Jet-lagger

In my 1980s high school yearbooks I wasn't pictured, was listed simply under "Lagging Freshmen" in 1984 & "Lagging Sophomores" in 1985.

My failure to show up for picture day.

But this isn't a story about high school.

Just lagging.

On Wednesday night, I climbed onto a plane headed for Vegas. Coach. Cut-rate airline. I'd agreed to go to New York to do a segment on a national morning talk show "but only if you fly me direct & first class."

It's not that I'm a total diva, but I am too old to take a red-eye from Portland to New York & look alive on TV, then fly home without so much as spending the night in the most beautiful city on the planet.

"Sure," my publicist said. "They'll make sure you're comfortable."

Unfortunately, I'd been reading the biography of Saint Martin de Porres, so when I got to the airport I was feeling very Catholic & accommodating. Hell, if Martin could work without complaint for 9 years as a lay servant--simply because he was too black to be admitted to the monastery as full brother--I could handle a night on a plane followed by a morning on TV.

Mercifully, my layover in Vegas was only ten minutes, so I only had time to lose $10 to the very shiny slot machines. Next plane. I had an aisle seat listed on my boarding pass--my favorite--but as I approached my row, my would-be seat-neighbor pleaded: "My friend is sitting back there--would you mind switching so we could sit together?"

No problem. Martin would do it. So I kept walking. The middle seat I'd agreed to take was wedged in between a single mama with a baby on her lap & her other 2 kids on the isle.

Across the row, a skinny lady sat by herself. I said to her: "Mind if I sit on this side? So this family has a little room?"

The single mama smiled gratefully.

The skinny lady said: "Whatever the fuck."

Hmmm. "Thanks?"

So I settled in, giving the skinny lady two seats to herself & trying to make myself appear small.

She fell asleep quickly, but jolted awake just as fast: "I don't owe you money, bitch!"

"No, you don't," I assured her. "We're cool."

And so the night continued . . . my high-on-something seat-neighbor waking every ten minutes, convinced I was someone else, someone who wanted money from her, or worse. "I don't owe you a damn thing, you fucking bitch!"

"We're cool," I kept saying. "Just go back to sleep."

Welcome to New York at 6 a.m. Traffic so thick we didn't get into the city 'til 9.

The talk show people had booked me a limo & a fancy hotel room for a 2-hour nap. The fact that it would have cost them less to just fly me on a plane I could sleep on was moot at this point. I crashed.

Ring, ring . . . "Your driver is waiting, ma'am."

Another giant limousine. I explained to the driver that I wanted to meet a friend for an early lunch--seeing as the show didn't start taping for another 2 hours--but he wouldn't have it. "I have to take you to the studio. Can't take you no place else."

I got through security at the studio, convinced the production assistant assigned to babysitting me to let me go--"Yes. I promise! I'll come back." Where did they think I was gonna go? Obviously I wanted to tell their audience about my books--I'd let a junkie yell at me all night for the honor!

Yummy lunch & I ran all the way back to the studio, thinking something would actually happen at the appointed time. Back through security & a production assistant led me into a green room where I waited . . . and waited.

Finally a few other production assistants showed up to run through the questions the hosts were gonna ask me. Bleary-eyed and disoriented, I tried to answer "quick & upbeat."

Then to the makeup room where I was transformed into a drag queen.

"Camera ready!" the make-up artist proclaimed.

I was led into the studio where the live audience was being coached on how to applaud, how to laugh, how to look interested in what the guests had to say, how--and when--to give a standing ovation . . .

Must have been a good crash course, 'cause after the "red hot firewoman makeover" segment, they looked real interested in my 4-minute "How to be a Hip Mama" interview.

I stood up, answered the hosts' mama questions in my sleepless drag-queen haze. Everyone clapped. & pretty soon I was in a minivan--no limo after the show--back to the airport.

Eight hours in New York & it was time to head home.

At the ticket counter I begged: "My flight isn't for three hours--and it doesn't get me home 'til 3 a.m. Can I get the earlier one? Through Pheonix?"

"Sure, honey," the agent cooed.

On the JFK-Phoenix leg, an "importer" who lived in Arizona & worked in Connecticut wanted to know what had brought me to the city.

I half-explained my adventures.

"Wow," he said. "You're a real jet-setter."

The sad truth is that I'm a jet-lagger.

While I haven't had to pay for any of my endless travels in the past month, I haven't gotten paid, either. I run around the country with big ideas in my head & arrive so tired i can't seem to articulate 'em.

Late arrival in Phoenix & I had to sprint to catch my puddle-jumper home. I boarded just before they closed the door. As I sat down, the passengers were all abuzz with some news about the flight.

"What's up?" I asked the lap-top-preoccupied guy next to me.

"Captain just announced this plane's getting diverted to Medford."

"Medford?"

Now, it's not like Medford is some suburb of Portland. Medford is like 6 hours from where I live.

"Yep. Weather. And we're on our own once we get there. Act of God. No accommodations."

& the little plane started wheeling down the runway. I didn't asked for details. Instead I ordered three mini-bottles of red wine from young goth stewardess & fell asleep to dream of Greyhound buses.

A lot of hassell for four minutes on a talk show, if you ask me, but as we learned in Miami last week--We could feed and cloth the entire world population if we'd all just kill our TVs.