Philadelphia Weekly

Last time I took a plane trip I had to pay some frat boy $50 to switch seats with me so I could be on the aisle. This week, for a flight to San Diego, I pleaded my case beforehand with US Airways customer service (someone in Calcutta, no doubt), then described my situation as I was checking my bag, and then reiterated the dilemma to someone at the gate.

I explained it all as claustrophobia, which is accurate, but I left out mention of the pee problem.

The pee problem is completely psychological. Once I'm seated in a row of people I'd necessarily disturb if I got up, I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to go to the bathroom. I shift my body weight to see if I really have to go or I'm just imagining it, but most of the time I can't tell.

So I get up-"sorry, sorry, sorry"-and go to the bathroom, where more often than not there's just a weak trickle. When I get back to my seat-"sorry, sorry, sorry"-it's a matter of five minutes, tops, before I feel the urge again.

It's a vicious urinary cycle.

I suffered this aggravation to go to California for the annual meeting of the Association of Alternative Newsweeklies (AAN), which usually provides my professional community the opportunity to get drunk on expense accounts. But this time the conference was quite serious: Everyone was worried about the future.

Can we compete with the faux weeklies that big newspaper conglomerates like Knight Ridder-whose holdings include the Inquirer and the Daily News-are unleashing? Are we falling behind the blog trend because our websites suck? Is Craig Newmark of Craigslist really the devil?

Not all of the questions were answered, but there was a neurotically high attendance at the panels (I tried to arrive early so I could get an aisle seat), which included a nerdy white guy trying to explain that video games are interesting to more than just nerdy white guys, and Newsweek's gray-goateed David Gates proclaiming all popular culture inferior to Samuel Beckett.

The New York Times' media critic and former Washington City Paper editor David Carr hosted two very amusing sessions, one of which was about those stupid pseudo-hipster papers with one-word names: Noise, Quick, Rage, Dirt, Spark. He said he read about 70 of them and ended up with the IQ of a box of donuts.

In his satiric PowerPoint presentation Carr pointed out that these faux alts are employing "the hottest tool in the altie holster: They are using the word 'fuck.'" The next slide read, "Dear God. Is nothing sacred?"

In between panels, while most were scarfing the free bagels and coffee on the trade show floor, I went back to my hotel room to touch base with cable TV.

Now that I don't have cable at home it seems like a deliciously illicit pleasure. I watched endless episodes of A&E's true crime shows, drifting off to sleep at night with images of serial killers in my head and the taste of mini-bar honey-roasted peanuts on my lips.

It might have been the true crime that poisoned my mind, but on the second day I got a little freaked out because of the Teacup Incident.

I had taken a cup of tea with me into the panel about how Portland, Ore.'s Willamette Week won a Pulitzer this year. Without thinking, I left my almost empty cup beneath my chair when the panel was over. An hour later I returned to my hotel room for more Cold Case Files, and there was my teacup, parked right in front of my door.

At first I didn't think it was my teacup. Why should it be? I didn't know anyone attending that panel, nor did I say anything during the Q&A that revealed my name or room number. But ... it looked like my teacup.

I took it into my room for forensic analysis. I dipped my pinkie finger into the syrupy liquid in the bottom of the cup, then put a drop onto my tongue. Sure enough, it was my recipe of Constant Comment and 15 Splenda packets. I'd know that sweet taste anywhere.

I joked about the incident to colleagues, but secretly I fretted. I suspected someone had followed me to my room and now knew where I "lived."

When the doorman said a cheery "Hello, Liz!" I gave him a steely glare. How did he know my name? Hello, indeed. (Later my boyfriend pointed out that he'd probably just read my nametag.)

I decided to surround myself with people to feel less afraid. I went to the AAN awards luncheon hosted by advice columnist Dan Savage, editor of The Stranger in Seattle. Three years ago Savage had scandalized everyone by getting riotously drunk while he read the list of winners, but this year alcohol was prohibited. So instead he scandalized everyone by talking about how men could go across the border and get their come gargled for $300. Seriously. Let's just say his remarks left a bad taste in everyone's mouth. (Ba-dum-bum.)