Contrary to popular belief, here at DealBreaker, we like to look out for the little people. We’re all “Big Brothers” (and Sisters); every Wednesday night we play Bingo with a bunch of senior citizens; and we’ve all adopted several Cambodian children (legally). Carney was actually a stray kitten that we kept leaving milk outside the door for until one morning when we just decided to take the little guy in and he became the tiger you see before you.
Which was why, upon opening our copy of Greenwich Time last evening, our hearts broke to read about a terrible phenomenon that’s been going on in the town CNN Money ranked 12th on its list of the 100 Best Places to Live in the United States in 2005, where Mel Gibson has a home (and therefore, has been pulled over for drunk driving) and The Ice Storm, The Stepford Wives and parts of a student film we had a small but award-winning role in junior year of college were filmed. If you could see us now (and a few of you with whom we’ve exchanged WebCam capabilities with can), you’d see two people who are thanking god they wore waterproof mascara this morning because they are just barely holding back tears that are pleading to come out (mostly Carney though, I’m not really a crier).

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Now that the housekeeping’s taken care of, now seems like as good a time as any to introduce our latest and greatest Planespotting feature. Our ad guy worked overtime this month—that or ‘Zbignew’ and ‘Anonymous’ have been clicking the hell out of the CFO.com skyscraper—and we found ourselves with a little extra spending money. Naturally this surplus went toward our top priority here in the DB HQs: Planespotting, and derivatives thereof. Since everyone (who matters) is in that canton of Graubünden, Landwasser River-adjacent, or en route, and a whole Planespotting of “W, X, Y Z went from here to there on their aircraft carriers of choice” leaves something to be desired, we decided to put our pocket change to good use and send some special correspondents to do a little undercover work, pre-aviationally speaking, to find out who’s afraid of flying, who’s got to have the window seat, and who’s planning on saying “F the FAA, I’ll take my disposable razor on the plane in order to get a quick shave in before landing and I dare them to stop me,” etc, etc. You will find the first report after the jump. And watch for the second installment of this series on Thursday, when we reveal which Fortune 500 CEO Special Correspondent Bono found out a little too much about in a Zurich Airport Men’s Room. Stay tuned.

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Stevie “Boy” Cohen: Chicago Executive to Garfield Co Regional on his Gulfstream V
Donald Trump: Laurence G Hanscom Field to Los Angeles Int’l on his Boeing 727-100
Warren Buffett: Mc Carran Int’l to Kahului on his Gulfstream IV

Stevie Cohen: Nassau Int’l to Boca Raton on his Gulfstream V
We didn’t say anything when you took a stake in Build-a-Bear, or when you requested ice sculptures in the various likenesses of the A-team for your last birthday or even when you sent out a mass email asking if anyone knew of any “moyel-in-a-minute” programs. But voluntarily spending time in Boca Raton? Stevie-boy, you are obviously a hamster with his tail caught in the wheel of life, crying out for help. That or you’ve got a gun to your head. But we like the hamster imagery, so the former stands.

