Turns out I don't have to tell you the story about how my one ex-best friend and I aren't anymore, and you owe it all to Miguelino and his magic burrito. (Well, Ok, his burrito really didn't have anything to do with it, but thanks goes out to Pauly D just the same -- he's incorporated that into our shtick ever since I told him about it.)

My camera? Is SMALLER THAN MY CELL PHONE.

I shall call it Bubba.

You know, why is it that short girls with long waists, short legs and big asses and hips can't go to freakin' Wal-Mart, pull a pair of cargo capris off the rack and be able to wear them without looking like a sausage!?!? What the HELL, man!?!? All I want is a pair of olive green, cropped cargo pants to wear tomorrow night to the Roger Clyne gig. Is that too much to ask!?!? Sigh. But, it justifies for me a trip to Old Navy, and I'm always all about that.

Assuming I find a pair that I like, though, I'm not sure what top I'm going to wear. In my excitement toward my tax windfall, I bought this awesome silver necklace with two rhinestone circles, so that's my jewelry of choice. But I have a peach-colored, 3/4-length shirt with a collar that looks like it almost goes off the shoulders -- tres chic -- and I also have that white sweater with the low, round collar that would look just as cool. (Footwear has already been designated as a pair of black and white adidas kicks.) I know I could always see if my black linen cropped pants still fit over my giant ass, but I really do need a pair of olive green cargos, plus I don't really want to know if the $75 pair of Eileen Fisher linen pants don't fit just yet.

Of course, I can't do ANYTHING until FedEx gets here with my digital camera. Come, FedEx. Come to Butthead.

Jamiel Terry recently penned an essay in OUT magazine about growing up gay in the house of Randall Terry, the notorious anti-abortion zealot who got himself kicked out of that racket as part of a court settlement and who's now taken up gay-bashing as his hobby. This is the response he posted about his son's essay.

Lemme get this straight: Here's a guy who took this boy into his own home, and now that said son -- the one HE TOOK IN AS HIS OWN -- has made a really painful revelation, he's more worried about what people think of HIM!?!!?!?

You know what, people? If you can't think beyond yourself and how you look to the world, do the rest of us a favor and do NOT procreate; do NOT adopt kids; and do NOT look up the kids you gave up for adoption. I know you like to think of yourselves as the Great White Hope, but you're NOT doing us any favors. No, seriously. Our lives are fine without your self-centered bullshit. Keep your delusions to yourself, please. Thanks.

Fer fuck's sake.

[Link courtesy of Wonkette]

I was halfway through this entry about why one of my former best friends and I aren't anymore when Kaffy sends me this thing that was supposed to make me "pee (my) pants" when I listened to it. Well, Outlook chewed up the attachment, so I e-mailed her back and asked her what she's talking about, because I got nothing. She e-mails back, "Damn linkies." and sends me the link instead. But when I went to open up another window so I could see what she was talking about, I hit "refresh" instead, erasing my whole entry. Rats. But it's all right, because after I'd thought about it intermittently throughout the day, my thoughts became oversimplified, and that made for less compelling reading.

Instead, I shall leave you with the reason my post got erased (Clicky heeyah.) And be sure to yell at her for scaring my cats.

Ok, trying to finish a story at 7:30 a.m. after three hours of sleep, and then trying to catch up on the sleep in one night? Talk about being useless. And yet? I CAN'T be useless today because I have to go out and actually interview people. Meh. But I love my one editor -- I told her my tale of woe, and she was basically like, "Oh, Ok. Well, suck it up." She didn't say it, but I could tell she was thinking it, and that's cool with me, because I'm very much a non-whiner like that. I mean, if I was the dumbass who woke up and decided doing a story at 2:30 was a good idea, well, no one told me to do it that way.

So I'm staggin' it to Roger Clyne Saturday, but not for lack of trying; one of the girlfriends I asked to go is going to my ex-best friend's housewarming party. And I must admit, that kind of stuck up my ass. Not that the one friend chose her over me or anything like that -- she thinks the whole situation is idiotic, period. But I'm going to have to explain later, since I gots shit to do.

This might be a regional thing (Region thing?), but has anyone heard the 7-11 commercial introducing its new sausage-cheddar griller? Cracks. My. Shit. UP. "Sure, you may be full of cheddar, but do you know what I think you're full of ...!? YOURSELF!" says the hot dog. And that voice! Comedic genius, yo.

