Last year during BUS DEMOLITION! season, I volunteered to contribute to the drinkage supply, and having just been introduced to the nectar of my people, I wanted to, ahem, share my cultural heritage with them. And lo, it was wondrous and painful, with throats burning and heads hurting, and threats of further wretching this year at the mere suggestion of Serbian Moonshine gracing the cottage table. But LFitz forgot to pack the leftovers, so that was that. We thought we were safe.

But then another among us—as payback for the burning or just as a lark, I’ve not a clue—brought his own spirit concoction he’d concocted: Bacon. Vodka. Yes, bacon vodka. I just kind of looked at him like, “Huh. Whodathunk?” He said that he put bacon in the vodka (yes, COOKED bacon, lest he run the risk of trich) and stuck it in the freezer for some amount of time, then removed the bacon and strained the liquid through a coffee filter to, gulp, remove the fat from the liquid. Afterward, he threw in a jalapeno—you know, to give it more flavor. He insisted I take a shot.

My friends, I’m here to tell you that I’ve now been bested, because that. shit. BURNED. worse than ANYTHING. EVER. Not even the shljivovitca comes close. But if it weren’t for the burning, I can’t say it was ... horrible, exactly, though I do kinda wonder how it got a GREEN hue to it. The homies said it made for fantastic morning Bloody Marys, though.

It’s now, oh, midnight-ish up here in Chez Broad, and I’ve been following with morbid fascination two posts on Jez (SHOCKING!) that my favie Moe wrote about condom-less sex. The original post was about an NPR segment calling said sex “the new engagement!”—an interesting premise, if you ask me—and the second an APOLOGY post for the first post because people read it as Moe singing the virtues of unprotected sex, and we’re not supposed to do that in this day and age. Only, the people didn’t like her apology, either, because of its flip tone.

The first thing I gotta say is to all the commenters who let everyone know—AGAIN—that this time was the LAST time they’d ever read Jez: We KNOW you don’t like Moe’s writing, and we KNOW you have your reasons because you tell us every damn time she posts something. If you’re going to go, KEEP YOUR DAMN WORD AND JUST FUCKING GO. Y’all are like the spurned party in a rotten relationship who keeps threatening to leave but NO ONE takes seriously because you keep coming back and repeating yourself (not that *I* have any experience with that whatsover, but ... (cough) ... and I mean the rotten relationship, not making dramatic pronouncements on Jez. I reFUSE to do that).

The other thing is this, and it’s in reference to the particular commenters who insist that Moe’s a role model via her position on a well-known Web site: A role model, by its definition, is something to which one aspires, but what if Moe doesn’t WANT anyone aspiring to be her and just wants to tell her truth? To me, “role model” signifies a lofty position that should be filled only by a specific type of person who I would say is almost beyond reproach, and that ain’t Moe, nor is it many people I know. So why should she have to be someone she’s not or doesn’t want to be? I know I sure as hell don’t want to be a role model; poster child’s more my speed, anyway, and I’m good at that.

And they’re STILL at it over there. Talk about a mob mentality. Man.

At least, that’s what I think was going on, but I was all lightheaded for a good portion of the morning, and trying to cover an RDA meeting while lightheaded = not enjoyable. Not that an RDA meeting is a party, but there WAS lunch, and then I wasn’t lightheaded anymore. I’m probably diabetic now, on top of all my other maladies, real and/or imagined though they may be.

-- So back to this little nugget from last week: You know, I get the whole feeling like you’ve been betrayed when someone in whom you believed turns out to suck; I would say it happens at least once a quarter that either someone I know and love or cover disappoints me in a major way, and I always take it really personally. Why is it, then, that I kinda want to punch that girl in the face? She’s all “I hurt those that I talked about in my article, ...” in her blog post (I’m not linking it, but you can find it via the Gawker post if you’re interested), but I’m like, “Oh, Sweetie. You really think those people give a fuck about you and your feelings. How cute!” Yes, she’s only 20 and this is the first of many disappointments she’s going to experience, but the disingenuousness of being all “I didn’t WANT to name names, but my super-honesty prevents me from being anything BUT honest! HONEST! And now I have to FLEE to Fronce to escape the hypocrisy, even though I was scheduled to go there for school anyway!” does her in for me. “I will do everything possible to avoid that world: not the media world as a whole, but the specific elitist circle that I so decried in my article.” I’m sure she will—until she gets her own huge following and book deal, and then it won’t be so elitist anymore because it’s her. I will give her credit for being honest about not passing up an opportunity to write for NY Mag, though. 

Next time some jackasswell-meaning soul tells me I need to get off my meds, I shall direct them to this: Lookit. I encourage all y’all with the same to do the same.

[Courtesy of Liz Spikol, the modern day patron saint of hopeless causes]

My downstairs neighbor once again went to get her colored and has once again asked me to help her “fix it.” Yes, there will be beer and food for my trouble, but one of these days, her hair is going to plum fall out of her head, and then I’m going to feel responsible. How it HASN’T happened yet, I’ve no clue.

But at least there will be beer. 

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.

In today’s news (written by my homie, Piet):

If you had a dream where

a) you lose three molars in the span of, like, five minutes;
b) you try to go out to dinner with your dad and a friend but y’all don’t end up eating after you tell your dad you’ll skip your final semester of college and work a ton of jobs to pay your half of the dentist bill if he’ll pay the other half;
c) you end up leaving your car to get fixed at a shop in a bad neighborhood;
d) after you somehow manage to snag a late appointment with your dentist, a verbal spar with two old ladies who cracked on your weight in the crowded dentist office results in a topless chick, and then the cops come;
e) your dentist, who’s cranky at having to work so late, says your lifestyle is the reason for your teeth loss and uses the two more molars you lost while waiting as examples (recognizing that he’s had a hard day, you end up asking him if he’d like you to schedule a second appointment to talk about solutions, to which he gratefully accepts);
f) you contemplate calling your parents for a ride home from the office because it’s dark out, but then you run into your downstairs neighbor, who’s got a date with another dentist in the practice, and you end up getting set up with semi-dorky other suitor hitting on her;
g) as the four of you are driving back to the restaurant at which you were going to eat in the first place, a number from the skeevy neighborhood where you left your car comes up on your phone;
h) when you answer it, the guy on the other end won’t identify himself, which freaks the shit out of you, but he ends up telling you your car and others in the area have been vandalized by guys seeking tranny sex; and
i) you end up mackin’ on the semi-dorky guy after he was nice to you, and when he whips out Magnums you ask him how he feels about per10d sex;

what would you suspect was going on?

Despite all the significant dream elements (losing teeth, nekkidness, not finishing school, Dad, etc.) it wasn’t a nightmare at all. But it might be proof that Poppy’s baked beans shouldn’t be eaten before sleepy time.

[EDITED TO ADD: Girlie, you were the friend in the dream.]

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.