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;There exists a certain alchemy betwixt my ears that, when splashed into a spinning pink centrifuge, would likely reveal elements of midshelf alcohol, a squawking rasp of unintentionally annoying vocal affectations, a shoe, a backup drink and just a smidge of noxious co-dependence. It would be enough, perhaps, to empirically ascertain that I am indeed a flighty fag.

;;"You know, my great-great-great-great step-uncles might or might not have been the Wright brothers," I exhaust some particularly toxic jet fuel in Alan's direction.


;"You told me," he seethes through his teeth.


;"AND, this may just be a rumor, but it's a tightly held one in my patriarchal lineage of possible Nazi descent, that my grandfather invented the little flappy things on the back of airplane tail fins."


;You see, what I'm doing here is actualizing the most tedious trend of my centrifugal breakdown; I'm talking over and around issues about which I have no knowledge or interest, all while hoping that such superfluous celestial ramblings will suck me into the center and make my presence in this situation somehow relevant. This situation, you ask? I am now the half-owner (by means of imaginary gay-marriage rights, mind) of an actual airplane.

;;Time to crash and burn.

;;Well, not yet. We've just pulled up to the Orlando Executive Airport, where Alan's ink is drying on the deed to the plane he purchased this morning, and I'm fidgeting with all the excitement of a hooker at a car show. In one of the Air Orlando hangars rests the means by which I will finally be lifted from this hot, spinning ball of Pop Rocks and carried to the clouds where I belong: a fancy, four-seat, brand-new Diamond something-or-other with a propeller on the front.


;"It looks like a small boat, but with wings!" I'm doing it again. I really shouldn't talk.


;A schlubby, khaki-but-cute man's man who seems to be familiar with Alan's checkbook approaches and starts to make car-sales small talk of the peculiarly heterosexual variety with my husband, who only seems peculiarly heterosexual. ("So you're divorced? Congratulations!" etc.). One parting of my lips will be a dead giveaway.

;;"This is Billy Manes of the Orlando Weekly," Alan introduces my hair. Uh, OK.

;;Said schlub phones in a favor to have somebody named Mike come down and take us on a joy ride – because, after all, we did just buy the plane. I'm starting to get nervous.

;;About 20 minutes of awkward chatter (plus me taking pictures of myself draped across a wing) later, Mike – who's likewise introduced to my hair by way of my profession – is here talking to me like I'm the rich journalist wife of a business magnate whom she is profiling … like, say, Maria Bartiromo.

;;"Where do you want to go?" he shimmer-smiles with two condescending blinks. "Disney?"

;;In my head I'm thinking, "No, I want to go to the Hamptons. Oh, and my name is Carolyn Bessette. I like coke and crashes!" But I'm not talking out loud anymore.


;I decide to phone up Taylor for some queer sanity while the transition from hangar to runway is underway – basically, two people pushing us out by our wings – and he is perfunctorily quick to soothe my nerves.


;"Ooooh, girrrrrl! I got me a portable DVD player so we can jam out to some of my videos while we're flying over the oceans! You know, rock da boat!" he straightens his hair while annoying baby noises coo in the background. "I'm your Aaliyah!"




;Anyway, after getting a giant headset and some instructions from Mike to hold the microphone as close as possible to my lips (har, har), we're rumbling down a confusing maze of short runway roads. I say confusing because they have those peculiar code names that metamorphose simple letters into stupid words for clearly masculine reasons.

;;"Take the plane to Bravo seven," Mike instructs Alan, who's clutching the stick control that shoots up between his legs. "Then we'll head over there to Foxtrot three."

;;"Hello?" I test out my microphone, pressing it seductively against my lips. "Can we please use Catherine Zeta-Jones?"

;;Nothing. They don't even understand gay.

;;I try to contort myself into Mary of Peter and Paul fame, humming "Leaving on a Jet Plane" as we take off, but it's no use as, for once, I can't even hear myself think. Within moments, we're high above Orlando, glancing down at the I-4 congestion and the city that surrounds it (which resembles a tray of unhealthy sandwiches that I would never eat at a party that I would never go to); it's quite remarkable, I must say, and even though I can't quite remember at what altitude I left my stomach, I am having a very nice time indeed.

;;Alan chimes in with something about the toxicity of Lake Apopka being a shame because "the fishing used to be so good there," while Mike grabs my camera and takes pictures of me looking out the window at Cinderella's Castle. What, do I look like a woman? Don't answer that.

;;"We need some new sunglasses, eh, Billy?" Alan actually engages me through my ear speakers. Bad idea. "Yes, Iceman," I bottom gun. "I have a need. A need for speed!"

;;Coming back in for a landing, we pick up the straight chatter of the aerospace regulars ("Is this your Friday? This is my Tuesday!" Fascinating), and Mike assures Alan that he is a regular stick-and-rudder man. If only he knew! Maybe he should; a correction is in ;order.

;;On the ground, I grab my cellular gay device and dial up Taylor for a full, squawking report. "Girrrrrl! It was fabulous!" I crow within obvious earshot. "Alan and I are the luckiest couple in the world!"


;There are gays on this plane. And I am indeed a flighty fag.

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