This years Homie Fall Fest, like those of the past, was predicated on the following concepts: homebrewed beer, good old-fashioned Minneapulnuts river bottom dingle-track, and painful derbying goodness. Having begun the day getting shot in the face playing paintball with a whole other group of naer-do-wells, I felt I might be at a disadvantage launching myself at the wet earth of the Mississippi river bottoms. My moderate but consistent intake of both beer and cigarettes should, theoretically, limit me to one physical activity per day, but I figured at 33 that I still have some reserves in me for a long day. In retrospect, I didnt. It was nearly 1:30 when BRose and I pulled up in Old Blue and began our metamorphosis from muddy paintballers, to potentially muddy singlespeeders.