Sully is My Co-pilot

Don't know if you caught Captain Chesley Sullenberger on "60 Minutes" tonight, but of course I was riveted to the TV.

I loved his demeanor, his "I was just doing my job, ma'am," air of calmness.

I loved the inscrutable, yet vaguely insulted, look he gave Katie Couric when she asked the asinine question, "Did you pray?" before answering politically that he left that to the folks behind him on the plane because he had other things to do, like TRYING TO LAND THE PLANE IN THE RIVER. As if God had anything to do with it, instead of his 29 years of experience, training as a fighter pilot, glider pilot, accident investigator, and flight instructor. Sheesh.

And I so want one of those "Sully is my Co-Pilot" t-shirts one of the passengers was wearing at the re-union. I'd store it right next to my Yankees "Scooter 3:16" t-shirt, which for some reason always garners me a lot of dirty looks every time I wear it.

Go, Sully!

First-Person Account from Flight 1549

So my sister is married to a pilot who flies for one of the legacy carriers, and one of their pilots was deadheading on Flight 1549, and she sent a first person account to her union, and my sister shared it with me on pain of death if I forwarded it, because it's supposed to be confidential.

All I can tell you is that it is very, very cool.

Sorry.

25 Things about Jane

No.

You know what?

Fuck all of you and your fucking 25 things.

Don't assume that knowing 25 random facts about me means that you know anything about me at all! What you can safely assume is that if I compile a list of 25 things, it is merely another constructed persona that may or may not have anything to do with who I really am. Knowing that I fucked the redheaded pressman last week doesn't tell you anything more than I fucked a redheaded pressman, for God's sake! Whatever conclusions you draw or judgements you make about me from that fact are just your conclusions and judgements, and they may or may not be true, but honestly, have nothing to do with me.

"25 Things" is just another one of those stupid questionnaires (only without the questions) that people used to send around by email; you know, the ones with the penetrating questions like "Coke or Pepsi?" "Vanilla or Chocolate?" These questionnaires got old really fast (somewhere around 1998 or so) and every one that has shown up in my inbox since then has been the recipient of a swift delete-button boot.

I could probably go through this blog and my original blog and pull out two sets of 25 random sentences and present them as my 25 things. And with those two sets of "facts", I could portray myself as the meanest person in the world, or the next reincarnation of the Dalai Lama.

So no, I won't be crafting a list of carefully honed "facts" about me in hopes that it will show you how quirky, sensitive, kooky, or deep I am. If you want to know me, it sure isn't going to happen with some list.

You want to know 25 things about me? Pick up the phone and have a conversation with me. Make a plan to have a drink or a hamburger with me so we can talk face to face. Come over to my house and let me cook you comfort food while we drink wine and talk about the world we live in and life in general.

And there you have it. I just had to say it, because frankly, "25 Things" has totally ruined Open Salon.

Etta James and Jane Agree about Beyonce

Sasha Frere-Jones' extended wet kiss of Beyonce's behind aside, I've been telling anyone who will listen that Beyonce is the most supremely mediocre superstar we've got. Anyone with ears can hear that the woman can't sing her way out of a paper bag, at least not without serious mechanical assistance.

Note to Sasha Frere-Jones: Beyonce will never fuck you, so writing a review that makes her sound as if she is the second coming of Billie Holiday, Aretha Franklin, Diana Ross, and Whitney Houston all rolled into one was really just a waste of your time. Aren't you embarrassed to have called this middling-talent pop star "brilliant" and a "genius?"

Apparently, Etta James agrees with me.

Any Storm in a Port

If you travel to the opposite coast several times a year, it can be pretty tedious to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with the same salesperson every day, no matter how much you enjoy his or her company. No matter how much I enjoy being wined and dined at Los Angeles' best restaurants, sometimes I just want a night in the hotel with room service and cable television.

And chances are, they probably have their own moments of, "Oh, Jesus, I have to eat ANOTHER meal with this mouthy New York chick?"

So as a service to my LA salespeople, I've found myself a West Coast playmate.

I picked him out about a year ago.

He was at the time the lead sheetfed pressman at one of my vendors; he recently moved to our other LA vendor where he is now the daytime sheetfed supervisor. Totally not my type. Anyone who knows me knows that my type runs toward the Big, Dumb, and Galooty, and I have been more than vocal in my disdain for redheaded men (I've always believed that while red hair on women is beautiful, exotic, and sexy, I've always characterized it as a birth defect in men).

Dave is short (again, going against type, with my current NYC Special Naked Friend standing 6'4"), no taller than me, with a head of flaming red hair, but he has a certain twinkle in his eye that got my attention. Oh, and a tight little surfer's body. You know how it is -- when you meet someone simpatico and you look at each other and you both kind of cock your head to the side like you're hearing something? And you say to yourself, "Huh. I think I need to have that."

So, now I've got a playmate for those nights when I just want to order room service and roll around naked on an acre of bed with a furry little Redheaded Sex Monkey.

Ain't life grand?