Mile-high clubbery ...

This weekend we celebrated FLY's one-year anniversary (or, as I called it ... baby's first birthday). Congrats to all of my favorite co-pilots, flight attendants, skydivers, air traffic controllers and passengers. Cheers!

Oxygen mask, please!

One of my favorite partners in party crime, Mr. Van Wylder, thought I needed to be grounded.

"KAC! It's time to stop FLYing and come back to Earth, where the real people live," he said just a few hours after stepping off the jet.



"Real people? You mean beer drinkers? Ergh!" That did sound like punishment.

I really didn't wanna leave the mile-high protection of Plastic Land, but I got my camo on, pulled on some boots (pedi protection!) and took off on the D.C. Dive Bar Tour: Destination - Chief Ike's Mambo Room.



As I cleaned off the old, crusty bar stool with one of my emergency Wet-Nap towelettes and ordered a drink, I really did feel as if I'd jumped outta 1st class sans parachute and landed right, smack-dab in a urine-soaked puke pit run by the devil.



Thank God for Napoleon -- within screaming distance of Chief Ikes. The bartenders there nursed us back to our reality (OK, well, me).



They people are really nice at Napoleon. They clean their basement - and stock it with champagne!



So unless you're big and strong like a Gold Cup Navy Seal parajumper (they drink beer, I've seen them do it), you might wanna skip that Ike-y icky Adams Morgan hub.



Apparently, it's where the anti-posh have landed.



Chief Ike's Mambo Room: Not for germophobes outta Purell, docs lacking latex, pilots sans O2 masks or plastic girls in Prada. And nothing like a pow pow!

New MySpace digs

OK, so I had this MySpace account that I didn't touch for a very long time.

But it has been updated and I am going through and approving friend requests now. (Sorry if you submitted one a year ago and didn't get approved til now ... 2006 was whack.)

The page is kind in-your-face, but is quickly becoming a fun little place. I plan to feature events and music from different DJs ... because now I support the arts through creative energy -- instead of dating musicians (that just doesn't seem to work out).

So, check it out ... right now, and see who's spinnin'!

• Kelly Ann Collins @ myspace.com

My 32MB Memory Schtick

OK. I remember being at FLY. But I don't remember this guy.

And I sure don't remember kissing anyone on the cheek while James took pix. I mean, if someone had asked me to identify the man in this picture before I'd seen this snapshot I woulda said, "I've never seen this man before in my life."

That, my friends, is the definition of what I like to call flash memory. Easily erased, hard to trace. Yep, the only difference between me and Fujifilm's blogger-friendly Z5fd is that you can permanently erase incriminating pix from the Z5fd by pressing a little button ... however, for me, it takes a couple of digicam flashes and a stiff Red Bull-Grey Goose to zap my memory card, but the pics remain ... and sometimes they pop up in the strangest cybergalactic spots.

You know, I always thought it was kinda odd, but maybe that's why so many club culture clubbers go MIB and wear their sunglasses at night.