We were all set to hit you with a terpsichorean ménage a trois of a planespotting today, replete with a full explanation of the changeling boy George Soros fathered* with Beverly D’Angelo (which somehow ended up in the hands of Hank Paulson), a Proustian analysis of Donald Trump’s rug, balloon animals and baby goats. Yes, baby goats. But when we got to the office, our editor John Carney, (who, incidentally, is that aforementioned changeling), was regaling the crowd with tales of his evening past. And that got us thinking—hey, vous, how about a rating system for our aviation sightings as inspired by dead hookers? Since it was us posing the question to ourselves, we decided to oblige, and herein is the result. You’re welcome:
planespottingMudflap_Girl.jpg = Dead hooker
planespottingMudflap_Girl.jpg X 1 = More mundane and predictable than Mel Gibson’s anti-Semitism. (C’mon. Man Without A Face? Don’t even pretend you didn’t know that was a metaphor for Hitler.)

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I Just Met A Girl Named Maria

maria2.jpgNote to Jon Friedman: if you are going to write a love-letter to a woman, don’t include her age in the first sentence.

In appreciation of CNBC’s Maria Bartiromo

Planespotting: John Carney is the anti-Christ

GV.jpgIt’s 10 am and we’ve already been to Connecticut* and back. Meaning we’ve been up since an inappropriately early hour. Some people don’t get out of bed for less than 5K/day; we don’t get out of bed before nine. Call us childish or even lazy if you want, we really don’t care. We consider nine a huge step for us, considering the fact that up until May 28, 2006, we weren’t vertical beings until at least 3 in the afternoon, usually 4. But today, under the orders of he-whose-initials-surreptitiously-mirror-those-of-a-figure-who-(so we’re told**)-is-pretty-damn-awesome, we were unjustly forced to wake up at FIVE A.M. At this point, many insufferable hours later, things are not looking pretty here in the DB janitorial closet; the mops are all blurring together, a minute ago our blood pressure dropped and we collapsed atop a bucket full of dirty water, and we get the distinct feeling the noxious fumes from an open bottle of Windex are killing more brain cells than usual, but there’s nothing we can do about it because we’re too damn tired. Today’s p-spottings come commentary/conspiracy theory-free. Sorry; you’ll have to fend for yourselves this once. Lavish on the snide/hallucinatory remarks like you know we would, were we not about to pass out from exhaustion and illegal working conditions.*** We’ll be back to our old selves on Thursday. We hope…
Larry Ellison: Olbia Costa Smeralda (Olbia, Italy) to Norman Y Mineta San Jose Int’l on his Bombardier Global Express
Denise Rich: Henderson Executive (Las Vegas) to Minneapolis St Paul Int’l on her Learjet 60
Donald Trump: Cecil Field (Jacksonville) to Pease Int’l Tradeport (Portsmouth, NH) on his Boeing 727-100
*more on that tomorrow.
**if you know what we mean.
***send us your planespotting impressions/explanations of today’s sightings via e-mail ( or in the comments) and we’ll post the best one on the main page under the much sought after title of “Guest Planespotter.”

GV.jpgToday we woke up and thought, “We’ve got a heat wave on our hands—fuck Planespotting.” And we felt pretty good, nay, pretty great about this decision. We’re typically pretty indecisive—we don’t know, should we do Planespotting, should we not do Planespotting, this is so hard, we can’t decide, what would Uncle Jesse do (WWUJD)?, blah, blah, blah—, so to wake up and discover that we’d grown a pair of big brass ones over night felt, well, it just felt so fantastic. It should be this hot every day. But then something terrible south-park-tom-cruise.jpghappened. Actually, two terrible somethings happened. The first was that we realized we’d forgotten to TiVo Project Runway. Has little to do with Planespotting, we realize, but, damn it all to hell, that was supposed to be a great episode. The second thing, however, had everything to do with Planespotting. Two words: John Travolta. Three words: John Travolta’s plane. Four words: where said plane’s been. Five words: we’ll say where starting now:
July 25: Los Angeles Int’l to Dallas Fort Worth Int’l
July 14: Bangor (ME) Int’l to Albuquerque Int’l
July 12: Miami Int’l to Cecil (FL) Field
We know what you want to ask so we’ll just go ahead and ask it for you—has old T.bag Cruise been on board for any of these Boeing joy rides? Ordinarily, we’d say no; he typically prefers quiet evenings at home spent crocheting and staring in full length mirrors while asking himself questions like “He said I don’t like black people? I Am Mr. Black People!” However, Tommy Boy may very well have jumped on the Scientology Bus (or plane, as it were), because these days Jerry Maguire’s got a lot to be thankful for, and we’re not talking about his third-party conceived child. Please. We’re talking about vindication. Sweet, sweet vindication. Take it away, Hubbardington Post:
Sigmund Freud Concurs: Psychology is a “Pseudo-Science”
SAN FRANSISCO- In what can only be characterized as a shocking and largely unexpected open letter to Brooke Shields published in last Sunday’s New York Times, Dr. Sigmund Freud—a longtime proponent of psychology—used 1,873 words to tell the actress “it’s all just a bunch of crap.”

