Is that… Sarah Palin and a polar bear? God bless America.

It sounded too fun to miss.

Based on the description and video, we were expecting performers with prepared routines and costumes. But that is not what we found. Apparently, when they did this event last year, they had fifteen preregisters competitors. But this year, they had zero.

So unfolded one of the more uncomfortable forty-five minute periods in the history of communal experiences. There were about two hundred of us standing around wondering if the show would even happen while the bearded MC dude begged people to sign up with increasingly desperate rhetoric.

I was having one of those cartoon internal dialogues, but instead of an angel and a devil, I had the two facets of my personality: Moderate and Awesome.

Moderate: “Huh, I hope some people sign up.”
Awesome: “Dude. We have to do this.”
Moderate: “We’re not prepared!”
Awesome: “Look around. Nobody else is either.”
Moderate: “But what about all these people? What will they think?”
Awesome: “What do you think I think they’ll think? ‘Awesome!’ If we do this, we will be legen-Barney-Stinson-dary. And we don’t get this kind of awesome-tunity every day. If we don’t do it…”
Moderate: “We might regret it forever! That’s not very moderate. So really, doing an air sex performance is…”
In unison: “Optimal!”

While this was going on internally, I was browsing through my iPod for inspiration on good air sex songs. This gave me cover when people asked me if I was going to sign up: “well, I’m looking for a song.” I wanted something clever and maybe subversive. I scrolled past Blink-182 and thought, heh, “All The Small Things.” I scrolled past Bloodhound Gang’s “The Bad Touch” (“you and me baby ain’t nothin’ but mammals”) and thought, “too obvious.”

Then I scrolled to OK Go.

A bit of background: TKOG introduced me to OK Go, before the treadmill video, because, although she claims not to be into music at all, she somehow knows lots of cool bands. And there’s this quote that we always laughed about: someone asked the bassist, “You think people are going to have sex to this album?” and he replied, “I fuckin’ hope so.”

Suddenly I knew. It had to be “A Million Ways.” The vocals are perfect. The bass line is perfect. The beats per minute is perfect. It would be “OK Go in the backyard, fucking.”

(Comment fodder: What song would you pick for an air sex performance?)

But I wasn’t going to just dive into it. They way I see it, the fundamental challenge with air sex is that sex is normally a back-and-forth, but unless you’re doing a group act, you’re not going to get anything to play off of. So I would need a game plan. I started thinking about different acts I could pantomime and what parts of the song would fit them. Pretty soon I was jotting down a screenplay on my smartphone, cutting and pasting lines of text to get the order right. Once I saw I was actually going to be able to put something together, that’s when I signed up.

Perfect is the enemy of good, but it is the ally of awesome.

The bearded MC kicked off the performances. His routine was pretty funny: increasingly exaggerated and physically implausible masturbation motions; pantomiming having trouble opening the condom wrapper. Then came the first contestant, and it was announced that I was up second. Second! “Actually, that’s good,” I thought, “I’d rather go early before the bar gets set too high.” I was getting really nervous and trying to mentally rehearse my routine, but from what I saw, the first contestant was amazing. He was tall and well-built, totally charismatic, and he really explored the space of the stage. He was spinning his invisible partner all around and hitting it from crazy angles. At one point tossed her way up in the air, checked his watch, judged the landing like an outfielder, and caught her on his pelvis. The judges teased him but they loved it. Crap. Why couldn’t I have gone first?!

My heart was pounding, but with the crazy lights, I couldn’t see the audience very well, which helped me focus internally. Then the opening guitar chords lanced through the room, the bass started pounding, and I started my routine.

