Juan Williams, you’re not alone. 

A while back, I was boarding a flight from LA to New York, and as I moved slowly down the aisle like a hog at a slaughterhouse, I glanced down to see who my seatmate would be.

He was a man of Middle Eastern descent. He had a prayer shawl on, was reading what appeared to be the Koran, and was – I kid you not – sweating profusely, chanting something softly under his breath, and rocking in his seat.

In that moment, every PC attitude I had about racial profiling went out the very window I imagined I would soon be blown out of. I immediately began attempting – in as subtle, unobtrusive a manner as possible – to get the attention of the flight attendants, who were, frankly, much too busy pounding carry-on bags into submission in the overhead bins and yelling at people to sit the f*** down to be bothered with wrestling an obvious terrorist to the floor.

There was, of course, always the possibility that this man wasn’t evil incarnate. Maybe he had the flu. Maybe he was on his way to a very important job interview. Or maybe he was going to ignite the dynamite attached to his nipples and we would all die in a screaming, fiery crash.

All I knew for sure was that I, for one, wasn’t going down without a fight. After several sweaty minutes, I finally got the attention of a pretty blond flight attendant. Perhaps my eyes (which were as big as watermelons) drew her attention. Or my arms, which were flailing about like a slow kid trying to do the stadium wave. In any case, she walked by, did a thorough visual inspection of the situation, and smiled as if to say, “Don’t be such a worrywart.”

I did not speak to this gentleman for the next six hours, for fear that whatever inane words I spoke would be the last ones I ever uttered, and I didn’t want the black box to pick up my voice going, “Wow, could these seats be any smaller?” or “I think I should just FedEx my legs to my destination” as he executed a high-pitched yodel and pulled the trip wire.

And perhaps I should have tried conversing. For it finally occurred to me, as we were landing, that this perfectly nice, quiet guy was probably just a fearful flyer. Because nothing ever exploded. He remained sweaty and nervous throughout the flight, but the worst thing that happened is that a kid somewhere in the vicinity screamed and cried throughout the whole flight.

Or maybe was that me.

There are moments in life when people across the planet come together to celebrate a triumph of the human spirit. To experience the feelings of selfless compassion and true oneness that is all too rare in contemporary society. 

And this week was one such occasion. Like so many American citizens, I sat in awe and gratitude, watching 33 Chilean miners being rescued from their unimaginable hell half a mile inside the earth.

It was enormously heartwarming to see wives and mistresses coming together as one, to celebrate the torture they planned to inflict upon these incredibly brave, slutty men.

It was gratifying beyond words to see jaded journalists tearing up without the aid of a bottle of glycerine and a $500 a day makeup artist, as they turned to their cameramen and marveled that they wouldn’t have to put on their “frowny-faces”.

And what could match the sheer unbridled emotion of a ring of Armani-suited agents, standing just out of camera range, Montblanc pens poised seductively over contracts for book and movie deals?

It’s the kind of thing that really makes me believe in the brotherhood of man.

I was rear-ended in Hollywood a few months back. I call it the Thousand Dollar Sext, because the driver who hit me was too busy sexting with his girlfriend to notice that my car had stopped. 

I thought better of inquiring as to why he was instant messaging naughty photos from a moving vehicle. Or why the photos were so urgent that they couldn’t wait until he hit a stoplight, or a brick wall. Or if they were taken while driving behind me.

I mean, TMI.

This in-car stenography has really gotten out of hand. I saw a documentary piece on texting wherein a fortysomething woman – who claimed that she always put her phone down when coming face to face with clerks in a store, because she felt it was rude to ignore them – stopped dead in the middle of making this statement, while being videotaped, to see who had just texted her.

This same documentary featured a dozen different smartphone owners claiming that they never texted while driving – intercut with harrowing moments of each of them LOL’ing at 70 mph while the cameraman composed a list of bequests.

I will personally admit to answering emails and texts at stoplights. But I draw the line at doing it while roaring down the freeway. I believe in the sanctity of human life.

I treat every person with the respect they…

I have complete and utter reverence for the…

I just got the funniest text. What was I saying?

I spent part of last week at a conference in Washington, D.C., one of those deals where industry executives and underlings come together to share exciting new ideas and make unfortunate personal choices after four free cocktails. 

Prior to 2009, this conference was held in the convention center of whatever the city du jour was – usually somewhere like Dallas or Austin or Philadelphia or Orlando – all perfectly attractive cities, but ones that would not be my first choice when someone else is footing the bill. Apparently, whoever plans these things does not own a map that extends beyond the continental U.S., and assumes that traveling to a treacherous locale like Paris or the Italian coast would risk tumbling over the edge of the world and falling into Hell.

I know, it’s all about travel costs and time, but I personally think that the dissemination of ideas would be greatly enhanced by disseminating them on the balcony of the Hotel Splendido in Portofino, Italy; but apparently I am alone in this notion, and in fact, convention exoticness has been headed in exactly the opposite direction. I expect next year’s to take place at the Comfort Inn in Keokuk, Iowa.

And I’ve already been there.

But I digress.

Starting last year, conferences as a rule were scaled down. To their credit, this year’s was held in a city to which I have not traveled for two decades, and one which, as our nation’s capitol, has a unique glamour and allure that I was able to enjoy for nearly 30 minutes each night. The only problem was that pesky scaling-down process. Instead of the convention center, the entire conference was held at a large convention hotel which was not, according to my math, nearly large enough.

I don’t know whether there were a slew of last minute attendees or the organizers were smoking a fat one with Nancy Pelosi, but it was as if we had been crammed into it like a train bound for Auschwitz.

Typically, meeting rooms for these conferences are plenty large enough, with tons of empty seats that help make the speakers at any given session feel really lousy about themselves; but not this year. Attendees were stacked like participants at a really uncomfortable orgy, and exiting any given session required lube, optimism and a diet plan. Fistfights broke out. Women fell off their heels. Grown men cried.

Every subsequent session became fraught with stress – if I’m late, I’ll have to take my notes standing outside the door. If I stop to make a phone call, I’ll be stuck praying that someone who made it inside is stricken with leprosy or a freakishly tiny bladder.

This is a period in American life where those of us who were not bailed out have to scale back, and I both respect and support that; but really, does it have to start with meeting rooms? I feel kinda bad for having to deck Dr. Laura Schlessinger over a seat.

Kinda.