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Planespotting: Sleep With One Eye Open

GV.jpgThe other day, one of you lovely and doting Planespotting devotees—“Bad Boy” to be exact—left the following comment, in reference to Tuesday’s post, Planespotting: John Thain, Maple Syrup, Sprinkles: The Decided Lack Thereof:
“If I had my way, I’d never work. I’d just stay home all day, watch Scarface 50 times, eat a turkey sandwich, and have sex all fucking day. Then I’d dress up like a clown, and surprise kids at schools…that’s funny to me. Then I’d paint, and read, and play violin. I’d climb the mountains, and sing the songs that I like to sing. But I don’t got that kinda time.”
And that got us thinking; are there other people out there—you know, celebrities, like us—who live in fear of someone jumping out from behind a parked car when they leave their building and being beaten to death with a well-worn nine-iron (and knowing that afterwards, their names will be crossed off a list—in blood—and red lipstick will be smeared on the lips of the attacker, who, oddly enough, strongly resembles Steve Buscemi)? Surely there must be. Case in point: today’s Planespotees. Ted Turner, Vanessa Minnillo, Paris Hilton, William Clay “Bill” Ford, Jr. All have good reasons to watch their backs. Why they’re recklessly trotting the globe in their Cessnas and their Pipers and their fancy Piper Cherokees, we have no idea. Maybe they’ll heed our warning this time, maybe they won’t. Just don’t come crying to us when you’re staring at the business end of a snug-fitting body bag, T, V, P, F comma Dubs.

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GV.jpgBrad Pitt’s been looking himself in the mirror a lot lately* and saying “When in Rome.” The actor, 42 and starting to get something of a gut, who was until last year known for his love of architecture, poetry, and a glass of scotch, has been adopting the “do good” habits of his home-wrecking-there’s-a-pink-elephant-in-the-room & it’s-the-fact-that-you-used-to-wear-a-vial-of-Billy-Bob- Thorton’s-blood-around-your-neck girlfriend. bradpittplanespotting.jpgBradsky, or Whipping-boy, My Whipping-boy, as Angelina likes to call him, recently flew down to New Orleans to check in with Global Green USA, a new architectural project that is hoping to help the environment by saving energy. Namibian orphans it’s not, but the old boy’s got to walk before he can run. Hoping to prove to Angela that he’s worthy enough to pick up her kids from daycare—in a “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!” sort of way—Brady-boy appeared on the Today Show to garner some support for the cause by discussing his findings. After making some elucidatory points—“It’s bad down there”; “It’s really wet and stuff”—Pitt went on to talk about how freaking kick-ass Shiloh Nouvel—his only tangible link to Angelina—has turned out to be. “Having kids is really the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever taken on,” the Oklahoma-native proclaimed. “Man, I got kids now. And it really changes your perspective on the world. [You got a pet, you got a responsibility. If your dog is lost you don’t look for an hour then all it quits. You get your ass out there and you find that fucking dog.]” BP, who’s thisclose to becoming a fully licensed pilot like the Jol-ster, also noted that “Man, if I can get a burp out of that [baby], that little thing, I’ll feel such a sense of accomplishment,” which is a fair enough statement if you’ve ever seen Meet Joe Black or The Mexican. We feel like it’s only logical to assume that Mr. P then said to interviewer Ann Curry, “Shoes; that’s a funny word. Shoooooes.”