Oh yes, my routine. Here is, verbatim, the choreography I had typed on my phone:

Intro:
Standing still
Bite neck
Kiss

1st verse:
Her going down on me
Makeouts, taking off shirt, watch, glasses

1st chorus:
Face away from crowd on my knees, cunnilingus
Pull her down
Fall to floor

2nd verse:
Feeling her up on floor
Putting on condom

2nd chorus:
Thrusting to 1000000 cruel

Bridge:
Going down on her

3rd chorus:
Her Legs up, thrusting

Outtro: doggy style, collapse

The idea was to go nuts during the choruses, timing the motions to the catchy “one zero zero zero zero zero cruel” backup vocals. I started with some makeouts and feel-ups. Then I undid my belt buckle and had her going down on me in time for the first words of the song: “Sit back.” (Optimal!) In the first chorus, when I gave her oral on my knees, I faced away from the crowd, so my face wouldn’t be waggling against nothing, and so it’d be different than the bridge. The condom went on without a hitch in the second verse, and then, you know it, “one! zero! zero! zero! zero! zero! zero! cruuuelll…”

I basically stuck to my script. But you don’t have to take my word for it. One of the girls I’d just met took some pictures and video. That’s right, THERE IS VIDEO. You all will totally vote for me if I run for office in thirty years, right?

The last note of the song, I collapse on the floor with my head practically hanging over the edge of the stage. The crowd goes wild. I’m legitimately panting. I see the MC coming with the mic. I start to try to pick myself up, but he says, “no, no, it’s cool, man, just stay there,” and plops down on his stomach and elbows alongside me for some post-game analysis.

Then the best part was the commentary from the judges.

Female Judge: “I want to congratulate you. Of all the acts I’ve seen, you were definitely the most task oriented. Other people do acrobatics and stuff, it’s very fantastical, but you just got down to business and gave us some really focused floor-humping.”

Guys, she called me “task oriented.” You know what? I’ll take it. I’ll take it to the bank.

Male Judge: “I just want to check with you about something. At the beginning when you were making out, it looked like you took a big bite out of her cheek?”
Me: “Well, you know, I was thinking, Twilight, vampires are in this year…”
Male Judge: “So then you got on your knees and started going down on her, you started playing with her breasts, that was fine. But then right before you moved from that, it looked like your fingers sorta went for her ass. And I just wanted to say, you know, if you’re going to go into that area, really take your time, give it the attention it deserves.”

I came down from the stage to a sea of adoration. People in the crowd were excited to recognize me! Women I’d never met were telling me I performed really well.

Moderate: “Wow, remember when I thought we’d be embarrassed in front of all of these people?”
Awesome: “Quiet, we’re too busy being me!”

The next day, I was giddy. I kept wanting to call Air, but I knew I should play it cool. Also my abs were a little sore.

The Verdict:
1. Busting out of your shell is awesome. Being fearless is awesome. Being the star is awesome. I wonder if this is what feels like to be Muscles every day.
2. Meticulous planning for the win.
3. Sex is fun. I mean, obviously, but laughing about sex is great. Maybe it’s all the Dan Savage podcasts I’ve been listening to lately, but I’m feeling really sex-positive right now, and it’s wonderful.

You guys, not to brag? But every once in a while I write something I think is pretty okay. And this. Is one of those stories.

Said story also: 1) contains rimjob jokes and non-graphic depictions of me accidentally peeing on myself, so get yo’ maidenly swoony-face on; 2) is being very graciously hosted by The Naked Redhead, who cares not about my blue humor. Sweet.

Go there RIGHT NOW to read my take on Lady Firsts, preggo tests, and the single greatest diet known to womankind. Pay no attention to any words after that link. (Mama’s got a blog quota to fill.)

NTKOG #149: The kind of anachronistic extrovert who holds up her best lorngette to peer into the bottom of an authentic Martinez during a nineteenth century pub crawl.

I am: more of a ’20s girl, to be honest.

I am not: super psyched to get appropriately tipsy with a bunch of strangers, spats or no spats.

The Scene:

Yup. This seems like totally appropriate Saturday-night attire.

The Verdict: Dudes. What could be better than awkwardly mingling with a group of total strangers, telling the same old stories in newly disingenuous ways, so desperate to win people over that you don’t take half a breath to even consider whether they’re worth being won?

