I’m starting to understand that the fun of flying L.A. to Vegas is that the convenient flights are egalitarian: no business or first class. Which means Flavor Flav was sitting three rows in back of me.

 

When he got on, the Southwest stewardess started giving it to him over the P.A. “We’ve got to find Flavor Flav a new love,” she yelled, to which Flav said, “Hwaakaaywaaahdoo.” This, however, didn’t stop her. Flav might be famous and crazy, but she had the mike.

 

Halfway through the flight, I complimented her on her bit. Then she decided that we should go through the cabin and pick some single women and hold a little tryout for Flav at 30,000 feet. I told her this was a splendid idea. She went searching and came back empty, disappointed that so few young women were on a Vegas flight. I told her that Flav wasn’t picky and we should grab the old ladies. She considered, but then gave up.

 

Even in the age of no liquids on board, Flav doesn’t check bags to Vegas.