MADE THE TOP THREE ON SHEAR GENIUS!!! HUZZAH, HUZZAH!

Hats off to P-T reporter Piet Levy: A story he wrote on a lousy con man who bilked people out of a lot of money—Lookit—has gotten him a death threat:

Indiana State Police are investigating threats con man David Sroge allegedly made against a Post-Tribune reporter who exposed his history of theft, fraud and home repair scams.

Sroge, 50, attempted to recruit a gang member to kill a local police officer, a Lake County judge and reporter Piet Levy, state police detective Rick Bonesteel said Thursday.

“Normally we don’t comment on these types of investigations. But since a Post-Tribune employee was one of the targets, we contacted the newspaper,” Bonesteel said.

Sroge’s attorney Richard Maroc refused to comment on the police probe.

His client’s criminal record was documented in an investigative report in the Post-Tribune on Sunday.

Three days later, Sroge was arrested on a new felony theft charge. He is being held without bond at the Lake County Jail.

The Munster businessman will remain in jail until May 22 when Magistrate Kathleen Sullivan is scheduled to hold a hearing to decide if Sroge returns to a state work-release program or remains behind bars.

Before his arrest Wednesday, Sroge was serving time at the Kimbrough Work Program, a state work-release center in Crown Point.

Been itchin’ to go off on another one of my pseudo political rants, but then I read the paper this morning and well, lookyhere! my latest pet peeve has been addressed: Lookit

For those I haven’t spouted off to over the past few weeksunaware, Indiana issued at the beginning of the year a new license plate. And it’s a lovely plate, all blue with a nice big American Flag and “In God We Trust” in a pleasant white serif font. If nothing else, it’s damn more attractive than the current plates, which are and have been ass-ugly since they rolled out in 2004. You can even get the new plate AT NO EXTRA CHARGE when you go to renew your plates.

That’s great, except for the obvious problem that the state is opting to throw away a sizable chunk of change so we can all look like a bunch of simple, God-fearin’ folk. I mean, if someone can find data on how many Hoosiers actually attend Christian churches regularly and faithfully, please send it my way; otherwise, you’re not going to convince me that everyone’s getting this plate because they’re devout Christians. Judging by the cars I see on the road every day of my life, however, you will convince me that we’re a vain bunch of m’er f’ers when it comes to our rides—again, 2004 license plates? Ass-ugly, so who WOULDN’T jump at the chance to get a better-looking plate FOR ZERO DOLLAH (besides me, because I’m pissed off enough about this issue, plus it goes against every one of Mother’s sensibilities, and that’s an always an added bonus)!?? It’s just like those morons who buy “Support the Troop” magnets, if you think about it: They’d much rather shell out the $2 to a for-profit business on a ribbon magnet—not to mention ruin their paint jobs—than, say, spend $4 on a pack of disposable razors or toilet paper to send overseas to an actual soldier. At least the for-profit’s making money, because the STATE sure won’t with this nightmare.

No. Separate church and state, or else every single religion in Indiana needs to have its own plate available free-of-charge.

I interviewed this cat for a Monday centerpiece; he’s a hairstylist/musician who owns a teeny salon in the back of a guitar shop. All I’m saying is, be prepared to laugh your fool heads off, because this is AWESOME:

Haircuts in the Summer music video

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PS: If you think he looks familiar, you’re very observant!

I got one guy telling me I’m a slave to the incumbent party because I don’t think getting out of Cal Twp. this election cycle is a good move. How cute.

But the good news? I don’t have to report for Fed jury duty tomorrow morning at the asscrack! That’s a beautiful thing.

Oh, and I went to my first fake wiener party yesterday with one of my editors and a whole bunch of my co-workers. I’m not sure whether they were impressed or horrified when I threw out such terms as “shnirty flanzhez” and “squelching."*

(An epic about the sad little people who take precious oxygen from the rest of us)

Of course, that was before my experience with a guy who shall heretofore be known as “The Ghoul” and how said experience is testing my resolve at engaging (not engaging?) with crazy people. Because Lawd hep me, this guy is asking for a purple nurple of the nth degree. (Yes, my doctor did ply me full of samples to stave off what would’ve been my 19th nervous breakdown, thanks for asking.)