John Thain: Metropolitan Oakland Int’l to Bob Hope on the NYSE’s Gulfstream IV
While New York Magazine’s profile on John Thain may tell you a lot of things you didn’t know about the man whose cheek bones defy gravity to such an extent as to frighten young children and freshmen traders alike—Thain was instrumental in Corzine’s ousting from Goldman Sachs; Thain’s office is on the sixth floor; Thain possesses an unparalleled proclivity for Gray’s Papaya hot dogs—specifically the Recession Special (two dogs and a small drink for $3.50)—it won’t tell you why he flew to Burbank, California, not too long ago. Know who will? This guy (and girl. Actually it’s just me but Carney gave me a bobble head crafted in his likeness for Hanukkah and insisted I keep it on my desk “at all times, so as to instill a constant sense of insecurity and paralyzing self-doubt” in myself, so it’s kind of like there’s two of us here doing this).
Anyway, Thain. It’s a well-guarded secret on the NYSE that John Thain has been itching to get into show business for years. Years. We’re talking like since before Goldman, before MIT, before his father tried to shame it out of him, trying in tireless vain to get him to “just make contact with the ball.” After several failed attempts to secure any roles that would “showcase [his] leading man abilities” (Thain’s words) at summer stock, many many tubes of red lipstick (it takes at least 1/3 of a stick to write “Yeah, that’s me, taking the bull by the horns. It’s how I handle business. It’s a metaphor” and when you’re doing it twice a day for over twenty years, well…you do the math), and several smashed bathroom mirrors, Thain decided to reach deep down inside himself, visualize his love of the stage, and repress it. And he was doing a great job, for some time. Sure, he had to create an imaginary electric fence around the theater district, lest he step inside that “ring of fire” and risk “getting electrocuted, emotionally,” once again, but he’d at least gotten to a point where a colleague could casually mention Pitt’s latest role without John flying off the handle and into a manic rage about “Braddie-boy’s appalling and awkward-at-best acting skills,” as he had previously been wont to do.
But then. Oh, then. Then came Thanksgiving ’06. Thain’s sister-in-law accidentally knocked over a glass of wine while passing the stuffing across the table and all of a sudden it was “YOU RUINED MY LIFE!” all up in Thain’s somewhat-elderly-at-this-point father’s grill. The outburst lasted a while longer, sure, but the gist of it was basically, “the only time I’ve ever been happy has been on the stage or maybe, when I lowered myself to the pedestrian standards of film, in front of the camera (one commercial counts!), and you took that away from me and I hate you.” No one wanted to further incite the beast and decided it would be best to just “not make any sudden movements,” and even though it was Thanksgiving, didn’t make a fuss when Thain excused himself from the table.
He retreated to his study where he opened a trap door in the floor (that no one else had known about, save for Hilda, the family’s maid and Thain’s closest confidant and sounding board for the pain). He lowered himself at least three feet down a ladder and there it was—THE ROOM. When he’d decided to bury his love of acting, he meant it, but not just emotionally, and in that room, in that underground, tucked away room, was everything Thain had buried that fateful day, when he closed the (trap) door on his old life. His “Jet” costume, from his chorus role in West Side Story. The call-sheet from his Domino’s commercial. The dress he’d had specially made to wear to audition for the role of Marilyn, in a JFK biopic, a role he ultimately did not get. After letting his fingers linger for some time on the creamy white satin, Thain opened a file cabinet, where he’d instructed Hilda to “place the trades.” Premiere had nothing, but halfway through Variety, he found it—an audition for Arrested Development‘s Michael Cera’s upcoming Aleksey Vayner parody. Thain knew he was perfect for the role.
And he was. He flew out to California that night and was first on the set the next morning (it was fortuitous that Cera had waited until the last moment to cast this minor but integral role). He shot all his parts in one take. One take! Later, when he approached Cera about crediting him under his stage name–Nicholas Jasenovic–, Mikey wrinkled his nose and stopped Thain just as he was getting really riled up talking about the eating disorder he’d developed while working as Blythe Danner’s personal assistant, and with one word and a question mark that wasn’t so much a question but more of a “I know I’m right about this but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt with a lilt in my voice,” ended the years of sleepless nights over why he never got to play the hero, hitting the nail on the head that had been so obvious to everyone but Thain himself, who’d just thought his fate was to get the short end of the stick. “Halitosis?”
Warren Buffett: Orlando Int’l to V C Bird Int’l on his Gulfstream IV
Bill Gates: Owen Roberts Int’l to Miami Int’l on his Cessna Citation Excel

Barry Diller: Norman Y Mineta San Jose Int’l to Licenciado Adolfo Lopez Mateos Int’l on his Cessna Citation X
Eight words: The Oaxaca World Series of Cockfighting Championship Match. Why? Why not? Don’t even try and pretend to act like you wouldn’t be all over that, given flextime in your schedule and that jet-ownership provided the necessary accoutrements. Barry doesn’t pussyfoot around when it comes to such things—the wise ones never do.

Barry Diller: Licenciado Adolfo Lopez Mateos Int’l to William P Hobby on his Cessna Citation X
NB: This flight has not departed yet; it is scheduled to take off/arrive tomorrow at 05:23AM GMT/12:47AM CST. All you rabid Diller fans out there, bust out the head shots and get yourselves an autograph worth putting under glass (we’re looking at you, Nicky Kristof. Drew Pinsky, you’re also being watched. You know why).
Stevie Cohen: Austin Bergstrom Int’l to Collin Co Regional At Mc Kinney to Miami Int’l to Palm Beach Int’l to Brussels Natl on his Gulfstream IV
Somebody’s trying to (somewhat gauchely) rack up some last minute miles.
Warren Buffett: North Eleuthera to Palm Beach Int’l on his Cessna Citation Excel.
Next year in Jerusalem!