"Bullets in Madison Schwings at Schuba's: Episode II

Missed Episode I? Go read it first. Done? Good. Continue, mes enfants.

I'm on a plane with Bullets in Madison, and I'm going to die.

Yeah, I know. I said that already. But here's the part where it actually happens. Beforehand, we were all going to die. Beforehand we were only on a plane ride to Chicago for the band's concert at Schuba's, and everything was hunky-dory. If boring. With Morton learning elementary Spanish, Sandberg retiring to the men's room every ten minutes for "him-time" and the saxophonist getting high on ventilated air, I had nothing else to do but write up analyses and reflections on Bullets in Madison's music and performances. And seriously, who wants to read that?

But now, things are different. The captain has made it clear he's nowhere within driving distance of being able to land the plane without slam-dunking it into Lake Michigan. The plane is spinning through the air like fabric softener in a dryer. And all of us are cursing ourselves for hooting at the airline stewardess to give lap dances instead of paying attention to her instructions about turning our seat cushions into flotation devices. Still, as the band has reminded me, the new album, We Became Your Family When You Died is available for free download, so at least their lives have meaning. I, meanwhile, have yet to visit my ailing father in a nursing home, pay the last ten years' worth of taxes, and watch the rest of my Eight is Enough DVD series, so clearly, I've got a lot weighing on my conscience.

But before I can come to some sort of emotional grip over my unfulfilled ambitions, the band goes totally China Syndrome. This is too good to pass up. As the plane continues to plummet towards the earth, I settle back, light a cigarette, and begin to take notes.

“Oh shit! We’re all going to die!” yells Losch.

“Agh! My hair!” shrieks Sandberg, grabbing his baby oil and diving for the lavatory.

“What did he just say?” asks the saxophonist, sticking a Q-tip up his nose.

“Guys…I have a confession.” Morton, ignoring the laws of physics and gravitational pull, struggles to unbuckle his seat belt. “I need you all to know this before we’re all dead. I’m—“

“Gay. We know.” Losch pats his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Sandberg, back from the bathroom, and the saxophonist are nodding. Morton looks pained. “No. No, that’s not it.”

“Sure, buddy. Whatever you say. You’re not gay.” Losch winks, taps his finger on his nose. Sandberg snickers.

“Look, I’m really not gay. Why would I lie about that now? No, it’s just that I've been taking rent money from our petty cash. It’s been eating away at me ever since. I just wanted to clear my conscience.”

“Riiiight.” Sandberg puffs his cheeks out. “Thief. You betcha.” He goes to pat Morton on the shoulder, but when Morton recoils, he yanks out a Hand-I-Wipe and hurriedly scrubs up.

“You’re such a tough, masculine spare change robbing type,” says Losch, flapping his wrists and simpering when Morton’s back is turned. Sandberg, cheered by how attention has been diverted from his bathroom shenanigans, takes special pains to laugh obnoxiously at Morton’s expense.

“It’s okay to be who you are,” says the saxophonist, desperately rummaging through his bag for more glue.

"It's not okay to steal from your friends!" Morton yells, getting exasperated.

"But it is okay to be homosexual," Losch reassures him. "We've known for years."

“Who keeps grabbing my butt?" Morton snaps, whirling around.

"Whoops. Sorry." I withdraw my offending limb. "I thought you'd be okay with it now."

"I'm not. Because I'm not gay."

“I am,” announces the saxophonist. “I think. Is it gay if you make out with guys?”

“Nah,” I reassure him. “Only if you like it.”

“Oh. I guess I’m straight, then.”

“I thought I was gay in grade school,” Sandberg announces. “Turns out I was just really into gymnastics.”

“I’m a robber!” shrieks Morton, stamping his foot. “I’m not—oh Jesus Christ, you idiots, I’m--”

“My dark secret is kleptomania,” says Sandberg. “I stole my dad’s insulin and sold it to school kids.”

“I ducked out of cab fare once,” says Losch. “After I knifed the driver.”

Here, they launch into a round of Last Confessions that would have done Stillwater proud.

“I knocked over an old lady once,” says Sandberg. “She had the seat on the bus behind the DVD player.”

“I used to club baby seals,” says the saxophonist. “After I robbed a bank.”

“I never learned to read!” shrieks Losch.

“I took some pictures of Brendan in the shower,” says Sandberg.

“I burned my ex-girlfriend’s summer home down,” says Losch.

“I voted Republican in 2000,” says the saxophonist, at which point we all stuff our shoes into our carry-on bags and proceed to beat him over the head with them. Which only seems fair. You know, because of that war thing.

This entire time, the plane has been spinning out of control faster and faster. Morton has given up trying to wipe his conscience clean and is leafing through a Spanish Bible. The other band members are composing themselves for the Big Adios. “This is it!” yells Sandberg, clutching his copy of Richard Dawkins (and Losch’s Swank) to his chest. “I’m ready to meet God! If there is a God! Which there isn’t!”

“Death can’t be as bad as this,” mutters Losch, tuning his guitar.

“Can I borrow fifty dollars?” the saxophonist mutters to me, nursing two black eyes.

“En caso de una emergencia su cojín de asiento puede ser usado como un dispositivo de emisión,” sings Morton, carefully putting on a crucifix necklace.

“Fuck you all,” says Sandberg.

Then, sudden stability. The plane stops spinning. Our stomachs settle.

The captain gets on the mike: “Woo. Sorry about that, folks. No more Scotch for breakfast for this guy. Anyway, we’ll be landing in about twenty minutes.”

A heavy, ponderous silence envelopes the cabin. There is an abundance of feet-shuffling. No one makes eye contact. Some clearing of throats. The saxophonist engages in some hurried snorting of Bausch & Lomb contact solution.

Then, several dark, brooding glances are thrown surreptitiously my way. I can see it passing through their minds right in front of me: This guy is a liability. He knows too much.

I visibly gulp. I square my shoulders. I make sure my notebook is safely stashed in my undershorts. “Look, we can agree to be adults about this,” I say, rubbing my hands together nervously. “I can keep it all confidential. Trust me.”

They all look at each other. Nods are exchanged silently. Knowing glances fly through the air.

“We’ll just have to trust each other,” says Sandberg, scheming to push me out the airplane window and throw Losch’s copy of Swank after me.

“Trust is important,” says Losch, scheming to dope me up, stick me in a car and run me over the Canal Street bridge at ninety-five miles an hour.

“Without trust, where are we in this crazy world,” agrees Morton, scheming to lock me in a room with the rest of his asshole band members and set the walls on fire. After borrowing some petty cash.

“How about that fifty dollars?” says the saxophonist, scheming to get high on fifty dollars’ worth of drugs.

Matters of life and death always bring out the best and worst of people. Unless you’re Bullets in Madison, in which case they only bring out the worst. No matter. Having seen what I’ve seen and heard what I’ve heard, I give myself about two days more to live before their bumbling efforts to bump me off finally hit paydirt. Still, don't let my fate rule your opinion. Their new album is totally worth checking out, provided you don’t have to spend any time alone with them.

So then, dear readers, until my moldering, violated corpse is discovered at the bottom of Lake Michigan by the proper authorities, I remain, as always, immeasurably jealous of anyone who doesn't have this shit job.

NEXT WEEK'S COLUMN: The band takes me fishing.