Oh, wait. Lots of things? You don’t say.

Screw pub crawls. Anglophile and I ended up cutting out after a few hours to spend a lovely girly night eating pizza and watching Fight Club. Despite the lack of artisan-crafted classic cocktails, it was way more my scene.

I’ve been after Muscles to write a guest post for me ever since the beginning of this blog — I mean, come on, dude’s like the Warren Buffett of cool — but there was a little problem: there’s nothing Muscles is afraid to do. He’s totally That Guy. You know, the one who can somehow be a Shakespearean actor and public Warhammer aficionado and not get razzed once about it. Probably because dude could punch out a bear. It took some doing, but he finally found an activity squarely outside his comfort zone…

NTKOMuscles: The kind of guy who convinces himself that failing to learn swing will be so much less mortifying than failing to learn tango was.

I am: willing to lunge around naked in a 40-minute play with no words, no music, and no embarrassment.

I am not: able to make my feet jump and jive on command.

The Scene: A church basement in New England College Town where Justice had “convinced” me to go and take a quick, painless swing dancing lesson with her and her friends Karma and – I’m not as good with the pseudonyms as TKOG – Really Good Dancer Friend.  I was wary of the venue, since the only thing I can imagine being more awkward than trying to learn something physically challenging in a group is doing so under the eye of a judgmental deity.

Dancing is sexy if you do it right, you know?  At least, that’s the way they make it look on “Strictly Come Dancing,” which is Britain’s version of “Dancing with the Stars.”  I would like to be able to dance well enough with Justice to inspire everyone around to race off and make passionate love.  I don’t think that’s asking too much.

The preamble to this story is that about a year ago, Justice innocently suggested we try tango lessons.  We could get four beginner lessons for free at her graduate student community center so I readily assented, not having participated in partner dancing since mandatory middle school square dancing in PE.  After three lessons I was singled out for “special attention” during the fourth lesson and promptly bolted from the room, extricating Justice, but leaving my dignity behind.

I was trepidatious about dancing again, but RGDF invited us to try swing, and we were trying to help Karma scope out potential dateables; I was also promised a drink after the proceedings.  Thus I was convinced, and the old adage rings true: “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice and you must be my girlfriend.”

If you’ve ever been to one of these gatherings, then you’ll know that there’s no point bringing a date, since you’re instantly separated as everyone charmingly changes partners for each song.  Dance instructors have decided that everyone must learn just enough during one exchange so that on the next song you can forget it all while trying to cope with your new partner’s lack of rhythm/body odor/hairy growth/hungry stare.  Being forced to change partners while learning a dance is like speed dating while learning how to talk.  How anyone manages to learn anything more than “so I think my right leg goes here.  No, not your right, my right and your left,” is beyond me.

Once the lesson was over, the experts showed up and the male beginners were shooed off the dance floor.  It turns out that girls can look like pros with no experience, but boys need years of training to lead.  Luckily, all the experts were skeezy old men in Hawaiian shirts and fedoras, so none of us young bucks felt threatened … at all.

I did get that drink I was promised, but I think it should probably have come before the dancing, rather than afterwards, along with two or three more.

The Verdict: Can I say dancing is for me?  No.  Can I say I’ll do it again?  Well, if I were single, there’s no way in Satan’s underpants I would try dancing again.  However, on a sunny day a few weeks after the dance lesson, Justice and I ended up on a grassy hill overlooking New England College Town, and we busted out a few steps of the swing and, just for kicks, the tango.  It was momentary, it was fleeting, but it was beautiful.  Why do men do anything?  Yes, I’ll go dancing again because I can share it with someone I love.

TKOG Mom. She’s basically the best. After her AMAZING last guest post, I’ve begged her for months to write me another. And here it is, folks!

This column is dedicated to Sister, who should read no further.

Our family marries young. We don’t like dating. Why go out with countless people when one will do. We are not a total nerd family, but hinge on the fringe of nerd-dom, or, as I like to think of it: sensibility.  TKOG’s grandmothers married at 19 and 20 and I married at 23. TKOG’s birth certificate father was only 21 when he tied the knot with me in jolly old Britain over 36 years ago. We are married still and rather happily at that.

