Lookit.

Guess it’s a good thing I work in a crap-paying industry, or I’d REALLY be pissed about the money I’m getting screwed out of.

So lately I’ve been trying to determine which presidential candidate was responsible for the whole “I want to be able to have a beer with the common man” shtick. Was it Shrub? Clinton? As far back as Reagan (for me, anyway; I was only 10 when he took over)? Further than that? Whoever it was, he deserves a swift punch in the throat. If I wanted my leader to be so accessible that he or she would join me at G-Town for a couple beers, I’d run as a write-in, ferchrissake. I mean, I don’t know about y’all, but there isn’t one person with whom I have drunk beer in the last 20 years that I would want running this country, so how did that even become a consideration?

(And yes, I DID read the Salon-Paglia opus on Palin. To that I say unequivocally: Any woman who posits that rape is a biological male imperative does not and WILL NOT represent me EVER.)

Aaaaaaand ... let’s stop talking about this.

Instead, let’s talk about why I’m wide awake: For the first time in I don’t know how long, Poppy and I took the Peapod for a bike ride this evening. I KNOW, but it’s not like the 80-some collective pounds we gots to lose prior to our 20th in October ain’t gonna melt off by themselves. (Heh) Yep, Pop has agreed to go. She’s much more zen about it than I am—I’ve been going back and forth between, “Yeah, whatever,” and “Wow, do you think maybe they’ll think I’m cool now? Do you? Do you?” much to Poppy’s delight since she’s been making fun of me about it ever since I turned in my check. I’m annoyed, though, that the ensemble I planned to wear has already been seen by another classmate, but how was I supposed to know a former classmate was going to show up at the Bang-Bang grand opening, which was super-fantastic as only Ann and Ben can make it? I suppose it didn’t help that, upon walking in and seeing her chatting with Ben, I had to go up and hug him, as if she gives a shit that he and I are tight. Probably could’ve gotten around it unseen. Crap.

As always, I compared this version to my original, and something seems off in the editing, but I can’t put my finger on what, exactly.

Anyway, Mr. Nader was lovely to talk to and extremely gracious to me and everyone who interrupted us. And, believe it or not, there was only one woman who heckled him (and walked away before he could get in a word—to which he replied, “See the political bigotry? They don’t even want to discuss it. It’s a uniquely American phenomenon.") The rest were either fans or starfuckers, but whatever the case, it was a good interview, and love him or hate him, you have to give give him props for being a true believer.

who *I* just interviewed. Steph’s going to send me a pic, so I’ll post it, good or bad.

In the meantime, I found this really funny:

Would somebody like to explain to me how it is that, barring external factors like absence, if a man and a woman of the same intelligence level take the exact same classes in college; or take the exact same training program for their companies, the WOMAN is the one who needs “more training?” And if the problem is “Well, the women have FAMILIES to raise, so they can’t be there for all the classes,” wouldn’t the more effective (read: fair) solution be “provide better affordable child/elder care so women can complete the tasks with which they are given?” Just curious.

And I wish I could take credit for this question, but I shall post it here in case, by some twist of fate, someone with any means to get it to the proper channels sees it:

Still here; STILL without cable/neenernet. Hope to regale y’all with all my complaints later this eve.

It’s now, oh, midnight-ish up here in Chez Broad, and I’ve been following with morbid fascination two posts on Jez (SHOCKING!) that my favie Moe wrote about condom-less sex. The original post was about an NPR segment calling said sex “the new engagement!”—an interesting premise, if you ask me—and the second an APOLOGY post for the first post because people read it as Moe singing the virtues of unprotected sex, and we’re not supposed to do that in this day and age. Only, the people didn’t like her apology, either, because of its flip tone.

The first thing I gotta say is to all the commenters who let everyone know—AGAIN—that this time was the LAST time they’d ever read Jez: We KNOW you don’t like Moe’s writing, and we KNOW you have your reasons because you tell us every damn time she posts something. If you’re going to go, KEEP YOUR DAMN WORD AND JUST FUCKING GO. Y’all are like the spurned party in a rotten relationship who keeps threatening to leave but NO ONE takes seriously because you keep coming back and repeating yourself (not that *I* have any experience with that whatsover, but ... (cough) ... and I mean the rotten relationship, not making dramatic pronouncements on Jez. I reFUSE to do that).

The other thing is this, and it’s in reference to the particular commenters who insist that Moe’s a role model via her position on a well-known Web site: A role model, by its definition, is something to which one aspires, but what if Moe doesn’t WANT anyone aspiring to be her and just wants to tell her truth? To me, “role model” signifies a lofty position that should be filled only by a specific type of person who I would say is almost beyond reproach, and that ain’t Moe, nor is it many people I know. So why should she have to be someone she’s not or doesn’t want to be? I know I sure as hell don’t want to be a role model; poster child’s more my speed, anyway, and I’m good at that.

And they’re STILL at it over there. Talk about a mob mentality. Man.

My downstairs neighbor once again went to get her colored and has once again asked me to help her “fix it.” Yes, there will be beer and food for my trouble, but one of these days, her hair is going to plum fall out of her head, and then I’m going to feel responsible. How it HASN’T happened yet, I’ve no clue.

