I’ve always been proud of my arrogant NY way until this flight. A NYer, from a Jewish and Italian heritage, is talking with four Houstonian bowlers. His accent is thick—his manner disturbing. He’s an elitist. He thinks NYers who grew up in Brooklyn or Queens are inferior, lesser life forms, outside the “in” group that runs the country. He also snorts when he laughs.

Usually I’m entertained by the discussions of others. Intrigued by their idiosyncrasies and embarrassingly simple conversations. I’ve amused myself to no-end with my selfish belittlement of Houston. And yet, when looking through the mirror, that this father, with kids of 27, 23, and 6 weeks, I’m disgusted.

The bowlers are professional—they compete in tournaments all over the country once per year. The five of them watch a disgustingly commercial trivia show on the lowered TV screens of the airplanes. The NYer makes not-so funny jokes. The first one, which he makes before we even take-off, is to his middle-seat neighbor, something about being so close you need to avoid kissing.

The bowlers clap as they get the trivia questions right. The questions are broken up by an advertisement for AWA (American West Airlines—no affiliation with American Airlines, which is confusing) and the first five are sports related.

The NYer has lots of homes and lives in midtown, where he grew up. He gets more obnoxious as the flight goes on. He’s entertaining his neighbors (both guys) to no end. I thought the clapping was annoying—now I’m hoping the plane makes an emergency landing and lets us jump down the slide—WNBC-woman’s national bowling conference—to escape this insulting barrage. The NYer has never cheated on his wife. he’s a consultant for top-10, and he makes this more than apparent and known—housing sales, whatever that means.

My ears are clogged from the loss of pressure. He’s wearing a hat and glasses, with a hooked-Jewish nose. He’s also very impressed by toothless-bowlers, which these gals are not since they work for dentists. He claims his wife thinks he’s a saint. His name is Angelo. He calls the girls by where he thinks they come from: Louisiana, Queens—which isn’t NY, and some other southern states.

The girls bowling averages are around 160, some less, some more. He’s not impressed. The tournament is for amateurs, not professionals. Texas bowlers who smoke Marlboro lights—exceptionally cancer causing—and drink Bud. That’s his impression of them. He sounds like Rob Deniro’s insane short side-kick (I forget his name), going so far as to laugh like him.

He went to college in L.I. His wife is a JAP, who spends $3k on a trip to Nordstrom and, not surprisingly, owns a large collection of shoes. If his Jewish-Italian mother found out he cheated, she’d cut off his weenie and mail it back to thim.