Ahhh... Lufthansa. If you haven't forgiven the Germans yet for the Holocaust, try flying business class on Lufthansa. That scheisse ist sweet! Even Stu Eisenstein (aka "Stu the Jew") couldn't help but look at the sleek, organized interior and think, "Not a fan of the Nazis, but I enjoy some of their design elements."
I had only flown business class one other time in my life. Well, two, technically, but I don't really count the Spirit Airlines business class as business class. Instead of the first class, business class, and coach designations on most airlines, the seats on Spirit are more like coach, assistant coach, and half-retard-equipment-manager class.
The other time I flew business was when I was a mini-celebrity in Madrid, breakdancing for an "Amena" cell phone campaign. My favorite thing about THAT flight was sitting in front and watching everyone file back to coach. I made sure to look at everyone passing by with a disappointed look as if to say, "If you weren't such a loser, you might be sitting here too. Get your act together, Slappy! Now excuse me, I have to stretch my legs and peruse my movie selection."
I was flying out of JFK at 9pm and the airport was nearly deserted. I brought a video camera for the trip, half-convinced and half-hoping that it would indelibly capture something that will win the Pulitzer Prize or at least 10 grand on America's Funniest Home Videos. I perambulated around the VIP lounge, showing my imaginary and/or potential viewers how cool it was that I got free coffee and snacks (shit like that would come back and haunt me when I found myself, a week later, looking at some of the most fucked up shit I've ever seen in my life with no tape and no battery life).
I even interviewed some poor accountant in the lounge, convinced that it could somehow be woven into the story of my trip. She had no idea what to say. Then I coerced her into filming me getting drunk and doing random shit around the Lufthansa Business Lounge. It was entertaining to no one. I even managed to annoy myself. That's not an easy task, mostly because I'm me and I try to cut myself some slack.
I finally boarded the flight and got a mini-chuckle when I saw that the seat next to mine was occupied by the accountant. She had a brief "Oh no!" expression on her face before she plastered on a lukewarm smile. Yay, I thought, I have 13 straight hours to fuck with her!
That M.O. quickly changed when I found out the intricacies of my seat. First of all, it could recline all the way back to flat. Second of all, you could do all sorts of lumbar support changes and contour the seat so that it molded itself to you exactly the way you wanted. Once you found that perfect combination of leg lift, lumbar, head support, and the rest, you locked it into the console memory, so that it would spring to life like a Transformer whenever you touched one button. Third, there were two separate MASSAGE buttons. It was like being at Brookstone without the surly employees thinking about kicking you out after 20 minutes. And, just like Brookstone, within 10 minutes I was drooling with an erection.
There were also audiobooks, radio, tv shows, an outlet for my laptop, and about 50 movies to choose from. I could live there! I was going to work on Jamie's screenplay, write blogs, and really work out my 15 minute set for the show. Finally, I could be productive!
I ended up napping, watching Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, and easing out farts (it's unclear if the aforementioned movie inspired the farts or which actually smelled worse).
Luckily, if you fart on a plane, it's really easy to pawn it off on whatever fat person may be seated within a realistic radius of your stench. All you have to do is shift in your chair, look over your shoulder at the fat guy, then look at the person next to you and shake your head while rolling your eyes. Sometimes, it helps to snap open a magazine afterwards. I got a crick in my neck from turning around so much. I can't help it - planes give me gas. I think it has to do with the pressure differential. And unfortunately, since the cabin IS pressurized, the fart molecules never actually leave the vessel; they just locomote around the cabin, hanging out in different nostrils, trying to blend in with the food.
When I landed in Frankfurt, I made a mental note to REALLY work on the five-hour flight from Frankfurt to Kuwait. I met the rest of the crew in the business lounge in Frankfurt, each immersed either in a laptop, a video camera, or a Crackberry. We ended up being stuck together like a real military platoon. Hours on end, for better or worse, there was no escape. Here's a brief rundown of the crew:
1. Jamie Kennedy: The ringleader. I'm always amused at the way he plays with his public vs. private persona. He's a smart and driven guy who sometimes plays oblivious and childlike, I think, so he can get away with shit. When he's ON, he's the funniest person I know and a comic genius. The TRUE nature of who he really is can be seen in The Jamie Kennedy Experiment. Nothing he has done before or since comes as close to capturing his essence. He's like the Norse God, Loki; fun-loving with an eye for mischief and a bent for laughing at life. Mostly, your life. It's never mean-spirited, but he likes to sit back and watch the spiraling effects of the havoc he creates.
2. Stu Stone: Stu is an amazing rapper and a pretty good actor, too. He is a walking paradox. Although he loves smoking those "funny cigarettes," he is one of the sharpest people I know. I always thought that "funny cigarettes" cause dain bramage, but Stu is counterpoint to that argument. Stu and I have made an unspoken agreement never to really fuck with each other, because I think we're both afraid of the damage we may inflict. Stu is also a sarcastic motherfucker, and luckily, he often positions himself against Jamie. Their banter is at once jarring and hilarious. For anyone who saw their short-lived MTV series, Blowin' Up, that banter mimics their real life discourse pretty closely. A pair of consecutive sentences might run like, "Dude, you are a fucking piece of shit. Hey, where do you wanna go eat?"
3. Paul Wall: I had never hung out with a rapper before, and have an instant aversion to White Rappers. Having a bit of "Whigger" (sorry, "Whafrican-American") in me, I'm especially attuned to posers, wannabes, and fakes. With that in mind, if there was a contest held on tour (both within the group and the troops at large), Paul Wall would win Mr. Popularity and Mr. Congeniality. He was one of the nicest, most gracious people I've ever met. It almost made me angry. "Where does he get off being so famous and nice!" I kept waiting for him to reveal that he was an arrogant asshole, but it never happened. The ONE thing I would say about Paul is that he picked his nose like he literally thought gold was in there. He would roll the boogies in his fingers until they magically evaporated. I never once saw a surreptitious flick or a side-of-the-seat rub. I think he may have invented nose-picking techniques never seen before in the Western world.
4. Casper: He was a 17 year old kid, about 5'3", 110 pounds dripping wet with tube socks on. And he was from Canada. Based on those stats, you would think he was an obsequious and obedient kid with stars in his eyes. Pound for pound, Casper has got more attitude than anyone on the planet. It's like seeing the little Pomeranian at the dog park trying to throw down with the St. Bernard. It's kind of funny but you're always like, "Damn, I wish that St. Bernard would swallow that fucker whole!" Casper is a "b-boy," one of the leads in Jamie's movie, Kickin' it Old Skool, and one of the best and most original breakdancers I've ever seen in my life.
5. DJ Joey Nicks: Next to Paul Wall, the most affable guy on the bus and staunchly Mexican. He was always smiling. Always. The only people I've seen smile more are retarded children staring at a bowl of candy. He was clearly having the time of his life. The joke about Joey was that he was the happiest guy in Iraq and took pictures of everything with a huge smile: "Hey, man, take a picture of me next to this dead body. Got it!? Cool, esse!"
6. Chris Roletter: Jamie's 6'4" childhood friend and assistant. He was always looking to smoke a cigarette and get out of doing work. Also inordinately nice and remarkably unflappable. He was more like, "Ehh, you've seen ONE dead body..."
This was the group of civilians that landed in Kuwait together on February 19th. For better or worse, much of my experience of the Iraqi War happened from the inside of a blue and yellow "Shortbus" with these silly bitches... and a handful of Captains from the U.S. Army.
And that's where the trouble started...
Next up: HURRY UP AND KUWAIT!
Posted by Bill Dawes at 8:50 AM