It is both ironic and unsettling that as you and your partner sit with your seatbelts fastened and your tray tables stored in their upright, locked positions, experiencing the single-worst plane ride either of you have ever endured–fraught with endless turbulence, ferocious blasts of horizontal wind shear, and heart-stopping drops in altitude–the cartoon on JetBlue TV with which you’re trying to distract yourself features a poor coyote plummeting headlong from a clifftop again and again, each time landing on the canyon floor below with a distant, dreadful thud.
Yes, Alanis, that’s what Webster had in mind.
Anyway, the important thing is that we made it and we’re in New York for a week. You tri-state bitches ought to drop us a line….
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