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Planespotting:Rupert Murdoch is a Bum

GV.jpgOh, the homeless. They’re so stylish and hip and chic, what with their minimalist boxes, their Mary-Kate Olsen/boho-inspired clothing, and their private planes. Yeah, we said it; so don’t adjust your glasses, ‘cause you heard us right—it’s no longer considered “odd” or “wacky” or “not economically feasible” for a destitute individual to be the proprietor of his/her own jet. Now that we’re on the same page, let’s get down to the banana_splitplanespotting.gifspecifics of this totally hot, new trend, pioneered by none other than Rupert “Planes Are For Poor People—And I Mean That In A Good Way” Murdoch and his wife, Wendi “No ‘E’” Deng. M ‘n D, who were last seen piloting their PP (Private Plane) to Australia for LDU (Land Down Under) Prom King and Queen Keith Urban and Nicole Kidman’s nuptials, told The New Yorker last month, “We are homeless. We stay in hotels, whichever one gives us the cheapest rate.” While waiting renovations to be complete on their Fifth Avenue townhouse—last owned by the late Laurance “I Just Missed The Cutoff To Qualify For Food Stamps” Rockefeller—Murds and Big D had been shacking up in the Pierre Hotel. When their lease ran out, they temporarily relocated in a $90,000/month penthouse in Trump Park Avenue. As the latest hovel comes unfurnished, the Murdochs have been forced to “borrow couches and beds from model apartments in the building.” What’s more, Rupes’s wife told Australian Women’s Weekly that her guy has been wearing nine bucks-a-pop shirts bought at…Wal-Mart. As you can clearly see, street life is fucking rough, man. Which is why this new homeless-yet jet-bearing paradigm is so ingenious: when things get bad on the streets, you can always take to the skies. Start buying high and selling low now, people. You will be penniless/broke/on the skids and own a plane AND YOU WILL LIKE IT.
In other news, our inboxes continue to flood with more salacious requests made by Google founders Sergey Brin and Larry Page, per the interior design of their new PP, to their ex-designer, Leslie Jennings. Jennings, who was fired some months back, and is embroiled in bitter suits w/ B ‘n P, naturally turned a blind eye to his signed confidentiality agreement, leaking of veritable grab-bag of titillating tidbits. We’ve got a whole bunch of the demands, but we’ve decided to dole them out in teeny, tiny, adorable bite-size batches, starting today and continuing every Tuesday/Thursday thereafter, just because we’re in the mood to make you beg. You are, after all, Planespotting devotees and, therefore, gluttons for punishment (the good, S&M kind). Enjoy them, Love Slaves, and we’ll see you next week:
~An enormous ‘G’-shaped Jacuzzi. Only instead of being filled with water, we require that you shoot Bill Gates in the neck with a blow dart, strap him down, and drain the blood out of his body. Then sterilize said blood—that guy’s got to be diseased—and heat it to precisely 99.7 degrees, nothing higher, nothing lower. We are unwavering on this point.
~Midgets. Lots and lots of midgets.
~A fleet of twenty stewardesses, each bearing a banana-split, ten for each of us, at all times. These should be classically crafted banana-splits. We’re talking vanilla, chocolate and strawberry icecream in a row over the split banana, pineapple on the vanilla, chocolate syrup on the chocolate and strawberry topping on the strawberry, crushed nuts, whipped cream and maraschino cherries. NO SPRINKLES. For every sprinkle we find, we shall kill you.

GV.jpgHere in the Planespotting Room of the DealBreaker Pleasure Palace, we have more important things to tell you, plane-wise, than where assorted individuals actually went while on their assorted planes. So we’re just going to get the housekeeping out of the way up front and report* that Google founders Sergey Brin and Larry Page recently flew to the former’s hometown of Moscow, because someone had a craving for pelmeni. Not exactly our cup of tea, but we’ve never been ones to yuck other people’s yums. Now tonyrobbins.jpgthat that’s taken care of, let’s talk about this: the latest brouhaha among Brin, Page and their former plane designer, Leslie Jennings. Jennings, 67, a sort of “plane designer to the stars,” was hired in 2005 to gut and renovate the Boeing 767 that Page and Sergey-boy had recently purchased. A B767, by the by, is an extremely large private jet, even for owners of a search engine that takes more hits than Cheech Marin. It can carry up to 180 passengers; it weighs 3x as much as a typical executive plane; and it’s about fifty Tony Robbinses long, and 20 Anna Nicole Smiths wide.
Last year, Mr. Page commented that he and Brin intended to use the plane for personal travel excursions, including taking “large numbers of people to places such as Africa.” Mmmkay. Page, the strong, silent type, refused to give any further details of the plane, which have been kept Top Secret, the admission of information being punishable by death. Until now.

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