But at least there will be beer. 

I share with you now a quote from a commenter on Gawker re: a 20 year-old girl who goes to a party filled with a bunch of high-profile NYC bloggers and gets her idealist cherry popped:

In today’s news (written by my homie, Piet):

And I’m sure there’s still a bit of wang emanating from my person, too, but you know what? The rain washed away the heat, and now my windows are wide open with a cool, cool breeze.

Going to see Cracker tonight at NWI’s “premiere rock festival,” but not before hitting T’s for some of her town’s twilight parade. Has the potential for interesting. We’ll see.

Though I suppose I wouldn’t blame my downstairs neighbor for taking off, seeing that I opened my windows and just added THE FREAKING SMITHS to my iPod. Yeah, I don’t know either because I normally can’t stand Morrissey and his haughty, insipid being-British shtick. But if she’da just waited, “Dance Hall Days” by Wang Chung was next in the lineup (followed by Fugazi’s “Smallpox Champion,” which I don’t picture her trucking with— oh, but here’s Bobby Brown’s “Every Little Step.” It’s even an extended remix, I think).

Fun fact: I can now pull my hair back into two teeny little hipster ponies, which’ll be perfect for when it’s hot and gross out again.

So my seester and her fam have rented a beach house next week for the High Holiday, and she invited me to come out and hang with her and the spawn. “Awesome,” I said. “I’m not a big swimmer (especially when not surrounded by vinyl or concrete), but it’ll be fun to watch the spawn frolic among the waves and sand, and maybe we’ll grill out and shit.” My seester, however, reminded me of how big a dork I would look like trying to get sun in a pair of capris and a tie-dye, so it was somewhat decided that I should have a new swimsuit. Ok, like I said, I’m not a good swimmer, and I’ve mentioned here before that when the genes were parsed among my sibs and me, I, as the only full-blooded Eastern European, got the sallow-yellow-doesn’t-tan-for-crap gene (I take that back—I’m pretty sure the youngest doesn’t tan, either, but she’s not sallow yellow, so if/when SHE stays out of the sun, it looks like she’s supposed to, whereas *I* look like a ‘net porn addict who rarely experiences daylight). Therefore, I’m NOT going to pay a lot for this swimsuit, so I decided to hit Kohl’s—you know, decently made, mid-range stuff that’s on hella sale this week. Got to Kohl’s around 11:30-ish and proceeded to find three tankini tops, two bottoms and one full tankini in what I figure my size is around.

Now when I hit the dressing room, I knew right off the bat the bottom half was going to be a trainwreck. I mean, let’s face it: I’m 5’3 with squatty legs, I’ve gained 50+ since the LAST time I shopped for a swimsuit and there’s that thing about my ass being flat. Heidi I’m not, and I’ve reached that point where I can deal with the fact that short of starving myself, I’ll never hit my high school weight again. But y’all, why they gotta make my cans look flat? I mean, there were cups where the tatters go—in the right places, even—but they were purely decoration, because ain’t no WAY a chick my size was going to look hot in any of the three I tried on. Not even store-bought t*ts could’ve held up under the mockingly blatant non-support. And it’s not like I want people being all like, “Guh, look at the rack on THAT one!” but dammit, there has to be something better out there for chicks like me who don’t want to spend a shit-ton of money on something I might wear once or twice a season. Jeez.

Last night Girlie and I trekked on up to Martyr’s in Chicago to catch this band called 27 Jennifers. Maybe you’ve heard of them:



This is ubergroovy bassist Andrew Livingston, who used to provide the bassline with his big ol’ cello before Homeland Security made it an asspain to travel with such an instrument. He’s a pretty popular musician, but perhaps you know his band leader:

and because we’re nothing if not service-y over here at Chez Broad, there’s Classic Tractors, Training Mules and Donkeys, Big Joe Polka Show, Forge and Anvil, Animal Makeover TV, Cowboy Flavor (now now, it’s a cooking show) and Making it Grow (whatever that means). And all of this high-brow fare is kicked off by Imus in the Morning, of all things. Oh, and you can get a 10-carat yellow sapphire and diamond ring for the low, low price of $30,500 and an Air Climber and a laptop on the Shop Latino network (because like Girlie says, them Latinos sure do like their gadgets).

We’re indulging in a quiet weekend over here—Girlie’s over here laughing hysterically at the Gem Network, where they have a “treasure chest mix” for $199.99 ("It’s rocks around the clock!") and I keep trying to yank my hair back into ponytail. It’s much more sedate than last weekend, when I broke into a rather, um, spirited performance (or, as Girlie calls it, a “cry for help") when these three skanky bar whores walked into the G-Town after our boyz played a blisteringly good show. Sorry, but grinding up on each other after last call at G-Town is NOT APPROPRIATE. No. It isn’t. That behavior is more appropriate at the Serbian bar a town over.

THAT’S Paul Stanley, y’all:



I’ll take Gene—plastic surgery or not—because that poor bastard looks like Jackie Mason in a cheap Cher wig.