How I Almost Became a Wannabe Rockstar's Kinda Girlfriend. Maybe.
I don't blog about my love life. There are many reasons for that; chief may be that it's somewhat disturbing to discover that someone has been publicly chronicling his every step to get in your pants.

That being said, The Airport Guy was a walking blog post from the very beginning. And since it's been about six months since I last heard from him, I believe the statute of blogging limitations is over. I was awaiting my flight to St. Lucia (via Miami and Chicago) when I started overhearing this guy's cell phone conversations. From what he was saying, it became obvious he was in some kind of band and his bandmates had somehow left him the night before and he had to find his way to Ireland to meet up with them. His name-dropping became quite impressive (excessive?), so I started jotting down the names in my little travel Sudoku book: Interpol, The Strokes, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs (apparently a guy who used to play with Airport Guy's band is now playing for them), Death Cab for Cutie (Airport Guy's band was supposedly going to be playing with them in Ireland), Drew Barrymore's father (A.G.'s mother, an entertainment lawyer in LA, had him over for dinner the other night, nevermind the fact that John Barrymore died two years ago), Marilyn Manson (who apparently broke A.G.'s keyboard with a beer bottle the night before). Because I like talking with interesting people, regardless of whether they're being completely truthful, I struck up a conversation with him. During our conversation, or rather, during his monologue, I learned the following:

+ He was originally from Mississippi and moved out to Flagstaff after Katrina.
+ He grew up a few houses down the street from some Nobel prize-winning author (whose name I can't remember).
+ He was a big Faulkner fan.
+ He had written a book that told the "fictional" tale about how he had killed his best friend in a drunk driving accident and then spent 6 months hitchiking around the country doing a lot of drugs and sleeping with a lot of women. A few weeks later, Penguin Books was apparently flying him out to NYC to talk about publishing his novel.
+ He went to boarding school with Julian Casablancas.
+ He had packed weed in his checked luggage.
+ He had recently given up drinking. (He said this about 10 minutes before he offered to buy me a drink from the airport bar at 10-freaking-30 in the morning).

Somehow he talked me out of my phone number before boarding his plane to Dublin; I really never expected him to call, but sure enough, upon his return to the States, he rang. One of the first things he mentioned was that he had run into Phillip Seymour Hoffman while walking around some town in Ireland and offered to buy him a drink. He also ran into Dolly Parton in Temple Bar in Dublin. By this time I had enlisted Sarah's help in checking some of his previous story, and we learned that Death Cab for Cutie was definitely NOT playing anywhere in Ireland for the next three or four months. But Jason (I finally learned his name during the phone call) the Airport Guy amused me so I didn't really care how real his stories were. The next day he called to invite me to Sedona because his buddy Maynard Keenan from Tool was having a party celebrating the opening of his new vineyard. I had to decline because the party was that Tuesday and I had to work. He called me the next day to invite me up to Flagstaff so the two of us could go bike riding. When I told him I didn't have a bike, he said he'd buy me one. The next day he called to invite me to Sedona for a full moon party and even offered to charter a plane to fly me there. The next day he called me three times in one day.

And that was when I stopped returning his phone calls. I never did figure out what band he was supposedly in, not to mention which stories were real and which were completely fabricated, though I think the one about Marilyn Manson destroying his keyboard with a beer bottle might be my favorite. "Jason the Airport Guy" is still programed in my phone and I get a good chuckle when I scroll past it.

Con Artist?
Confused Crazy Guy?

Who knows. But it makes for a good story.

Splish Splash
I have the flu, and my sister has kindly told me that my hair is greasy and that I stink. I think this means it's time for a bubble bath.

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