However, we are still mobile enough to enjoy the Las Vegas social scene.  Oh, not TAO or BODY ENGLISH or whatever ridiculous nightclub is the club du noir, but we attend events and shows with like minded people and, well, party.  While watching my favorite cable channel “Lifetime,” I began to notice advertisements for “Plan B” a contraceptive pill that could be taken up to 72 hours after sexual intercourse. I asked TKOG about it and she told me that “Plan B” was many young women’s Plan A, but once they discovered the cost they simply let nature take its course. Why would anyone take a chance like that and be be so unprepared for the inevitable: sex (x-e-s if Sister is still with us)? This could be a quarter of a million dollar 15 minute mistake.

TKOG Mom out partying with one of the many candidates for TKOG's actual father.

Wild partying as a single in college (and never in high school) was not something that I particularly enjoyed as it never took much alcohol to get me looped. Still, I did drink and once drunk became very interested in the opposite sex. One night stands even in the late 60s and early 70s were frowned upon for “college girls like me” and I held my ground. It was tempting when the guy was really good looking and out of my league, but I refrained with regrets. Oh, and I had a steady boyfriend.

Once I decided that boyfriend, alcohol and potential sex might be a good combination I sought out various protection in the form of foams and pills. I devised a Plan A based on research in Cosmopolitan magazine and Jacqueline Susann novels. As an 18 year old at the most Prestigious Southern California Public University I  found Planned Parenthood in the student handbook.  I was the first on my dorm floor to actually find it tucked away in a tiny office on the renown campus medical center. I can still see the disapproving face of the nurse in her pointed white cap  when I asked for birth control pills. (Historians note: 1968 was the first year this PSCPU allowed men in the women’s dorm rooms for a few hours every week, although some were rumored to sneak in via the fire escape and spend the night.)

I had a Plan A. There was no Plan B except back alley abortions. Roe v. Wade was still a dream and women and men reluctantly married if they conceived a child. Single parenthood was not an issue because “nice girls” just did not have babies.  Many of my friends married without “testing the merchandise” and many divorced when they discovered they were sexually incompatible or that their husbands were gay. No one was homosexual in those days except for “The Boys In The Band” — not even the gorgeous Rock Hudson.

So, dear readers, if you are in a partying mood remember to be prepared.  Plan B is never your Plan A. Sex is a silly exchange of bodily fluids and rumored to be fun. Condoms are available everywhere and should be in your purses and wallets (and hopefully not the same one from middle school). Let us all remember the scene in the film Must Love Dogs (2005) where Diane Lane and John Cusack drive around for hours trying to buy a condom without success and thus ruin what would have been an amazing hook-up.

So Sister if you are still reading (which I sincerely doubt), truly you were immaculately conceived. Happily I no longerrequire any of these methods as I am post menopausal (Plan C), but one must admit that the K-Y Yours and Mine jelly advertised on “Lifetime” certainly does look interesting. Perhaps it is a good thing to carry in one’s purse along with adequate condoms for oneself and to pass out to friends and family. Remember be prepared and have a Plan A, and if you do flub up, shell out the cash and buy Plan B. It’s worth it; you’re worth it.

—

You can probably imagine dinnertime discussions at TKOG’s childhood home. For more TMI glory, check out the Liv It, Luv It archives!

Loves, I’m so excited to post this brilliant guest post by Gay Chemist that I don’t want to steal your attention with a fancy introduction. I’ve been Gay Chemist’s fruitfly since high school; he’s funnier, sexier and smarter than any five people you can imagine. Put together. He’s also a kickass writer, when he’s not juggling coffee mugs full of Benzene.

(Also, still missing me, guys? Feel free to get a dose of TKOG from my SSoLA list of things everyone in the world apparently adores that totally nauseate me.)

