I stand corrected...

My plane ride home from the west coast did not crash, was not piloted by Ted Striker, nor did it land in scenic Rutland, Vermont (although when your plane does mistakenly land in Rutland, be sure to visit the Hathaway Farm Corn Maze). However, it was likely the most memorable flight I've ever been on.

The following is a true story:

1:30 a.m. (Eastern Time): Boarded Jetblue flight 476 bound from Oakland to Boston. The flight attendants announced that the flight would be full, but for about 20 minutes, I was alone in the aisle seat. Approximately 1 minute before the door was closed, 2 passengers came on board and...sauntered down to the empty seats next to me. Of course. Let's call this Jon's Law of Flight. If I had a dollar for every time I thought I had some extra room, only to have my seatmates board the plane at the last minute...well, I could afford to fly something ritzier than JetBlue.

Joining me were a couple in their late 20's. Hippiesh-looking guy with long beard & wool cap takes the window. Normal looking woman in Red Sox gear takes the middle.

2:00 a.m.: We're airborne, but in one of the most tragic announcements since the production of Cocoon 2, we're told that the satellite on the plane is out, meaning no TVs. I plug in my noise-canceling headphones to block out most of the cabin noise and try to get some shuteye.

3:00 a.m.: It's not working. I'm restless, I'm tired, the headphones are doing their job, but I am not asleep, nor am I approaching anything close to sleep. And now I'm starting to hear faint whispers coming from a gentleman sitting behind me. He's stirring, he's shifting, he's muttering to himself, "oh man...oh God..." over and over. Good times.

3:30 a.m.: Hippy-dude from the window seat gets up to go to the bathroom. I'm mildly annoyed. If you are on a redeye and not sitting in the aisle seat, it is your solemn vow and responsibility to drain the bladder before you get on the plane.

3:40 a.m: Hippy dude returns. I once again close my eyes and within a few minutes, the muttering from behind me begins again. Except it's not coming from behind me, and never had been..it's coming from the Hipster in the window seat. I look over and he's rocking, shifting, muttering. Not sure if he's in the beginning stages of a breakdown, but my antenna are starting to go up.

3:42 a.m.: Mr. The Hippy grabs a plastic bag and proceeds to throw up. Violently. Repeatedly. Each time louder than the last. Even with the noise-canceling headphones on, I am unsettled by what's happening about 2 feet from me. His companion has her hands over her face, obviously horrified. At about the 6th hurl, when I am starting to wonder just how bad this is going to smell, someone behind us pushes the flight attendant call button. A few seconds later, the flight attendant shows up and escorts Mr. Vomit to the bathroom in the back.

Where he remained, locked inside, until AFTER we landed more than 3 hours later.

Strangely enough, this wasn't the most interesting part of the flight.

3:45 a.m.: Sensing that the hippy's girlfriend is traumatized, I try to strike up a conversation and make sure she is OK. Turns out that she is not his girlfriend, just his roommate. She tells me that Ralph Hurler has a serious genetic stomach disorder that sometimes causes him to throw up for hours at a time. His brother and father also have it, but unlike his family members, who have learned to control it...our seat buddy employs a radical approach: do not see a doctor, do not take medication, do not eat more than a bite or two of food all day. Oh, and drink liberally. Within 15 seconds, my sympathy for this guy completely vanishes, although I wonder if his diet plan has its advantages over my daily 7-mile runs. Whatever.

Noticing the woman is in Red Sox clothes, I ask if she flew out for the games. Turns out she did. Also turns out that she may be the most crazed Red Sox fan on earth. Think Jimmy Fallon's character in Fever Pitch and multiply that by about 9. Olivia is her name and she is a 30 year-old bartender at Kennedy's in downtown Boston. Apparently, Olivia attends an average of about 75 Red Sox games every year, at least half of which are on the road. She estimates that she spends more than $10,000 every year on Sox games, plane tix, travel, etc.

In her travels, she has befriended a Sports Illustrated writer (who is taking her to Opening Day on Tuesday), spooked Tom Warner at a recent fan event and attended every playoff game in 2004, 2005 and 2007. Her career choice is not by accident - being a bartender brings in good money and a schedule flexible enough to go to any home or road game that she desires.

A couple of other tidbits to give you an idea of this woman: she is completely incapable of having a rational discussion about the Sox - they can do no wrong and just might win every remaining game this year (oops); despite being reasonably attractive, Olivia has had just 3 boyfriends in her adult life, nothing steady since 2004 and does not date during the season; oh...and one more thing...which I did not think was even possible: she talks so much and so fast that a certain ex-girlfriend seems shy by comparison.

Needless to say, between the vomiting seatmate and the cartoonish Sox Fan, I didn't even try to sleep for the remainder of the flight. I'm still trying to comprehend how someone can devote that much of their life to a sports team.

Anyway, should you find yourself in the city looking for a place to imbibe, hop into Kennedy's, ask for Olivia and tell her Jon from the plane sent you.