I share with you now a quote from a commenter on Gawker re: a 20 year-old girl who goes to a party filled with a bunch of high-profile NYC bloggers and gets her idealist cherry popped:

Wish I’d have thought to put on my failsafe feel-good tunage today, because I couldn’t for life of me get fired up about ANYTHING I was doing. Now it’s slightly ass o’clock in the morning and I got my wiggle on. I’ve also gotten into this really bad habit of eating well after normal people, and I have a feeling it’s going to make me look worse in the swimsuit I just bought (and yes, Girlie, it’s a real swimsuit) than I’m already anticipating. (Did y’all know Amazon sells other things besides books? I swear, it’s like a mini mall over there!) But! notice that I said “bought”—not only did I get my check early, but it was much bigger than I was expecting, so now with it being a three-check month and all, I’m going to be caught up on my bills for the first time in a couple months AND be able to buy stuff indiscriminately! Well Ok, not indiscriminately exactly, but at least I’ll be able to have some fun, ferchrissakes, especially seeing that next weekend is BUS DEMOLITION! weekend, complete with a Railcats hot-tub foray again. Anyone up for joining the festivities should hit me up for the deets.

Other things taking up space in my melon lately include the following:

-- Roger Ebert had a cool conversation going on his blog last week about the movies people can’t watch more than once because of the reactions they invoke. For him, it’s Wit, which makes sense because of the whole cancer thing; for me, it’s Marvin’s Room, but not because of the cancer but rather the pudding-headed father; and Requiem for a Dream because of its sheer brutality. And you? What movies kick you in the emotional wang?

-- My homie JB’s woman joined the pink slip club about a month or so ago, so she’s now taking on the herculean task of watching unemployment over at this joint: Lookit. She’s awesome, so check her out.

-- It’s been total Collegepalooza over here the past couple days; first Popdose throws up three of my favorite Tracy Chapman tunes EVER, taking me back to the summer before freshman year and Poppy and me singing and living our drama, then I end up in a town where I spent a lot of time being up to no good and seeing how much it’s grown and changed the last 20 years. Weird. As much as college was overall a big crapfest for me in many ways, though, at least these things made me smile. Actually, I kinda take it back that college was a crapfest, if only because I’m not living it anymore and can see how fun a lot of the shit was, even in its craptacularness.

-- Speaking of Popdose, if you’re not checking it out religiously, you should—tons of great writing and free music to be had.

Feh. These are the ones Scott took while up there, including this one:


(©2008 Scott M. Bort, all rights reserved)

That’s what I was doing, y’all.

Anyway, the shots are gorgeous, so go check ‘em out.

By now, many of you may or may not know what I did Friday morning. If not, lemme show you it in pictures:


My chariot awaited. You’ll notice in subsequent pics that
my plane is the only USAF plane, while the others are Navy.
That’s because, according to my pilot, Brian “Digger” McCann,
the plane’s owner was Air Force and flat-out refused to paint
“Navy" on the plane, even if the colors are in fact Navy.


My colleague and pal Scott Bort, getting the rundown
from his pilot, John “Ripper” Rippinger. The flotation device
is but one thing you get harnessed into on one of these flights.


Digger gets into his parachute and straps in for the ride.


Heading toward my deaththe runway


Aw yeah, there’s no turning back now.


This here’s the control panel in my part of the cockpit.
Didn’t need to know anything about it and didn’t want
to know, as it’s better that way for all involved.


Aaaaaaaand we’re up!


Ripper and Bort.


See those planes waaaaay over there? Yeah, we had
to catch up to them. There was speeding involved.


We caught up, natch, and here we are in formation. See?
It really is further apart than it looks from the ground.


Now it’s time to head over the lake, where Digger says
the ride is smoother. We’ll see about that.


Six planes up in (Lima Lima) formation. Over the lake.


Coming off the lake.


Back in formation off the lake. I know I’ve got a lot
of these shots, but I was fascinated by how the planes
looked like marionettes.


As I headed back to the airport for my second assignment
of the day, there were these ginormous billowy clouds
that would’ve been gorgeous to fly through. When
WE were up in the air, we got this. Not quite as exciting.


