Arrive to see the Gulfstream IV on the runway, prepped and ready to go. The car pulls onto the tarmac where the ground crew places my baggage in the cargo hold. As Imus has made no bones about the fact that my presence on this trip will be to serve as nothing more than ballast, I go to sit in steerage there with it, but I'm directed to the jetway up front, where the pilot welcomes me aboard. I stand for a moment to take in the splendor of what is the most beautiful piece of airborne iron I have ever seen: "I-Force One. God, she's a beautiful craft. I think that I am feeling somewhat what Captain Kirk did upon first viewing the Enterprise. What a proud bird she is. Suddenly my reverie is shattered by the ominous voice behind me:

"Well, Jesus, get on, fatso!"

The I-Man has arrived.

I board with him. He delights in giving me a tour of the aircraft, as if he were a little kid showing off one of his toys. Well, actually, I guess it IS one of his toys. Howard Hughes had his Spruce Goose, this is Imus" Turquoise Buffalo. I only hope he won't ask me to clip his fingernails or kill any flies during the trip.

It's an amazing plane. It seats about 12 comfortably, with huge Barcalounger type chairs that recline and swivel. There is a digital screen at every seat, showing current position, ground speed and altitude. We're presently traveling 0 Mph, at 31 feet. There is a full galley in the back with microwave, charcoal grill and Cappuccino machine, a Bathroom with stall shower and Jacuzzi, three lane bowling alley and small swimming pool. Man! How cool is this?

Larry, Chuck and Bernard arrive about five minutes apart, and each of them is as awed by the jet as I am. We all take advantage of the fact that we didn't have to go through airline security by showing off the weapons we've each brought for the trip. Larry has a nine inch switchblade, Charles an antique Luger, and I've brought my Walther PPK, but Bernie takes the cake with the AK-47 he borrowed from his pals in the Militia. We take a few shots at Brandt's limo from the jetway as he leaves, just for target practice. I make a mental note to adjust the site on the Walther, as I suspect I'm a click or two off center.

Cheryl, our flight attendant, is a bright, energetic woman, who can't do enough for us. At least that's what Imus is telling her. She's a flurry of motion in the galley, preparing our in-flight meal. I'm amazed at her attention to detail. When I ask why she feels it necessary to actually slaughter the lunch entree of chicken right there on board the plane, she tells me of her devotion to the freshness of ingredients.

Once everyone is seated comfortably, Imus bellows to Rick, the Captain, to "Light the fires and burn the tires!". Larry takes him literally, and takes out his butane pipe lighter and begins to set his seat aflame. Cheryl is quick with the extinguisher. We are airborne. We all feel like rock stars. Lynyrd Skynyrd, to be exact.

9:15 A.M. E.S.T.: In The Air Somewhere Over Pennsylvania

We are steadily climbing to our cruising altitude, which is to be 43,000 feet. The ride is as smooth as that of a Rolls Royce Limo. It's good to be with the King. Chuck, an experienced pilot himself, gets to sit in the jumpseat behind the cockpit and annoy the pilot. I'm jealous. Larry goes to bowl a few frames while Bernie decides to do a few laps in the pool before breakfast. Cheryl comes by with coffee and asks if I'd like to see a movie. I request The Buddy Holly Story. They don't have it, so I settle for 'Executive Decision'. I realize I've seen it before, so I plug in my headset and search for some mood music. I find Jim Croce singing TIme in a Bottle', recline my seat, and take a nap. I'm awakened by Imus' irritated voice. The temperature of his coffee has dropped below 212 degrees and so he's beating Cheryl about the kidneys with a toilet brush. He's a very nervous flier.

Sunday, 11:03 A.M. E.S.T. 41000 FEET GROUND SPEED 575 MPH

The hours in the air are going by quickly, at least for me. I imagine they go much more slowly for Imus, who seems just a tad irritated by my asking "Are we there yet?" every 45 seconds. I can't decide which drives him more nuts, my obnoxious behavior, or the temperature inside the cabin, which he somehow cannot make comfortable enough for himself despite the ability to control the heating and cooling within a tenth of a degree. He's alternately too hot and too cold...sometimes within fractions of a second. Larry whispers "Maybe it's Malaria" and our spirits are momentarily lifted until Bernie decides it's merely the hot flashes that announce the onset of menopause.

Mark Chernoff works diligently on his ThinkPad Knockoff bought by the cheapskates at WNEW FM who, now that we're all part of the CBS Conglomerate, are getting invaluable help from him to improve their ratings. He's a brilliant program director, and has worked out a two step plan that, once implemented, should double their Arbitrons overnight. I look over his shoulder to steal a peek at his strategy. It appears simple enough:

1-Fire all the D.J.s

2-Start over.

Charles gets to sit in the jump seat just behind the flight deck. Not only is he an aviation enthusiast, he is quite an accomplished pilot himself, and is awestruck, both at the technological perfection of the complex in-flight instrumentation, as well as the skill of Rick Schwartz and Bob Hayes, our pilots. I, on the other hand, am fascinated and mesmerized by by the button on the armrest that makes the little Ôwindy thingÕ over my head go on and off.

Larry stretches out on the couch to nap. Bernie reclines his seat to nap. Chuck watches the instruments for the pilots while they nap.

Imus softly weeps, beseeching Cheryl for some chocolate.

