Wednesday, November 03, 2004

Aw, man, I gotta have a life now?

I was Sunburned for Liberty the week before the election at a Space Coast rally. I mean, that’s The Love. Nick the NASA Poobah scored my ticket as well as a prime place in line. Doors opened at 10:45; he reported to the front of the line at approximately four in the morning. ("THIS ADMINSTRATION FORCIBLY DRAGS THE AMERICAN PEOPLE OUT OF BED AND CONTRIBUTES TO SKIN CANCER!!!!")

“Where are you?” he said at 8:15.

“Um,” I said, looking around my apartment, which was an hour from the stadium. “Just about there!”

The line was an excellent opportunity to socialize, and also pick up and get picked up. I noticed one particularly comely conservative passing out Viva Bush! stickers and asked Nick, as my personal pimp, to survey his marital status.

“No ring,” he reported after a brief reconnisance.

Ex-cellent,” I said, ensuring that The Rack was sparkling in the early morning light. "Go fetch."
Let’s all give me a round of applause for my keen sense of Who's Who, as saw this guy again an hour later, when he gave me a big smile. Of course, as a state Senator he was onstage delivering a pep talk, and was beaming at our whole entire bleacher section, but it was clear to the world that he totally wanted me.

Nick missed the budding relationship between me and Senator Hotness, as he was at the concession stand. When he returned, his face was grim.

“What?” I said as he unwrapped a hotdog.

“Heinz ketchup at the snack bar,” he said.

You know, sometimes in life, you’re standing there, and Marine 1 choppers over the horizon about twenty yards from your head. This happened to me, and, okay, it. Was. Awesome. It landed directly on centerfield, "spraying," the AP made certain to point out, "dust over supporters standing on the grass." ("THIS ADMINISTRATION HAS NO REGARD FOR THE PROPER MAINTENANCE OF BASEPATHS!!!!")

W talked to us, and we all waved at each other some more, and then Buzz Aldrin got in on the waving, and at one point a small yellow plane buzzed past the stadium. Everybody in the crowd exchanged glances. The airspace... was kinda sorta restricted today. Hey buddy, after you land? Tell your new cellmate we said hello.

Then the F-16 roared by.

Then the small yellow plane made another pass.

Then the second F-16 roared by.

Now we’re all exchanging glances again. “Oh shit,” the glances said.

The President, it must be noted, continued talking very earnestly about the deficit. Nobody was looking at him anymore, including me and Jeb and Buzz Aldrin and all the Secret Service agents, which… yeah, that made EVERYBODY feel better. You could kind of understand it, though: Anthrax was clearly about to drop out of the sky over us all, which was, granted, not the most comfortable feeling in the world, but at least then we personally wouldn’t have to worry about the deficit. It seemed a fair exchange.

(Turns out the small plane was merely the vehicle of a local aged asshat [degree: mega-] who was flying from New York to Boca Raton. You think he’d check into whether or not the President of the United States was swing-stating in a large open space ten days before the election, but, you know, people get distracted in their rush to make the Early Bird Special at Golden Corral.)

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