“If you’re gonna spew, spew into this!”


Back on land and Thunderbirds in the hizzzouse, y’all!


This is what happens when you try to convince people who’re
flight-challenged that there are going to be loop-de-loops
and spiraling dips. Right, Bort!??


That’s right—he had to pose with his barf
bag. And he would’ve made me do it if I’d
have tossed, so don’t be all, “Awww, poor
Scott.” It’s a hazard of the job.


The master and me, no worse for the wear. And no barf
bag.

This is not to say, however, that the ride was all smooth sailing for me, either; until you’re up there, you really have no idea how unbelievably hot it gets, and if you’re not properly hydrated (like I’m not most of the time), it’s going to hurt, and I spent the last five or so minutes of the flight concentrating on my breathing so I wouldn’t hyperventilate. And I now also understand the appeal of sticking your head out the window like a dog while driving—I’ve never been so happy to open a window as when Digger told me I could reopen the chamber.

So yeah, it’s an extremely cool thing to do if you ever have the chance to do it, no question, and the Limas couldn’t be a better bunch of guys to fly with. You won’t see ME doing it again—I thought doing something like this would cure my fear of moving heights, but no such luck—but I’m thrilled and grateful I had the chance to do it this once.

And I’m sure there’s still a bit of wang emanating from my person, too, but you know what? The rain washed away the heat, and now my windows are wide open with a cool, cool breeze.

Going to see Cracker tonight at NWI’s “premiere rock festival,” but not before hitting T’s for some of her town’s twilight parade. Has the potential for interesting. We’ll see.

Last night found the crew and me at yet aNOTHER gig with our boys, this time on the way sout’ side of Chicahga at a bar to which I’d never been and Girlie hadn’t been since, like, 1994. It was remodeled, sure, but you know the phrases “Throwing 300 pounds of shit into a Gucci bag is still 300 pounds of shit,” and “This is the place where people go to die?” Y’all, my D-list celebrity BFFs have chosen the wrong market in which to ply their trade, because these were some of the saddest looking m’erf’ers I’ve encountered in a looooooong time. And—AND!—they have absolutely NO taste in music. The opening act, which I will cleverly disguise their real name as “Crotch Louse,” was this blues-metal-country fusion mess that tried to evoke, I don’t know, the Butthole Surfers, maybe? Girlie thinks they thought they were being unique, what with the lead singer using that distortion thingy that singers use to sound like they’re far away and all, but dude, seriously. All that came out was only slightly impressive guitar playing at times, and the drummer didn’t completely suck. Oh, and there were at least two songs about butt secks, because we could understand THOSE lyrics clearly. And then when Steepwater took the stage, every time Jeff whipped out the weedlee and other hot tricks, a-holes were WALKING OUT OF THE BAR! What a nightmare. The mood was all off; even the boys knew it was bad and cut the set by two tunes.

So we entertained ourselves, as we always do. Some choice quotes from the night --

Last night Girlie and I trekked on up to Martyr’s in Chicago to catch this band called 27 Jennifers. Maybe you’ve heard of them:



This is ubergroovy bassist Andrew Livingston, who used to provide the bassline with his big ol’ cello before Homeland Security made it an asspain to travel with such an instrument. He’s a pretty popular musician, but perhaps you know his band leader:

Girlie’s slacking on sending me the Saturday night pics (which are magnificent acts of cyberphoto terrorism in and of themselves and you will DIE when you see them finally), so bide your time sorting through THESE beauties: Lookit. Many thanks to ButterCup Trix for this bit of 12 year-old boy humor that had me tearing up with laughter but a few minutes ago.

and because we’re nothing if not service-y over here at Chez Broad, there’s Classic Tractors, Training Mules and Donkeys, Big Joe Polka Show, Forge and Anvil, Animal Makeover TV, Cowboy Flavor (now now, it’s a cooking show) and Making it Grow (whatever that means). And all of this high-brow fare is kicked off by Imus in the Morning, of all things. Oh, and you can get a 10-carat yellow sapphire and diamond ring for the low, low price of $30,500 and an Air Climber and a laptop on the Shop Latino network (because like Girlie says, them Latinos sure do like their gadgets).