How I got hooked up with this jackass is irrelevant for our purposes, but the jist is I did a story on him and his fledgling company. If only I’d listened to my instincts about him, I may have been able to avert the following nonsense: You know how a person generally discovers all they need to know about someone else within the first 15 minutes of meeting them? The Ghoul, who’d placed dead last in a business competition—no doubt because of his sparkling personality, as you’ll see—was “pulling an Oscar” or whatever the term is for people who have to pretend they’ve lost gracefully. The fact that he looks like this except with mottled olive skin, mousy brown hair, no beard and both of his jug ears didn’t help his cause; think crypt keeper in a moderately priced suit, and you get the idea. Anyway, I spent about an hour with The Ghoul at a local chain bookstore listening to his shtick; he bought me a coffee and we went on our way, but not before he asked me if he can see the story before it’s published. Now, any self-respecting reporter knows that any legitimate publication doesn’t allow a subject’s prior approval on a story, but because the guy was sooooo freakin’ uptight, I told him I would send him the story after I filed it and then I would make changes only if there were factual errors.

Well, a few weeks pass between the interview and the story running, and in that time, The Ghoul must’ve called me at least once a week to find out when the story was running, which, you know, fine, but don’t expect me to pick up every time you call only to tell you that no, I don’t know when the fucking pub date is going to be, all right? But I file the story and then send it to him as promised. Of course he was all sunshine and puppies—his exact words were, “It’s real good”—but he of course had some changes, which he put in red for me in a return copy. One of those changes was to take out the name of the company that makes the product he’s trying to license. I didn’t understand why that would be an issue because the company does indeed make the product, so I left it in.

After the jump, you’ll see how it all goes terribly, terribly wrong.

I’m going to preface this by saying that all that needed to happen was for The Ghoul to say that there had been a mistake in the article, and a correction would be run. That IS in fact what happened. But this is how The Ghoul took matters into his own hands:

Broad,

I am dissatisfied with your inability to contact me regarding the minor changes. [Product maker] somehow got the article before I actually did. They called me today and asked why they were mentioned as having an agreement with [Ghoul’s company].

I never ever said this to you! I mentioned that the product was a [product maker] creation. You misunderstood what was said. I explained to you that I was in the process of securing other distribution, licensing, direct-sales and joint-venture agreements to bring [the crux of Ghoul’s business] to [target market]. This would include the [product] as well. It must be noted that [Ghoul’s company’s] focus is on the [product] for [target market]. We are going to test the chemistry with permission from [product] and [another company].

At no time did I say specifically that I had an agreement with [product maker]! I did mention that I had an agreement with [another company] for aftercare applications using [product]. I never even said that I had an agreement with [product] either. You obviously took things out of context and misquoted me.

Please forward this to your legal department.[emphasis mine] If I ever ended up in court, I am confident that these email communications to you and the word attachment would show that I made an effort to correct the problem well before the publishing of the article. I even left voice mail for you to contact me about minor corrections. I was aware of the fact that no big changes would be allowed for fear of compromising the article’s tone. But, I did ask you to remove [product maker] from the article on February 28th 2006 via email. Please see attachments.

Ghoul

P.S. It seems unlikely that legal action will be taken, but, be advised that Dow Corning is a big company with a great legal team. I am just making you aware of the situation.

See, now as I’ve said a million times before, I have no problem admitting when I’m wrong, especially when it comes to my stories; I tell subjects CONSTANTLY to give me feedback and let me know when I’ve misunderstood something. But like all things, the tone in your delivery is important, and bringing up legal action for a simple correction is a surefire way to get me to come out with barrels. Put another way, Ghoul didn’t get the apology he was waiting for:

Ghoul:

I’ve already spoken to [redacted], the editor you called about this, and she said that a correction will be run based on what I’ve highlighted in red below. If what I have highlighted is incorrect, you’ll need to take it up with either her or [redacted].