So, I woke up at 2:30 a.m. to finish my Roger Clyne story; that got done and filed at 7:30 a.m. (No, it doesn't usually take that long for me to pound something out; I was dawdling.) Now, only two more full stories to go, plus I need to get some quotes for another story. And then? Time to pass out. But not before I bitch some more about Greta.

Oh, and did I mention I purchased a digital camera? Yeah, a Canon Elph SD-100. Hope to have it before the show so I can post pictures of Roger and my idiot friends.

Hey, shut-up, man! Eleanor Roosevelt kicked ASS.
Which Famous Homosexual are you?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

[Courtesy of Cornelia, who found it on Rum and Monkey]

Since when did I say it was Ok for Greta to come in a take the half-drunken bottle of Pepsi I had left over from last night!?!?! I didn't? ...Yeah, that's what I thought. She's SO buying dinner for that.

Two more days. Two more days ...

Nothing like dozing off for 45 minutes, only to have the woman I've been trying to contact for three days call and wake me up, and me unable to get a word out of my freakin' mouth. I mean, I thought it was FREAKING TUESDAY MORNING WHEN I TALKED TO HER! GAH!

Not the most embarassing thing to happen to me, but up there.

After stuffing myself senseless at champagne brunch with Mother today, I just got back from doing touch-up painting in Greta's living room (I know, I know, but she waited for me to get home and waited for me to get my ass in gear after I took a nap, for chrissakes. What would YOU do?), where I proceeded to stuff my face with 1/2 a sausage pizza that I definitely did NOT need. Happy Easter, yo.

So, the one guy called last night. He didn't end up coming over, because he got all squirrelly and decided I was too tired. That never usually stops him, but it did last night for some reason. Anyway, after I was completely awake at 2:30 a.m., I called him back, and we had the type of conversation that reinforces for me why I love him insanely.

Anyone who's read my other site or is familiar with stuff I've written knows that I'm in love with AVMRA, aka the American Veteran Motorcycle Riders Association. The group is just like it sounds: vets -- the majority of whom fought in Vietnam -- who ride motorcycles. And they're a raggedy-looking bunch of motherfuckers, they'd be the first to tell you: Long, ratty hair; beaten-up leather with patches and pins; at-least-two-packs-a-day habits. Instead of the booze they once were able to drown their sorrows with, they down coffee, lots of it. Or they keep pickling their insides away, as if that's going to help. It doesn't, but it's a connection to other people who've gone through hell, anyway.

Tonight, my assignment was to cover the memorial of a soldier who was killed over in Iraq Sunday. There were at least 100 people there by the war tank on the corner of Broad and Oak, including 30 or so of my AVMRA men and women. (Every single war-themed event, good or bad, without fail, you better believe there will be representatives from their group.) There was a service, with a Catholic Bishop and everything, as well as a Color Guard from the local Legion and VFW.

I've covered enough of these to be able to pretty much get by without getting emotional, and I pride myself on that. But as the old vets with the rifles shot off the 21-gun salute, damn it if those rag-tag shells of men in beaten-up leather didn't stand straight as arrows, saluting their flag as if they were the kids they used to be before the war beat them down.

And damn it if I didn't choke up.

I just found out that one of my favorite reporters, Michael Puente (aka "Miguelino," "Mexican Jumping Bean," "Latin Lothario," "Sexy Mothafucka," etc.) is flying the coop and going to the Daily Herald. Yes, I know it's a fantastic opportunity for him, and he deserves a fantastic opportunity. But still, it makes me sad.

Rats.

A little birdie sent me an internal e-mail today from the ME about the story I broke yesterday (among other things, of course):
(shines up manicure) Yeah, I kick ass. And if you want to read our collective greatness, go over to the Post-Tribune linky and behold.

Holy shit, what a crazy day, y'all! Just as I was coming down from interviewing Roger Clyne (more about that in a minute) and getting ready to finish my business stories, I get a phone call from a source in my one beat that the paper's going to have to pry out of my cold, dead hands letting me know that the thing I'd been waiting for is ready. So, desperately trying to get in touch with my one editor, who wasn't around, I had to talk to the AME, who was like, "Ok, DEEP BREATHS. Do you need to prioritize?" "Yeah," I somewhat whimpered.

So, totally switching gears, my business stories have been held to next week, I pounded out my big beat story, and then I had to go into Gary to cover an awards dinner. Tried to make it to a third story, but that one's running for Saturday, so I can do it tomorrow. Still, I'm all flummoxed. So much for having this shit all worked out.

So Roger Clyne? So best.