NKOTG (where G = gay): The kind of gay guy who, for one night, trades in his lab coat and social awkwardness for a skirt, stockings, and a pair of sensible heels.

I am: exceedingly lazy in terms of my own fashion. I have barely enough social graces to not buy 10 sets of the same clothing a la many a cartoon character.

I am not: going to shave my legs for anyone or anything.

The Scene: A party one Saturday two towns over night hosted by friends of some friends I have — a gay couple, higher-ups in one of the bigger companies in town. I am told by my friends that their parties are simultaneously fabulous and totally relaxed, and I accept the invitation with enthusiasm.

But there’s a twist. It’s a theme party, which immediately made me roll my eyes. As Kathy Griffin put it best, I don’t want to have to work to go to a party, I just want to, like, eat chips and dip.

The theme: “dress as an emotion.”

Okay. Despite my predilection for staying at home on Saturday nights, I was definitely up for attending what I was hoping to be a real trainwreck of a gay costume party. That it was being hosted by social butterflies two towns over meant that I could safely participate in said trainwreck without having to deal with the aftermath of socially inept scientists constantly bringing up my sporadic attempts at homo-fabulous faux pas. For once, I could do something really outrageous and get away with it.

I wracked my brain the week prior trying to come up with a suitable costume idea. After discussing it with my friends, I finally decided on the following: high heels, fishnet stockings, a cute short skirt, and a football jersey with eyeblack.

The emotion: Confused. Who doesn’t love some good gender-bending humor every now and then? (besides transgendered people and overly sensitive liberal types. Apologies to the former; the latter can go fuck themselves.)

Now, as I don’t have the luxury of having a year’s worth of blog’s posts to describe my personality and why this is significantly different from my usual antics, I’ll quickly bring you up to speed: I’m a grad student in science and I’m a total workaholic. I don’t even go to parties, much less go to parties in drag. I’m also gay, which just adds to the absurd realities of my life. So going to a mostly gay party in drag, for me, amounted to taking a huge step forward in reclaiming my social life in the most obnoxiously flagrant way possible. Six inches forward and five inches back. If you will.

I don’t own any women’s clothes, so I had to go buy some. With the assistance of one of my fabulous friends and some very confused, but helpful, associates at Payless Shoe Source, I picked out some chunky-heeled shoes, a MUST for any cross-dressing neophyte planning on drinking heavily. I also picked out a cute black and white polka dot skirt and (the coup de grace) a pair of fishnet stockings.

Check those lethal legs. How jealous are you?

I thought I looked ridiculous. Ridiculously HOT. I was set. I drive Two Towns Over to my friend’s house and we walk to the party. The party was at the end of January, there was still snow and ice on the ground, but somehow, I managed to make it there without falling despite my costume. Excellent planning, me. When we got to the party, we had to wear nametags that said what our emotions were.

You guys. I was the most OVERDRESSED person there. The friends I went with, another gay couple, went as “codependent” and wore t-shirts with pics of each other on them, which was cute. Most everyone else’s was just lame- like one guy wore a periodic t-shirt and was “periodic.” Like, seriously? He wasn’t even a chemist. I was sorely disappointed. Even the gaggle of cougar lesbians there didn’t dress up- they went as “on the prowl!” and “Sassy!” and other things they were the night before.

Actually, the cougar lesbians LOVED me. They were insanely jealous of my legs, which I was not expecting at all. After receiving platitudes from the cougar’s den, I felt a lot more comfortable and opened up to a lot of people. My seriously hot legs became a conversation piece. Plus, most everyone else said I had the best costume of the night, but when some of the cuter guys there said that, I immediately translated it as “You seem nice but I’m not going home with you. If I undress you with my eyes I’m afraid I’ll find, like, a vagina or something equally hideous.”

The Verdict: I did end up going home with a hot guy that night. So there. Plus, thanks to some sassy lesbian forty-somethings, I got to learn something about myself: I have hot-ass legs. So if this whole science thing doesn’t work out, at least I have some other career options. Should I get invited to a party there again, I don’t plan on going in drag again- I’d hate to be a one-trick party, but if I am expected to be ridiculous again, they can certainly count on me.

