Every Boy's Got One

PDA of Cal Langdon

PDA of Cal Langdon

As usual, the food on this flight is barely edible. And what passes for entertainment in this country these days is truly depressing. The in-flight movie appears to be yet another romantic comedy about a harried young career woman who finds love in a completely unexpected place. My traveling companion is watching it with rapt attention, as she swills from her many, many bottles of water. She is clearly envisioning herself in the role of the harried young career woman.

I think I can say with a certain amount of confidence that she is NOT picturing me in the role of the handsome young leading man. In fact, her marked lack of enthusiasm for me borders almost on the comical. She is taking great pains never to allow her elbow to touch mine on our mutual armrest, as if she fears she might contract some sort of deadly virus from doing so.

And all this, because I happened to remark on her rather remarkable penchant for bottled water.

Oh, and the Crazy Cat thing. Or Wondercat. How was I to know Wondercatis a comic strip, and that she is its creator? I haven’t read a comic since Mark and I were kids, and used to shell out 35 cents a week for the latest edition of Spider-Manat the Big Red Food Mart. I certainly have never made a habit of reading comic strips in the newspaper—not since I turned ten. The newspapers I choose to read don’t have comic strips in them.

Although I don’t suppose it would be politic to admit that, seeing as how the tome we all work for features two pages of comics daily—not to mention horoscopes and Dear Abby. In fact, now that I’ll be living in one place for an extended period of time, I suppose I’ll have to start subscribing. So I have that to look forward to. In addition to so many other joys I’ve missed while I’ve been living out of a bag, such as apartment hunting, buying various electronic devices like a toaster and stereo equipment, and waiting all day for the cable guy who promised to come between ten and two, and then didn’t show.

Ah! Domesticity! How I haven’t missed you!

But I suppose domesticity can have its benefits. Mark is happier than I’ve ever seen him. He seems almost to welcome the noose that awaits his neck at the end of this journey. Although I suppose when the noose looks like Holly…

And she does, I’ll admit, seem to think about topics outside of her nails and yoga and Must See TV, unlike most of the American women I’ve encountered lately. I even had an intelligent conversation with her last week about Gore Vidal.

But I had intelligent conversations with Valerie in the early days, as well.

And as for this friend of Holly’s… I don’t know. I suppose allowances must be made because she’s an artist.

But is cartooning really art? My mother would surely think so.

But Mom thinks the lint she picks from the dryer and hot-glues to clothespins is art. And sadly, she is supported in this belief by the art community of Tucson, where she’s lately set up a studio.

Still, though she may be an artist, Ms. Harris does have very shiny hair. It’s brown, like her eyes.

The tattoo of a cat head—Wondercat, I’m supposing—she wears just above her right ankle is somewhat off-putting, however. And her mouth never seems to stop moving. Now she’s telling the flight attendant how much she enjoyed the male lead’s last film, in which he played some kind of mutant.

This seat is so uncomfortable. I can just fit into it, if I don’t inhale.

Oh, well. I’ve slept in worse places. At least there aren’t any guerrillas hiding in nearby undergrowth, waiting for the opportunity to slit my throat. Or snakes.

God, I hate snakes.

So that’s something, anyway.

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Benvenuti in

(Welcome to)

Alitalia Inflight Menu

Colazione

(Breakfast)

Spremuta fresca di arancia

Omelette alle erbe fini con funghi, pomodori e bacon ala griglia

Assortimento di tieviti e pano tostate caldi

Caffe, te, latte

Freshly squeezed orange juice

Herb omelette accompanied with mushrooms, grilled cherry tomatoes, and bacon

Assortment of pastries and croissants

Coffee, tea, milk

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