Here's one from the archive:

Five years ago this week I boarded a plane in Austin to go to Las Vegas. I was meeting 5 friends from high school for four days of gambling. I started the party the day before, and was very hung over as I boarded the plane. I was early, and I asked to have my seating assignment switched to an aisle seat. Being my first trip to Vegas, I thought the plane would be packed and crazy, but it was only about a third full. Just before we pushed back from the gate, about the time several flight attendants were going through their seatbelt routines, there was a commotion at the front of the plane. A late arrival. The door opened and a woman carrying a dooney purse and a sherpa bag with a pair of small white dogs got on the plane, walked down the aisle, and stopped at my elbows.

“Do you have the aisle? I thought I had the aisle?” she asked, a little whiney.

“You might have it. I asked for the aisle seat at the last minute.” I predicted this might happen, having made last minute arrangements. The airline industry does not respond well to last minute changes. I scooted over to the window seat, and the woman, wearing a Texas Longhorns sweatshirt and a Red Sox cap sat down. Her dogs were already whimpery, and she positioned them on the floor between her feet.

“I apologize in advance if my dogs start pissing you off,” she said. I was reading screwing with my cell phone, trying to coordinate plans with my friends who were set to arrive in Vegas shortly after me. I looked up to tell her something polite.

Holy shit. She’s really hot. And very smiley, even though she didn’t smile with her mouth open. Just…smiley. Good smiley.

“Oh, that’s all right.” I was way too submissive and polite. Overkill. Fuck.

The plane takes off. I put my preoccupation with the really hot woman next to me off after receiving a text message from my friend. “Late,” it read. That’s it. Fuck. My phone didn’t work after about the first two minutes of our climb.

“I just got to say, my son absolutely adores you. Could you sign this for him?” A mealy mothed WASPY looking guy is standing behind us leaning in, with a copy of SkyMall in one hand, a bic pen in the other.

WTF?

“Oh, sure. What’s his name?” my seat companion asks.

His name is Brian.

I look over, and on a white space next to an ad, the woman writes Brian’s name next to a huge, loopey heart, and signs S. Bullock with a big ass smiley face.

My testicles shrivel up and lodge somewhere next to my pancreas. My heart really stops for a second. I can feel the airpocket created by its stopping coarse slowly through my chest when it resumes its function, which up to this point, has been near-flawless for 23 years.

Within about two minutes, there is a line forming down the aisle behind us. Sandra Bullock signs probably 50 napkins. Some people have more than one napkin. I am now fiercely fingering my phone, trying to call someone, anyone.

The line is satisfied. Then comes the flight attendants. Then the pilot, or the co-pilot. He brought out about 4 pages of what appear to be flight charts. They’re all signed. The bottom of the brim of his cap is signed.

Then we are alone. Oh shit we are alone. There is a very fierce silence. She wants to me to talk so she can get the last asshole out of the way so she can get back to reading her Redbook. I can feel her looking at my in her peripheral vision, pretending to look out the window in front of us.

“Just wanna say I’m a fan…it’s really cool sitting next to you.” I said.

“Oh that’s so nice! Thank you!” Sandra Bullock says, smiling at me for a long time. Her beauty is piercing, I have to look away. I am like a broken dog who has been stared down by his master.

“Are you from Austin, too?” she asks. Holy shit.

Now, it’s well known in Texas that Sandra Bullock lives outside Austin, and has for about the past ten years. No one I know has actually seen her, but that’s no suprising considering the company that I keep.

“No, not far from here, though. I fly out of Austin. Cheaper airfare,” I say.

“So are you going to party it up in Vegas?” She asks.

“Yeah, my best friend from high school is getting married.” I said. “You?”

“I’m meeting friends, also,” she said.

We talk a lot about Austin. She said her sister was just married there, was thinking about moving there, and she recommended a Mexican restaurant that was to die for, she said. She asks where I’m staying in Vegas, I tell her. She recommends I try the Reuben sandwich at the hotel’s bakery. I promise I’ll try it.

We land, and we sit. Everyone gets off the plane, but not without stopping by us to say parting words, or just to stare at Sandra Bullock.

“Well this is our stop,” she said, fishing out her bag full of sleeping puppies. “It was nice talking to you, I’m Sandra,” and she extends 5 delicate digits. I shake, and tell her my name. I am wondering if the thin film of moisture running down my legs is sweat, or please, oh please dear Lord, don’t let it be piss.

“That’s a great last name, one of my best friends has the same last name,” she said.

We walk down the gate, and she turns and twiddles her fingers at me before disappearing into the crowd.

I meet my friends at the Hotel. We dine on Reuben sandwiches, and for some reason I don’t tell them the story. I don’t think they would believe me, or worse, they would act like they believe me but they won’t.

We stumble back to our room after a long night of boozing. The red light on the phone is blinking. A message from room service tells me there is a deliverable at the desk, and they tell me to let them know when to bring it up. I assume it’s a stripper for or from my friends. A desk clerk appears at my door with a dozen roses and a 12-pack of Japanese beer, he accepts a tip and dashes back to the elevator.

There is a typed note attached to the flowers.

“Michael and friends: Here’s to love, laughter, and all things grand. Xoxox Sandra.”