We changed things up a bit this week—in the form of more dead hookers and less labor-intensive reading—and were met with more heavy handed moans than ones indicative of pleasure. For those of you who recently learned to read, we realize this must’ve come as a relief; “Three cheers for less words cluttering up the page!” you said. However, for our Planespotting disciples out there who are not happy unless we’ve convinced credible sources that Ashlee Simpson’s pulling an Anne Frank in a SOHO loft co-owned by David Geffen and SNL flack Marci Klein, that the director of the NYSE touched Donald Trump’s wife in her bad place while vacationing in Cabo, and the like, this week was nothing short of a crock of shit. “What is this, DealBook?” you asked yourselves. DealBook, you may rest assured, it most certainly is not. So wipe those eyes and peel yourselves off the bathroom floor because next week we’ll be back with a Planespotting that not only knows how you like it but will also answer that syphilis-like burning question—who shot JR? Hint: it involves Jeffrey Epstein (obviously), Goldman Sachs, and the fact that Adrien Grenier’s been fucking up Entourage lately by trying to act. Stay tuned.
Warren Buffett: Dallas Love Field to Brunswick Golden Isles (GA) on his Gulfstream IV

Michael Pickens (son of T. Boone): Dodge City Regional to Forbes Field (KS) on his Beechcraft Debonair

Donald Trump: Cecil Field (FL) to Pease Int’l Tradeport (NH) on his Boeing 727-100

[What, pray tell, do the mud flap girls represent? A key, for the woefully misguided]
Oprah: Teterboro to Leopold Sedar Senghor Int’l (Senegal) on her Gulfstream V

(Like a J in Jerusalem).
Pfizer: Westchester Co. Airport to Nantucket Memorial on its Gulfstream V

Warren Buffett: North Eleuthera to Palm Beach Int’l on his Cessna Citation Excel

(Jeffrey? Let’s just say yes. It’s dirtier that way and let’s call a spade a spade– you like it like that). Epstein Enterprises: Danville Regional (VA) to Anderson Regional (SC) on his Cessna 340

Note 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 [MarketWatch]

It’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 (bess@dealbreaker.com or in the comments) and we’ll post the best one on the main page under the much sought after title of “Guest Planespotter.”

Today 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 happened. 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.”

Continue reading »

The 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.

Continue reading »