In the meantime, what I told you about your seeing the story prior to print is that [the paper] DOES NOT allow it, but that as a courtesy—one that I distinctly remember telling you I’m not supposed to give—I would send it to you only after I filed it with my editor and that I would change only facts that were incorrect. Well, [product] being [made by product maker] is NOT incorrect, so in my mind, there was no reason for me to remove any reference to it. As for misinterpreting what you said about the licensing, you DID NOT specify any misinterpretation; all you said in your e-mail was, “Please remove [product maker] also,” and I’ll be happy to forward those e-mails to my editors as well if they’d care to see them. But had you been specific, I would’ve been more than happy to correct it.

Going forward, I respectfully offer that if you want complete control over anything published about [Ghoul’s company] in [the paper] or any other publication in the known universe, you need to purchase an ad.

Best,
Broad

Unhappy with my response, Ghoul kicked his ire up a notch:

This was in the first attachment in red and is what was said originally: Then in February 2004, he formed [Ghoul’s company] as well as secured distribution, licensing direct-sales and joint-venture agreements to bring [product] to [target market]. Attached is the document that you received Thu, 1 Mar 2007 08:09:58 -0800 (PST).

If you answered your email, or bothered to answer your phone, this all could have been easily communicated. I tried professionally to convey my minor concerns. Just because you feel that you are doing me a favor, does not mean that you should ignore my requests. I was grateful for your time. But, you did not look at the attachment that was sent on March 1st.  I am correct in that I asked you to omit [product maker] with regard to an agreement, not about the [product] being a [product maker] creation. I have proof that I sent minor corrections with those being posted in red. You did mention that I could change something if it did not compromise the article as a whole. Sorry, but, you are wrong.[ED: And YOU can’t punctuate your way out of paper bag.]

The bottom line is that you do not care, nor did you care about doing things right. I communicated nicely to you and showed professionalism. My email today was an attempt to show you want [sic] I was trying to say at borders and my disappointment.

Going forward, I respectfully offer that if you want to be a better interviewer, you need to listen and write verbatim what is being said. You came to me, I did not go to you!

So I looked at the attachment he sent and compared it with my original, and lo and behold, they didn’t look any different to me. My response:

I have the originals you sent, too, and I stand by my actions.

Best,
Broad

At this point, you’d think that The Ghoul, regardless of who was right, would get it that the correction was being made and all would be well. And you’d be wrong.

My final comment:

You know that I what I asked you to change was in red and was sent to you in a word attachment before the article was published. You had plenty of time to have those very minor changes made prior to print. All you had to do was re-send the new word document with those red highlighted words to your editor. If she saw the very minor changes, she could have made a 1 minute alteration before print. Anyway, you better hope that [product maker] makes no big deal of it. Legally I am protected and I have already talked with [product maker].

On another note, after re-reading your article, I have concluded that it is not very good after all.

No, that last e-mail, sent this morning, didn’t contain a “Nanny nanny boo boo” or “Yo mama!” remarkably enough.



Naturally, it is taking every ounce of my willpower to not respond with either “You got mad picked on in school, didn’t you?” or “You’re not going to start stalking me now, are you!??”

Oh, whatEVER.

Question: When y’all were in college and it came to the idealistic notions that virutally all of us have at that age, how did you express them? Like, did you find people who shared your interests, band together and work to change the minds of others? Keep it to yourself? I ask this because last night, I met for the first time the horror that Political Correctness hath birthed, and either I was a dirty hippy in my past life or students these days are engaging in pragmatism far earlier than they should.

The jist: A grad assistant with the school brought forth a non-binding resolution to the campus’ SGA so it could declare March 19-23 “Peace Week,” where and faculty and students would be encouraged to talk about the Iraq War. There would be movies shown in the student lounge and speakers and so on and so forth. Well, since the resolution was only brought to the SGA by a senator and not actually “sponsored” (aka, correct paperwork not filed), a vote wasn’t going to be taken. Before they’ll even consider it, however, the resolution is going to have to be reworded to, at the very least, be more “inclusive” to everyone’s views, which, on one hand, is probably not a bad idea. But the other reason? They don’t want the SGA—a group that’s been back on campus only since 2005—to be associated with the school’s Social Justice Club, a group they consider “too far to the left”—a direct quote. ("We need to make this more PC,” was another direct quote that almost made me choke on my tongue.)