Sunday 11:15 MST : WESTIN HOTEL

We check into the fabulous Westin Hotel in Denver where it is presently 15 degrees below zero. I innocently inquire as to why we're visiting this particular affiliate in the middle of January when we have syndicated stations all over California and Florida. The question is met with a certain disdain by Imus. After kicking me in the throat with the tip of his new blue suede cowboy boots, he goes up to his Presidential Suite, where a washtub sized basket of piping hot fried chicken awaits him. There is chicken in my basement room too, the only difference is that mine are still alive and molting on the bedspread. I consider bringing a couple with me for the flight tomorrow, as I know how much Cheryl enjoys fresh poultry, and I'm sure Joey Defazio's coven has a hard time getting really fresh kills for their fertility ceremonies, but don't think they'll fit in my garment bag, as I've already stuffed it with all the bath towels and those complimentary guest robes hanging in the closet.

MONDAY, 3:30 A.M. MST LOBBY OF WESTIN HOTEL

We have to get up at 2:30, as the show will begin at 3:30 Mountain time. I don't know what's worse...the fact that we have to do the show so early, or that there are actually tragedy cases seated in the audience, patiently waiting to watch us do it. The day is not one of the 360 of sunshine the city boasts of, a sad state of affairs, exacerbated by Imus' dissatisfaction with the wallpaper in his suite. A crew is dispatched to change the French Provincial decor to a Southwestern Motif. It should be finished just in time for us to check out.

MONDAY, 7:OO A.M. M.S.T. -LOBBY OF WESTIN HOTEL

The show goes well. Wellington Webb, the mayor of Denver, is especially entertaining. He's even more so backstage where he regales us with rollicking stories of his adventures in the whaling industry, and lively sea chantys from those golden days.

I decide to bring a few of the chickens on board with me for the flight to Portland, telling Cheryl that Imus likes his "Very rare". I also give her a recipe for his "Favorite Marinade", a Caesar Dressing that uses aged anchovies, and raw fertilized eggs. He should be feeling the onset of Salmonella simultaneously with our arrival in Portland.

This flight is just as impressive, with breathtaking views of Mts. Hood, Rainier, and St. Helens that greet us on the way in. I ask if Mt. St. Helens is still active, and Cheryl assures me it's just Imus spewing venom, as, in his opinion, his Pasta Salad has too many black olives in it. I decide I will write a screenplay about this amazing experience, and call it "Flying Miss Daisy".

MONDAY, PORTLAND OREGON, 12:30 P.M. PST. LOBBY OF BENSON HOTEL

We check into the Benson Hotel in downtown Portland, which is a glorious structure that has been painstakingly refurbished to its original splendor. You can tell there's a lot of history within these walls, and, no doubt, the odd construction worker or two.

I've got to get some sleep. I'm starting to hallucinate. I could have sworn I just saw Imus skulking around the lobby with a bustier and garter belt clad dominatrix.

TUESDAY, 2;30 A.M.PST BENSON HOTEL,CRYSTAL BALLROOM

I realize that I wasn't hallucinating, although it wasn't Imus with the Dominatrix, it's Imus Lookalike Hog Whitman, the gentleman we met during our "IMUS ON BROADWAY" sojourn. He is here to regale us with another rendition of his his original tune, "Leather Whips and Rubber Underwear". Hog is a personable fellow with an Imus-style mane, bushy handlebar moustache, and a button which reads: "I squealed like a pig for the I-Man" He most certainly has severed heads in his refrigerator.

The woman in question is "Miss Dominique", a buxom, exotic vixen who he introduces as his "Assistant and Bodyguard". We have no reason to doubt this claim, especially the "bodyguard" part, as she gives the appearance she is able to crack walnuts with her buttocks.

Hog has brought with him copies of his new CD and cassette, T-Shirts, BBQ Sauce and Beef Jerky. I think about the severed heads, but decide to try the Jerky anyway. It has a certain spicy sweetness without being cloying, smokey and pungent...quite tasty, actually, even when you have to spit out the odd bone or toenail.

After the show, and a brief autograph signing that goes relatively well despite an unpleasant incident where Imus felt it necessary to crush the windpipe of a WWII veteran who callously ran over his new blue suede cowboy boots with his wheelchair. It's time for our return flight to New York. It's been a long three days. Between all the time zone changes, miles in the air and lack of sleep, I'm so burnt I actually weep when I tell the concierge that I will miss him and promise to keep in touch.

TUESDAY 9:30 A.M. P.S.T. IN THE AIR ABOARD "I-FORCE ONE"

It hasn't been so much the destinations as it has the journey itself, an odyssey that will no doubt spoil me every time I will be forced to fly commercial. This whole Executive Jet thingie is pretty damn cool. Rick Santulli should win a Nobel Prize. Once Cheryl finishes fixing us all omelettes to order and fresh baked biscuits for breakfast, she'll stay busy in the back preparing Cracked Dungeness Crab Claws, grilled Pacific Salmon in Dill with Red Pepper Polenta Timbales, Stir Fried Seasonable Vegetables in Sesame and Ginger and Flourless Chocolate Mousse Cake for Dinner. That is, for Larry, Mark, Bernie and Me. Imus will have a boxed lunch Dierdre has sent ahead with steamed Tofu and Kale with organic black bean pureé, and for dessert, assorted small pebbles. He notices the chicken I'm bringing back for Joey walking around the cabin. My guess is that the little clucker will end up in a frier by the time we reach Idaho.

Which, as I think about it, really is a metaphor for the entire trip. It's all about the food chain. I know there's pestilence, poverty and hunger in the world...but boyu you sure can't see it when you're sitting in a private jet 41000 feet in the air, traveling at 600 Miles per hour sipping Mimosas made with Kristal and fresh squeezed orange juice. It's good to be with the King. Because once you travel in an Executive Jet, everything else is like the chicken. It may have wings, but it sure ain't flying.