for three years, they will at least have the words “mp3s” or “pictures” scribbled on the front of them. I can sleep soundly now.

Also, it is legal to drink on planes.

I love airports. I do. I don’t love it like I love other things—like, say, pizza. But I still give them the thumbs up. I think my ability to say that I love airports stems from the deep hatred other people have for them. To say I love airports could also be translated as I don’t hate airports with a burning passion of the Christ. I really think some people are at their most miserable in an airport. And, to that, I say a few things. A) You are the one who had all of those kids. And b) just calm the f down! Like seriously. Yes, things cost more in an airport. Yes, you have to take your shoes off. Yes, the lines can get long. But if you aren’t a crazy person, it all goes by quite quickly and painlessly.

On my latest flight, I ran into the usual suspects. The “I have no idea what to do at airport security” people. The “a cup of coffee costs what?!” people. The “what do you mean I can’t carry on 165 bags” people. You know, the sort of (white) people who use phrases like “this is ridiculous” with the sense of entitlement that makes you want to kill yourself. Honestly, if you ever hear those words leave your mouth, it is time to rethink your entire outlook on life.

I imagine these people have never had to work in any industry in which you interact with another human being. Like, yes, it was the guy whose job it is to initial your boarding pass who made up the rule to check your ID. That’s him, the head of TSA. This is where he works. SFO United gates 70 – 89. Calm down, woman.

The key to enjoying airports is getting there early. I always get to airports early. Sometimes, I get there super early. But typically, just regular early. That way, if security takes a long time, that’s cool. Oh, a long line to get my coffee? Awesome. I have three hours to kill anyway.

I think part of loving airports also has to do with living in New York. You won’t have to fight anyone for a seat on the plane. You are already used to paying over five bucks for a cup of coffee and a muffin. You are simply amazed to find bathrooms that have interacted with a mop. All in all, you could do a lot worse (like, say, the R train).

Still, with any flight there is an added bonus. Every flight has something. The added bonus on my flight was that there was a mystery bag that had snuck on board. So after some taxiing (words with two i’s in a row always look funny. Like skiing. Or radii.) we headed back to the gate. People on the plane freaked out. “This is ridiculous!” God forbid airline employees follow national law. The bigger freakouts came from business and first class. Yeah, I bet it is hard sitting in your huge chair that reclines. Your life really is just so hard.

I did get to make my best Jim Halpert face when the head airline stewardess (do they have an official name? Flight queen?) reminded us more than once that “in case of an emergency, you must leave all of your belongings behind” as if it were more applicable to this flight. Great. But I don’t mind. I have had to make announcements before. Sometimes they just don’t go as planned. I suggest writing them down first.

The old guy next to me was one of those old guys who learned to start conversations using the chum method. Dump a bucket of open-ended statements in the water and wait for the sharks around you to bite. I don’t play that game. “I guess it’s all in the name of safety!” he’d say to no one. I usually pretend I don’t speak English (you know, by reading a book). Rude? Maybe. But you have to be careful. Grandpas have these bear trap stories that they unleash on strangers. A polite nibble and suddenly you are desperately trying to gnaw your leg off as he tells you about the time he flew out of St. Louis in 1974. By the way, you should be visualizing someone setting a shark trap for bears or a bear trap for sharks. In any case, this bear-shark ain’t falling for it. Better luck next flight, corrective shoes.

Behind me, just for comic relief, sat the funniest little old Asian lady that you ever did meet. She was the last one on the plane, dragging her carry-on (and by carry-on, I of course mean garbage bag). After the return to the gate to remove the mystery bag, she gleefully announced “we’re here in New York!” I giggled. The French couple next to her didn’t get the joke. I think it was a joke. Either that, or I meanly laughed at a confused old lady. But I prefer to think that I laughed at the expense of the French couple.

The old Asian lady apparently hated San Francisco, told the French couple they were gorgeous and interrogated them about when they were having kids, and proudly announced she was taking a cab to Connecticut. And as it turns out, the old gal could book it. The second the armed door open, the lady was, garbage bag in hand, out of the plane.

She blew past the James Spader look-alike who had earlier thrown a huge fit over the return to the gate. He of course threw a fit again. He started with the “Excuse me” (yes, it is said with a capital E) and shouted (to no one. Seriously. She was gone.) “why are you in such a hurry?”

Now if I were an airport crazy, I might have punched him in the face. You are the one! You! Sitting there freaking out about nothing! You! But I was still in range of the grandpa tractor beam, so I wasn’t about to reveal my fluency in English. And, I love airports.