Seeing what are supposed to be, in my mind, young idealists not just drinking the corporate Kool-Aid, but mainlining it, a few things came to mind as I scraped my jaw off the floor. Outside of the fact that the resolution was essentially slapped together based on a few discussions the grad assistant had with her classes when it could’ve been better easily substantiated by an informal poll of students, I was stunned that the group would not take a stand, whatever that stand would’ve been. I mean, the SGA couldn’t have said “We support getting troops out” or “We need to send 60 zillion more troops to the Middle East” while also supporting discussion from the other side? (Incidentally, at least two of the senators said they agreed personally with the resolution as it stood.) And as far as not being associated with the other club ... well, that was more out of concern for the individuals being associated with what they perceive as being an unpopular group than it was concern for the group itself, pure and simple, and it’s a sad, sad day when you have to temper your thoughts because you’re concerned people won’t like you. All this to say, it was a puss move on their part.

Story’s after the jump.

I know I brag, brag bragyammer on like a big starstruck goon about all the cool people I get to see in my travels, but if I could just get y’all to indulge me once again as I tell you about seeing author, poet and activist and living legend Nikki Giovanni speak at my alma mater ...

Man.

I mean, how do people attain such clarity!?? You couldn’t even believe it as she was talking. And what really sucks is that events like that are so hard to cover, because there’s no way to capture the brilliance of it in any way even close to how it actually went down. She was talking about her children’s book Rosa, which was obviously about Rosa Parks and how the bus incident really went down as opposed to how it’s taught in the history books. One of the best parts was when she was talking about how the day she came into Atlanta to accept the Coretta Scott King Award for the book, James Tate, the infamous bus driver that started it all, died. Well, journalists, as is our wont, were pestering her to give them a sound bite about how she felt about it, and after she got fed up with the pestering, she said, “Welp, another one bites the dust,” just to be an ass. Naturally, the journos went to the Tate widow with her pithiness, to which the Tate widow replied:

Funny ending to the story about the hot guy with whom I was flirting Sunday afternoon during the Bears-Saints game.

It starts off Sunday evening: I’m filling Snidgey in on the deets when, for some reason appropos of nothing, I decided to see if he’s listed in the phone book. His name is kind of common, but sure enough, there was someone by that name in the phonebook in the town in which he lived. At first I thought Ok, what, if anything, should I do with this information? but blew it off until the next day, when I was telling one of my editors about it. We chuckled, and then I kinda forgot about it aGAIN until one of our writers called me up looking for a Colts fan. (I told said editor the group’s patriarch was the Colts fan, and this cat’s rounding them up to chat with them over the next few weeks.) I told him to find out if Hot Guy was single ... or, perhaps I could give him a call to find out patriarch’s digits, maybe ...!?? Hmmmmm ...

Fast forward to today. I was talking to Pops (and Peaps, who had the cutest case of the hiccups EVER), and I ran the whole story down to her. She was thrilled that I was taking initiative, etc., and it turns out that she KNOWS the family through her hub. Well, HOT PISS, I say! Ask Hub if he knows Hot Guy! This is awesome! So she texts him.

I was nattering on about something when, a few minutes later, I get:

Well, you’re not going to want to date (Hot Guy).

Because he’s (Hub’s friend’s brother’s) PARTNER.

Ok, so I keep meaning to post, but then I get sucked into the vortex that is my couch (oh, how I’m going to be sad when I give up that couch. I keep going back and forth over whether I should just have it cleaned and the middle cushion re-cushioned or if I should just scrap it altogether, but I digress) and then you know how it goes. And anyways, things have been rather quiet in these parts.

But how ‘bout them Bears, y’all? The Bears AND the Colts!?? Jesus, it’s going to be freakin’ bedlam in NWI for the next two weeks, though NWI roots more for the Bears by virtue of us being a technical suburb of Chicago. I’ll tell you what, though: If the paper asks me to cover the Super Bowl, I will do so gladly, because I? MET A HOT GUY TONIGHT! (does a little peepee dance of joy)

(ahem)

My gig today was hitting the local bars and watching people’s reaction to the game, and he was among a group I chose to interview. (And if you were to say that I chose to talk to them because of him, you ... probably wouldn’t be wrong.) The group was a blast, though at one point they wanted me to leave because the Saints made a few key plays, and it was thought that I might’ve been screwing up the juju. But the Bears came back, so it was fine. Anyway, if I do say so myself, there was a fair amount of touchy-feely going on, and it was not wrong, so ... Haven’t decided what my next move will be, but I think there might have to be one. 

