Cover image for The mile high club
The mile high club
Friedman, Kinky.
Personal Author:
Publication Information:
New York : Simon & Schuster, [2000]

Physical Description:
223 pages ; 25 cm
Personal Subject:
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"The Mile High Club" is a novel of intrigue, irreverence, international terrorism, humor, suspense, and cross-dressing, in which the intrepid Kinky Friedman gets more than his leg pulled when he encounters a mysterious vamp on an airplane.

It all starts with a casual flirtation, two people on a flight from Dallas to New York. She is gorgeous and mysterious; he is a private detective. When the plane lands, the detective -- our hero Kinky Friedman -- finds that he's been left holding the bag, in this case literally holding a bright pink cosmetic bag. The mysterious woman, having asked the Kinkster to watch her luggage while she visits the dumpster, has taken a powder and somehow has vanished.

Confident that he'll find the mystery woman again, Kinky holds on to the bag. Sure enough she does turn up, but not before Kinky has excited the interest of an array of "suits" from the State Department, been party to a thwarted kidnap attempt by Arab terrorists, and found a dead Israeli agent parked on the toilet of his downtown Manhattan loft.

Employing the able-bodied assistance of his usual sidekicks, the Village Irregulars, Kinky

Author Notes

Kinky Friedman is the author of twelve novels, including Blast from the Past, Road Kill, The Love Song of J. Edgar Hoover, God Bless, John Wayne, Armadillos & Old Lace; and Elvis, Jesus and Coca Cola.

He lives in a little green trailer in a little green valley deep in the heart of Texas.

(Publisher Provided) Author, singer, and songwriter Kinky Friedman was born in Chicago, Illinois on October 31, 1944. He grew up on a ranch in central Texas and received a B. A. in Psychology and Plan II Honors from the University of Texas at Austin in 1966. After graduation, he severed two years with the Peace Corps in Borneo.

In the early 1970's, he formed a country and western band called The Texas Jewboys. His music mixed social commentary with humor and dealt with topics such as racism and anti-Semitism. He reached cult status and was a musical guest on Saturday Night Live in October 1976.

After his music career ended in the 1980's, he started writing detective novels featuring a fictionalized version of himself solving crimes in New York City. Since April 2001, he has been a regular columnist for Texas Monthly magazine, but stopped in March 2005 due to his campaign bid for governor of Texas.

He founded Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch, whose mission is to care for stray, abused, and aging animals. He currenlty lives at Echo Hill Ranch which is located near Kerrville, Texas. In 2012, Kinky Friedman partnered up with Willie Nelson to write Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die: Musings from the Road which became a New York Times Best Seller.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 3

Booklist Review

Every year, like clockwork, Friedman comes out with another mystery featuring himself, Kinky, as Kinky. This time, while flying back to the Big Apple, he meets a beautiful woman named Khadija, whom he proceeds to chat up in the hope of winning her heart. He winds up looking after her little pink suitcase when she goes to the ladies' at the back of the plane. At flight's end, she has failed to return, and Kinky takes the case with him in hopes that she'll call to collect it. After the airline, the State Department, and, finally, Khadija herself all contact him, Kinky realizes the bag is much in demand. He is in the middle of an international intrigue, of course, involving Arabs, Israelis, and other interested parties, all of which is quite irrelevant, because a Kinky novel is really another occasion for the Kinkster to go off on a rant, down Jameson Irish whiskey, comment on the indifference of his cat, banter with the Irregulars, and be entertaining as hell. --Benjamin Segedin

Publisher's Weekly Review

Aficionados of the Kinkster and his gang of Village Irregulars are in for another round of hilarious hijinks. On a plane from Texas to New York, the intrepid detective/humorist/musician agrees to keep an eye on the little pink suitcase of his seatmate, the exotic Khadija Kejela, when she excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She never returns. After the plane lands in New York, Kinky gets a call from Khadija about the suitcase, which he's taken with him, but she doesn't show up to claim it. Curious about the contents, Kinky and his PI pal, Rambam, force open the suitcase and find a plastic bag full of fake passports for possible Middle Eastern terrorists. Realizing that both he and Rambam may be in danger, Kinky rounds up his old friends Ratso and McGovern to help figure out what's going on. Mayhem ensues. This is guy territory, albeit Greenwich Village '60s style. When necessary, Kinky takes cover with his bottle of Jameson's, a couple of Monte Cristos (preferably No. 2), his espresso machine and his long-suffering cat, whose litter box becomes the hiding place for the passports. Sometime girlfriend Stephanie DuPont adds to the chaos. As usual, the mystery at hand counts for less than the time spent in Kinky's company. The fun is in the ba-da-boom dialogue and the throwaway references. Occasional lyrical passages amidst the raunch surprise and please. The resolution may not convince entirely, but Friedman fans will be too busy laughing to notice. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

