A Word of Advice for JetBlue Passengers; My New Life in Uber-White Suburbia

Last night S. took me to a Brooklyn Cyclones game at Coney Island. Besides having a lot of fun and starting to miss both him and New York, I also ill-advisedly consumed a corn dog, half a hot dog, a good number of French fries, a basket of fried clams and approximately 27 beers. We took a private car home, on his company, and that was quite a luxury. The memory of that smooth, cool ride only made me feel worse the next morning when Mohammed bin Abdullah bin Omar bin Othman al-Ahmed came to pick me up in a local ghetto car-service clunker looking like it was about to spew a bucketful of bolts onto the road.

Hungover and already on the verge of heaving up grease-soaked corndog matter, I was a little scared of being away from a bathroom for longer than 10 minutes. That our friend, whose a/c didn't work and who had not only a lead foot but an incurable case of "twitchy braking disease," decided he wanted to set a personal land-speed record to JFK, didn't make my stomach feel better. To put it simply, it was important that I find a bathroom, stat, once at the airport.

But since I was hauling approximately 300 pounds of crap, I decided to make it through security first. Besides, wouldn't the bathroom situation be better once we were in JFK's much-heralded new JetBlue addition?

No. A word of advice: if you think you may be about to expel the contents of a Coney Island dinner before you get on a JetBlue flight from JFK, please make time to do it before you leave the house. Because there are -- and I counted -- exactly EIGHT women's bathroom stalls (that's stalls, not bathrooms) on the entire concourse for TWENTY EIGHT GATES. That math does not make sense, and the impatient, unbelievably long lines of trashy, gassy, bloated Long Island biddies was not a pretty sight to behold at 7 a.m. It didn't help that apparently it's considered a good idea by some ladies to drag 11-year-old boys into the women's room by their hands. Believe me lady, nobody wants to kidnap your pasty-faced nancy boy in his stupid fishing hat with matching knickers. I'm sure that kid isn't going to have issues.

ANYWAY, I have arrived safely in Colorado and am writing to you from the basement of my sister's suburban home in Highlands Ranch, land of late-model vehicles and infinite whiteness. Her two Westie dogs McDuff and Wizard -- who are also white and undoubtedly the two stupidist canines to ever have survived puppyhood -- are currently running in circles around my feet and trying to bite each other's faces off. Above me looms a large McMansion with ample room for parking and a backyard with flowers and a grill. I'm not quite sure what to make of all this and I'm not sure how quickly I'm going to adjust living in this thing called "the rest of America."

Because I arrived in the afternoon, and because my sister is pregnant AND suffering from a nasty case of food poisoning, there were to be no adventures today. We did, however, make a trip to the (huge, gleaming, very exciting) grocery store to pick up some Gatorade so she could replenish her fluids. While in the grocery store she said, "Gosh, everyone here is so white, it must be really weird from you coming from New York, right? I mean, our hometown of three thousand people was more diverse than this place. The only time you ever see, you know....the Mexicans....around here is at GARAGE SALES."

This should be an interesting month! I'll keep you posted. Viva la Whitey.