I haven’t attempted to be all political and indignant in awhile, but a story that ran in the paper yesterday stuck as well as led me into several lengthy discussions that I’m still trying to process.

Our good buddy JB wrote a story (which y’all can peep in all its glory after the jump) about an illegal from Mexico who killed his back while working for this dude. Insurance covered his injury for about 2 months when it discovered that the SSN the cat provided was false and thus stopped paying. Well now, the cat is suing to get paid.

As a rule, I’m not anti-immigrant, and I cringe whenever I hear about these nutbags wanting to build walls along the border with gun turrets and all that crap. But I have to say, I got a little pissed off when I got to the part where the guy said:

I want to work, but I can’t. And now, they aren’t paying me.

I know y’all saw the whole “suspended account” business, but that’s what happens when your evil overlordsout-of-state accounting department sends your paycheck late, and it doesn’t clear until the day after you were told it was going to clear. Add ot the fact that December is always a lean month, anyway, and you’ve once again got a broke broad.

The holidays however, have been completely lovely. Got some cool things by way of the man in red, including a brand new one of these bitches from my small brother; spent a good portion of the night/morning before Christmas Eve getting it all set up and cleaning out my contacts database. It’s amazing the obsolete shit you find in there after five years of not really paying attention. Anyway, my sister got me some cool stuff, too, including dish towels and new placemats (yeah, domestic stuff that I asked for. And!??) The only thing I have left to get is a new winter jacket from Mother, but finding one that fits over my giant ass and that I actually like has been a real drag.

Of course, the holidays would be nothing without family drama, and there was a goodly sum of it this year. None of it, remarkably, has anything to do with me. I KNOW, get out, right!?? That’s, like, a total first in a long time, but yeah, everything was very peaceful and happy. There was some missing of people I shouldn’t be missing, too, of course, but nothing that made me a soggy mess. All in all, a wonderful week.

The coolest thing of all, though: You know the 8-rugrat family I wrote about? People listened, and they literally went from less-than-nothing to overabundance like whoa. A church put them in a fully furnished house rent-free for a year, and the kids got a whole bunch of toys and clothing. And Ogger and his nefew are planning to get their vehicle up and running as early as this weekend. Good stuff, something I’ll always be kinda proud of.

Piet the staffer did a great job on the folo—it’s after the jump:

Have I bitched yet about my new neighbors? They took over my landlords’ old crib, and so far, they’ve been quiet. But they have a big honkin’ van and an SUV, however, and they think they’re allowed to park both behemoths out front, thereby taking up precious cul-de-sac space. I’m sorry, but there’s no reason that both those tanks need to be out front when the neighbor downstairs and I have only one vehicle apiece. “But we use both of them!” they said to the landlords when she and I complained. No, screw you. Seniority rules, and she and I have been here for eight years. Jerks.

So, the other day I was working on stories for the paper’s annual Empty Stocking Needy people fund, and it happened that one of the families I interviewed was a single mom with eight kids who’re homeless and have to be out of the shelter they’re currently staying in by Monday, while the mom (who’s 34, btw; oldest kid is 14) is in her third year of nursing school and is trying to study for finals next week. Oh, and the water pump on her van is shot, so she and the brood have been having to walk everywhere in the butt-ass cold. Ok, so I write the story, and for as many people who called in wanting to help out, there was at least one ready to literally jump my shit for daring to publicize a welfare mother who doesn’t understand the concept of birth control?

Of course there was.