Today’s guest post is written by the lovely Brain Doc, who is not only a mean bowler, but probably the coolest chick I ever met in high school. She is also — fun fact! — the reader of my FIRST-EVER TMI THURSDAY, back when I was fifteen and programmed an eyelash-curlingly TMI tale on my TI-83 and forced her to read it while she tried to pay attention to chemistry class. And now she does brilliant, brainy research on the human brain while I’m … still writing TMI tales and forcing people to read them. Huh, funny how that turns out. Stay in school, kids.

Anyway, take it away, Brain Doc!

NTKOGuest Post: The kind of girl who pretends the internet doesn’t exist.

I am: an owner of a smart phone, and am thus unequivocally attached to the internet. I tweet, I text, I waste time browsing for nothing.

I am not: sure the last time I used a book to look up a fact (actually, it was last week, but it was a digital copy!).

The Scene: My abandoned phone and laptop computer. Sigh.

I share a car with my Fiancé, so, unless I drive him to work, I’m usually homebound on the weekends, which gives me time to catch up on work I neglected the previous week. At first, I had thought to go to my school library and work there the whole weekend, but decided that would be the easy way out. So I faced this challenge head on, at home. No internet or texting from midnight Friday to midnight Sunday.

I actually managed not to use my computer the entire first day. It sat unopened on the coffee table, staring at me, wondering why I had abandoned it. The only consolation I had was that it would soon be Monday and I could take full advantage of it once again. I had some reading material printed out and I managed to breeze through the articles in record time. But once that ran out? I was stuck playing “Toe or Finger” with the cat (who was only willing to play for one toe before getting all bitey and stabby).

Ultimately, I ended up grabbing a book from Christmas that I’d been meaning to read. And I watched a shit-ton more tv than I normally do. Incidentally, did you know CNN is a lot more annoying to watch than it is to read online? Or that Melissa Joan Hart and Joey Lawrence made a movie together about being fake-engaged? Or that Tia and Tamara Mowry are still making twinsies movies? Or that MTV has a show about annoying pregnant teenagers? ZOMG TV!

I also only used my phone to make phone calls! There were text messages, but I did not respond to them by texting; I actually called people (I should, like, get double points for this because I hate talking on the phone)! It was so hard not to text or tweet, though! It started raining and my first thought was, “I need to tell Fiancé!” (we live the desert, dudes; rain is a big deal), except I couldn’t text him, nor could I call him because he was at work.

The weekend did have moments where it really tested me, though. Like when I randomly came across a show about dinosaur sex. DINOSAUR SEX. And then when I randomly came across the dinosaur sex show AGAIN and they were talking about whether or not dinosaurs experienced orgasms and pleasure (btw, they decided it didn’t really matter, because they kept mating anyway). Or when there was a kitty showdown in my kitchen because some random cat decided to try to infiltrate through the doggy door and my cat got super territorial and they had a kitty-slap-fight through the flap. Or when the US totally came back with less than 30 seconds to go in the hockey game. Or when a research assistant in my lab texted me to ask if it would be inappropriate to choose an article about daily vaginal swabs for a group discussion.

The hardest part of the weekend, though, was when I actually had to use my computer to get some work done for class. It is extremely difficult to be ON a computer and not be on the internet. Not being able to go online made it really difficult for me to concentrate while working on my computer. I normally give myself little “treats” for doing random things. (Oh, you finished a paragraph sentence in that really boring article? Go see if anything new has popped up in your Google Reader!) But since I couldn’t go on the internet, I turned to tv. The thing with tv, though, is that you can’t just watch five minutes of a show and go back to work; you have to watch the whole episode, because then how will you know if Joe ever gets rid of that girl who is staging photo ops with him to make it look like they’re dating so she can boost her own (horrible) acting career?

