The strangest people ever

On the heels of a whirlwind visit to OKC for a high school friend's wedding, I hopped on a 6:40 a.m. flight back to Los Angeles yesterday. From the time I got on that plane until my head hit my pillow almost 20 hours later, I met what can only be considered the strangest people ever.

My first flight left from OKC for Phoenix. On that flight, I sat next to Tammy Faye's more ostentatious sister but with more jewelry. This woman couldn't keep her hands off her Chanel # 5 knock-off bottle. Somewhere between Amarillo and Dumas I fell asleep, but only seconds before the airline attendant came over the speaker system to ask if any passengers were doctors or nurses. I nearly needed medical attention myself when my neighbor's gold-and-silver adorned hand shot up in the air with nails that would make Freddy Krueger squirm. This woman was going to assist an air line crew in a minor medical emergency. I can only image where that proud diploma came from and how long the post office took to deliver it.

So, yeah, that woman was strange. Not as strange, however, as my tattooed friend on my flight from Phoenix to Burbank. After three failed attempts at trying to play his guitar while the plane was in flight, he gave up and proceeded to engage in the vile habit of dipping. And his cup sat right next to my glass of orange juice.

Flash forward to work that evening (at the restaurant). My first table was a group of four: two American men and their Japanese girlfriends. The men had a certain Los Angeles look (i.e. nothing out of the ordinary). The women, however, looked like the lost members of The Bangles. What set this group apart from everyone else in the restaurant is that they didn't speak. As though communicating through some sort of Thundercatesque telepathy, they stared at one another without so much as a sigh. When I took their orders, their selections came in the form of glances and pointing. When I dropped off their meals, no response. Until their mouths opened to consume dinner, they were closed. And it wasn't an "Oh I'm just relaxing and soaking it in" kind of silence. It was an "If you speak I will gouge out your eyes and make you sniff your way around" kind of silence.

My final encounter with the dark side was after work. I was walking to my car in the relatively safe part of Santa Monica when I was approached by a crazy man on drugs. He came near me, said, "Hey man..." and then collapsed on the ground and started moaning. I think he was having a seizure. Aside from shoving a spoon down his throat, the only thing I could think to do was call 911 (on a nearby payphone) and let an ambulance deal with him. I must admit that the sight of him collapsing after addressing me left me inexplicably amused.

And now I'm safe, here at home with my creature comforts. However, I fear the inevitable will happen if I stay in LA: I, too, will become crazy.