Had my one editor allowed this woman to contact me—after some of my past skirmishes with sources, they don’t allow that to happen anymore—I would’ve liked to have told her about the stuff that I DIDN’T put in the story, like how she tells her oldest daughters every day that she doesn’t want them to be like her and how humiliating it is to have to defend the fact that she has so many children at all. Yeah, she knew about birth control. Yeah, one of the baby daddies kind of helps sort of, but you try getting child support from someone who doesn’t want to pay (though I’m surprised by the latest round of stats on this very subject). Yeah, she gets TANF—a whopping $373 a month because you get cut off after the fifth kid, at least in Indiana. Yeah, she’s been trying to get a job. But her oldest kid is 14. Would YOU leave seven kids between the ages of 12 and 2 with a 14 year-old? Yeah, she has friends and relatives who help out from time to time, but who wants to take on eight more mouths on a regular basis?

Here you go, fundie conservative nutjobs who believe no sperm should go to waste. Figure this one out.

Mostly, though, I’d have told the woman that no one was telling her to help them out if she was so morally outraged by their situation and oh, go suck a dick while she was at it.

I’ve implored several of my pals to see what they have in the way of stuff for the family, and this weekend when I go Christmas shopping with the sibs, we’re hitting the resale shops. If any of y’all would like to chip in a li’l something to the effort, Paypal button’s on the right.

(Mothupi, left, and Marshoff, right)

I normally try not to post pictures of myself above the fold (so I’d appreciate y’all not staring at my massive double chin and cheesy, nerded-out smile), but I had to show you who’s now become my favorite VIP meeting ever, even surpassing Jesse Jackson Sr. and Roger Clyne. Surrounding me in this shot taken in the parking lot of my college alma mater are Frances Beatrice Marshoff and Gertrude Mothupi, the Premier of Free State, South Africa and the Executive Mayor of Mangaung. The two were here with a delegation from Free State that’s seeking to drum up business in the United States, and they stopped at the school for a reception and tour.

See those women there? You are looking at two of the most fearless, intelligent women I’ve ever met in my life, emphasis on FEARLESS; not only are they government leaders, but they’re WOMEN who’re government leaders 12 years after a centuries-old belief system was dismantled. Think about that for a sec—12 years after apartheid was abolished, there are women running parts of the country. After the 15th amendment, how long did it take for a woman to get into any sort of power position here? (That’s kinda rhetorical, but if you know the answer, feel free.) (UPDATE: Leave it to Kaffy to actually tell me: Lookit)

I guess the point I’m trying to make here is that it’s a wonderous thing to see women who command such respect.

Tonight’s assignment: 300 screaming elementary kids watching a Steve Irwin-wannabe handle animals indigenous to the rain forest. I was waiting for the alligator with the rubber bands (!!) roped around its mouth to just go apeshit and start munching on the little twerps for touching it, but apparently, they’re cool with the touching, according to the guy. Since reptiles aren’t real bright on the evolutionary scale, it doesn’t occur to them to get all indignant about being poked and prodded; in fact, they kinda dig the heat, being reptilian and all. The bigger the brain, the bigger the propensity for wanting people to back the hell off and STOP. TOUCHING.

Who knew?

And did you also know that snakes don’t crush their food, but suffocate it? They wait for the poor bastard to exhale, and then they squeeze them, essentially cutting off their air supply. There you go.

Zoological lessons aside, that assignment wasn’t nearly as interesting as one I had last week. One of our local campuses hosts two of Great Britain’s young master debaters (DERRRR NARF!) and teams them up with two of its students in a parliamentary-style tag-team. The point of discussion: “This house belives the war on terrorism cannot be won.”

I covered this event last year, and the topic debated had to do with truth in advertising or something equally innocuous, so I was intrigued that the professor chose a topic for which the majority of the audience had their minds made up (and you’re not going to convince me of that otherwise). But what I would’ve liked to have seen debated? “This house has evidence that people who live outside of the United States are better versed in everything in the universe than its own natives,” because make no mistake, y’all: The Britons wiped their limey butts with the college kids. Seriously. Yeah, I understand that these were the No. 1 ranked orators for 2005 and 2006. Do you know what one of OUR geniuses did? After they heard one of the Britons mention the Irish Republican Army in reference to terrorism, they said—and I quote: “Take, for example, the IRA, who wants to take over the world ...” My “D’OH!” was audible.

We’re not a bright bunch here in NWI.