We’re indulging in a quiet weekend over here—Girlie’s over here laughing hysterically at the Gem Network, where they have a “treasure chest mix” for $199.99 ("It’s rocks around the clock!") and I keep trying to yank my hair back into ponytail. It’s much more sedate than last weekend, when I broke into a rather, um, spirited performance (or, as Girlie calls it, a “cry for help") when these three skanky bar whores walked into the G-Town after our boyz played a blisteringly good show. Sorry, but grinding up on each other after last call at G-Town is NOT APPROPRIATE. No. It isn’t. That behavior is more appropriate at the Serbian bar a town over.

Not sure which I’m more disturbed by—that someone is using his junk to procreate, or that his hair looks frighteningly like mine in this picture. And TELL me he’s not wearing at LEAST mascara, if not false eyelashes (of which mine are still languishing at the bottom of my purse from last weekend. Suppose I should get them out of there.) As always, there’s just no accounting for taste sometimes.

So my one oldest and dearest e-mails me excitedly yesterday all about our, get this, 20-year high school reunion. At first I was kinda like, “Ew, I’m in touch with all the people I want to be in touch with from high school, thankyew,” but now that I’ve been looking at the Web site the committee’s set up, I’m thinking there are some comedic possibilities that’ll be too good to pass up. And anyways, my pal promised he would stay at Chez Broad and dry-hump me until my leg’s raw, and really, how could I possibly turn THAT down?

Ok, so as Girlie, Curlie and Li’l Holly and I were standing at the ghe-TTO flea market waiting for our rib tibs, a seagull shit on my head.

I’ve heard somewhere that it’s supposed to be good luck when that happens, but so far, the only thing lucky about it was that Girlie had baby wipes on her.

yeah, I would admit that I’m wrong. But if you think so little of me that you have to ask? I’ll be damned if I’m going to do it now.

On another note, hear ye, hear ye: Until I decide otherwise, there will be no political talk here in Chez Broad by anyone; the past few times I’ve veered into social comment, there have been unwanted turns that have really pissed me off, and despite what anyone thinks about me or my demeanor, I don’t enjoy being pissed off. I also don’t give a shit about who you want as president, about the a-hole conservatives or the limp-dicked liberals, about what party wrote the laws and who’s administering them, NONE OF IT. And I sure as hell don’t want to hear how I SHOULD care, so unless you want me to rip off an arm and shit in the socket, NO POLITICS.

Why is it that when I get a 10-cent coupon off 10 gallons of gas, that equals $1 off, but when gas goes up 10 cents and I put in 15 gallons, I pay $5 more than the last fucking time I had to fill up!?? Yeah, that was without the coupon, but still, the hell!?? Or am I just that retarded?

If someone can find me at least one Healing Garden Green Teatheraphy Meditation Tea Candle, you would be so awesomely rewarded, you don’t even know. I fired up the last of mine up tonight, and I’m dying because I LOOOOVED the smell, and now it seems that Healing Garden/Coty doesn’t make it anymore. Please! There’s gotta be some left SOMEwhere!

Nothing especially new over here: Cleaned off my desk for the first time since forever, even throwing some Old English on it, and I had a great political story yesterday that didn’t make me want to shoot myself. Eight Belles, however, made me want to cry; that poor, poor baby. Thankfully, I didn’t hear anything about it before I left the OTB (I was doing a story on Derby Day in NWI), or I’d have been horrified on top of weirded out over being there, as the OTB is NOT my turf. Oh, and I can now pull both the front and sides of my hair into a pony-knot on top of my head, which I haven’t been able to do since college, but I won’t be showing that until I get my roots did.

I’ll be having drinks with Herr Wadensteiner tomorrow provided I don’t have to work, though, so I’m sure there’ll be something interesting out of THAT mess. We have mucho catching up to do.

I just might be inspired to fire up the ol’ iPod and get out and take a walk, like, RIGHT NOW.

Life is good, yo.