The Verdict: It’s not quite so hard going cold-turkey off the internet if you’re not actually on a computer; but if you’re using a computer and trying not to be on the internet? You’ll watch the Jonas Brothers on the Disney Channel just to make the pain go away.

NTKOG #126: The kind of steely-nerved oversharer who opens the vault and tells THE STORY. You know, the one that makes her shake and blanch, the one that was not intended for other ears.

I am: prone to writing y’all lengthy passages of prose-poetry about mucous bubbles and the teeth of institutionalized poverty — what to TKOG could be untellable?

I am not: sure you’ll still like me afterwards.

The Scene: Rebel Mel’s lovely blog a little lady’s thug life! That’s right, I’m excited to be able to host my story over there, because I’m a stickler for my fairly rigid entry criteria. Doesn’t leave me much room to dig into my vast and storied vault.

In re: this story, all I can say is: you know how sometimes friends get together and swap stories? Casually at first, then — as the competition mounts — with ruthless intensity, digging through every scrap of their experience and observations, drawing on the tales of friends and distant loved ones, locked in a ferocious, blood-thirsty match to be recognized as the alpha humor at the table?

When a girl and I are talking about bad hook-ups, this is the one story I will never repeat. Not even if it costs me the win.

So click here to read about The Least Hygienic Hook-Up Ever (and how it made me momentarily internet-famous).

The Verdict: Ugh, not sure it feels better to have that off my chest. Just don’t hate me, loves, and happy TMI Thursday!

Also, not to be totally sad? But take a look to the Google Friend Connect box on my left sidebar. Notice it’s not looking particularly … robust? If Google Friend Connect is the sort of think you’re occasionally obliged to participate in, and if you’re signed into google already, perhaps you wouldn’t mind joining up? The combination of seeing the number 13 and feeling friendless is totally giving me PTSD middle-school cafeteria flashbacks to being the chubby braces girl knocking back Orange Drink while the skinny-bitches-in-training sipped Diet Cokes and judged judged judged.

Not for me, possums. I’m a few loads of laundry and a rereading of The Great Gatsby away from being pretty okay with things. But my bloggy friend Mel of a little lady’s thug life is at a crossroads with her father and — despite seeming like a dude who would punch you in the dang face if you ever offered her unsolicited advice — really needs some feedback. I know how fraught parental relationships can be, and thought if you had a minute to spare to weigh in on her situation or just offer a little love, it would be a really wonderful thing to do.

Check out her post here.

To give you time to read her post, the shortest NTKOG ever:

NTKOG #115: The kind of Ingalls-lite who bakes crackers. Crackers. Honestly. Isn’t that like the simplest atomic guise of bread? I just assumed they were formed in nature.

The Scene:

The Verdict:

[Edit: for those of you who want to try it, this is Mark Bittman's recipe for parmesan-cream crackers -- which I, naturally, slathered with garlic. Thanks to Leigh at Full Gastronomic Tilt for passing on the recipe a few weeks ago! And apologies that I was too deliriously tired to give credit where credit was due in the first place!]

I am honored today to present a guest post by the inimitable Sarah Von of yes and yes. If you don’t already read her site, you absolutely must check it out: she’s one of those gutsy, inspiring total badasses who we all dream of being, and every time I read a post, I leave absolutely grinning (even on these blah rainy New England days). Check out Sarah’s NTKOG experiment in my hometown — it’ll leave you shooting your beverage (not rancid fruity vodka, I hope) out your nose.

Also, if you’re craving a little TKOG, today I’m posting at Secret Society of List Addicts (another of Sarah’s projects!) about how to put down the wine spritzer and shake up cocktails like a big boy or girl.

—

NTKOG: who enjoys a) fruit flavored liquor b) attracting the attention of everyone in the bar

I am: the girl who frequents tiny, hole-in-the-wall bars where I can be ignored while I nurse my vodka gimlet, thankyouverymuch.

I am not: a fan of theme bars, sports bars, watching alcohol-related spectacles or being a spectacle myself.