Library Journal Review

For the last 14 years, musician Friedman's mysteries (Musical Chairs, Road Kill) have featured the fictional Kinky Friedman, a profane, funny, and semidegenerate detective. While his stories may not be for everyone, no one else writes like Kinky. This latest mystery is served up with a fair helping of dirty jokes and double entendres, all sure to offend somebody and most taking the Kinkster himself as the target. The Village irregulars are back to help Kinky safeguard a piece of lost luggage, going up against international terrorists, the State Department, and Israeli agents in an effort to keep the pretty pink suitcase and its surprising contents from falling into the wrong hands. The mystery is not all that mysterious and is never satisfactorily solved, but Friedman's books are more about the philosophical discussions that go on while the case is being investigated, discussions involving love and loss, or cigars and sexual perversion. This time Kinky and his cat seem to have all the good lines, and readers with a sense of humor will enjoy The Mile High Club. Recommended for all public libraries. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 5/15/00.]DPatrick Wall, University City P.L., MO (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



Chapter 1 "If there's one thing I hate," I said to the beautiful woman on the airplane, "it's meeting a beautiful woman on an airplane." "How terrible for you," she said, briefly looking up from her FAA-mandated copy of John Grisham's latest novel. The sleeves of her blouse were thin green stems. Her hands, holding the book, were fragile, off-white flowers bathed in the memory of moonlight. I glanced out the window of the plane but there was no moon. There was nothing out there at all. Not even an extremely tall Burma Shave sign. She was reading the book again. "It was over twenty years ago," I said, "hut every time I meet a gorgeous broad on a plane it reminds me of Veronica." "Is this where I'm supposed to ask 'Who's Veronica?'" she said rather irritably, without looking up from the book. I was working religiously on my Bloody Mary, the third since we'd left Dallas. When I got to New York I planned to hit the ground running. "Veronica Casillas," I said, staring straight ahead at the painful past through the stained glass window of a broken heart. "She was a stewardess for Braniff Airlines." "A what for what?" she said. "A stewardess for Braniff Airlines," I said, as she closed her book and then closed her eyes. The FAA-mandated baby in the row directly behind us began crying. I could see Veronica, lithe, lovely, impossibly young, walking through an airport in a dream. "Should've married her," I said. "But I let cocaine and ambition and geography get in the way. Because I knew I was going to be a star. I guess I never really took the time to make a wish on one. By the time my country music career started to head south I wasn't equipped to do, much but drink Bloody Marys and meet beautiful women on airplanes. Are you Hispanic?" "My father's side is Colombian." "Can I have his phone number?" "Try 1-800-HELL," she said. "He's dead." I'd been down at the family ranch just outside of Kerrville, Texas, for a few weeks, ostensibly on sabbatical from a hectic spate of amateur crime-solving in New York. The most recent case in which I'd become embroiled, dubbed Spanking Watson by one rather disgruntled Steve Rambam, had been particularly unpleasant. It bad started with my efforts to seek revenge against Winnie Katz, the lesbian dance instructor in the loft above my own at 199B Vandam Street. Toward this admittedly less than Christian goal, I'd managed to convince my friends, the Village Irregulars, that a dangerous investigation was taking place and that it was their duty to infiltrate Winnie's fiercely private Isle of Lesbos. The result of this unfortunate exercise was the unleashing of a campaign of real-life crime and terror aimed at the lesbians, the Irregulars, and, to a somewhat lesser degree, myself. The outcome was that a number of individuals from a number of sexual persuasions were currently no longer speaking to the Kinkster. The young woman sitting next to me appeared also no longer to be speaking to the Kinkster. I didn't know her name, anything about the maternal side of her family, or why she was going to New York. Possibly we already had exhausted everything we had in common. Possibly she was fired of hearing about the lost love and loneliness of a country singer-turned-private investigator. Possibly she hated meeting fascinating middle-aged men on airplanes. "You never know when you might need a private dick," I said, trying a different approach. "Here's my card." "That can't redly be your name," she protested, holding the card at a guarded distance as if it were a mucus sample. "It's not my full name," I said in friendly, semiconspiratorial tones. "My full name is Richard Kinky "Big Dick" Friedman." "I'll just call you Dick," she said dismissively, her eyes straying back to the John Grisham novel. "What's your name?" I asked, after a short period of uneasy silence. "Khadija." "Beautiful, melodic name. Khadija. Does it mean anything?" "It means 'Woman Who Understands Why You Have Trouble Meeting Chicks On Airplanes.'" "You've got to admit it is amazing. Every time I meet a beautiful girl on an airplane it always turns into some kind of hideous, star-crossed relationship. Invariably, there's a tragic, unhappy ending." "Don't get your hopes up," she said. Copyright © 2000 by Kinky Friedman Excerpted from The Mile High Club by Kinky Friedman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.