The Scene: The BFF and I were in Las Vegas, escaping the icy clutches of winter for a three-day weekend, eating our weight in buffets and attending ridiculous, vampire-themed Vegas shows.  We had grand plans to meet up with an old friend from our hometown who’d been living in Vegas for nearly ten years. “Where would you like to meet, old friend?  What sort of awesome, locals-only watering hole would you suggest?”  “Why, how about this quaint little place called Kahunaville?” he responded.

Now, it is not a stretch to say that Kahunaville?  It was probably my arch-nemesis bar.  I could not have created, from scratch, a bar that appalled me more.  It was as though someone had reached into my brain and read my list of Things That I Never, Ever Want to See in a Bar.  Things like:
1) Flat screen TVs broadcasting a football game
2) Waitresses wearing skimpy Hawaiian outfits, handing out flower necklaces, asking if you want to get ‘lei-d’
3) Incredibly loud techno music
4) Drinks that stream/explode/are served with fifteen toys/flowers/straws in them.

Yes, I am actually 65 years old on the inside, in case you were wondering.  If you want me, I’ll just be over here muttering about those damn kids having too much fun with their skinny jeans and flavored beers.

While we waited for our friend to join us, the BFF  and I tried to yell a conversation at each other over the sounds of Akon and she picked an umbrella, two test tubes, a fake starfish and a skewer of fruit out of her drink.  But then?  Things got interesting.

In an attempt to make Kahunaville even more entertaining, apparently the management employs trick bartenders.  And apparently the half-time of the football game was performance time.  Just as we were settling into our $15 cocktails, an announcer came striding through the bar, with a microphone instructing us to “Get the F*ck up!  I want to hear you scream!”

With that statement sir,  you have now just guaranteed that I will sit here silently glaring.

As we watched, each of the bartenders on the three sides of the bar put a whistle in their mouths and began one of those Cocktail-caliber drink mixing routines.  Juggling mixers!  Catching the mixer on top of the vodka bottle!  Throwing cherries into the air and catching them on toothpick in their mouths!  All of this was accompanied by a promotional video about each other bartenders tauting their wins at various ‘flair competitions’ and previous occupations (Our guy was a former Chip n Dale’s dancer)

To be totally honest, it was pretty impressive, but once the announcer encouraged us stand on the tables and scream for free shots, I decided to clap sedately in my seat.  Because I’m an a-hole like that.

But as luck would have it, our side of the bar apparently won the hollering contest because, before you could say “pink favored vodka,” Steve “Big Show” Shrearer was standing on the bar handing out shots.  By this time, I had approached the bar out of pure curiosity.  I backed away from the bar as the free shots were coming around and was internally grateful when he ran out.

But as I turned around to head back to the table, the BFF shook her head at me, grinning and pointing back at the bar.  I spun around, with what I’m sure was a look of total horror on my face to see Mr. Big Show, astride the bar.  He was staring me down and doing his best former-stripper finger-curling, come-hither gesture, and pointing at his mix bottle and then at me.

I would be lying if I did not say that I wanted to immediately turn on my heal, walk to the bathroom and hide out there for the next twenty minutes.  But I honestly channeled a bit of our girl NTKOG and thought “Von Bargen, you get outside your comfort zone.  You go up there and let that man pour fruit flavored alcohol down your throat while everyone cheers.”

So I did.  I stood next to the bar while a man nicknamed ‘Big Show’ stood five feet above me and poured pink alcohol down my gullet. All the people standing on their tables whooped, I successfully avoided coughing, choking or melting into the floor with embarrassment.  Then I walked back to our table, licked off that tiny umbrella and drank two test tubes full of vodka.

The Verdict: I didn’t die – of embarrassment or alcohol poisoning. I’m glad I bucked up and tried something new, but at the end of the day, I’m just more of a corner-booth, nurse-my-whiskey Kind of Girl.  I think this is a situation where what happens in Vegas, truly stays in Vegas.  Unless you write about it on the internet, I guess.