After Dad died, Mother went and sold the house, and moved into an apartment. Since she still owed money on the mortgage, she didn't get the whole selling price, but it was a goodly sum, and one that would do even better if we we took it out of a .02 percent regular savings account and put it in an investment with some teeth. Well, now that we're finally about to do that, we're having issues. See, I'd always heard that if a senior has to go into a nursing home or other residential care facility, any assets the person has in their name belongs to that facility once the insurance runs out. So, my suggestion was to put the money in my name, so that no one could touch it, with the specific understanding that I would not touch it unless she needed it or she died. I mean, of course the money would be nice, but it's not mine, and I wouldn't be helping myself to it or anything. She could have all the documentation with it; I wouldn't even want the damn investments in my house, that's how much I could care less about it.

Well, after I try to explain this to her, she goes to one of the relatives I can't mention and tells them this. Since there are more children involved, this relative has assets put in a trust, and based on their experience, they told Mother that there's no reason for her to not have my name on the assests except as a beneficiary. Now, Mother worships the ground on which this relative walks, so I'm of course in the wrong.

Who's right? Has anyone had experience with this sort of thing?
Oh, whatEVER.

HOBART – Freedom of expression’s going price came to $85 on Main Street Saturday afternoon. Responding to residents’ complaints about a sign hung on the roof of his front porch, Adrian Zakula, a local artist, took it down and auctioned it off. The sign read “Texas School Book Depository” and was based upon the location from where Lee Harvey Oswald allegedly shot and killed President John F. Kennedy. It had hung there for more than three years. Zakula recently received a letter from Councilman Matt Claussen, ? At-Large, asking him to take down the sign because several constituents – in particular Bob Woloszyn, although he wasn’t named outright – had complained. ”My constituent is a great admirer of our late President Kennedy and felt the sign was demeaning to his legacy,” Claussen’s letter read. “I believe (Woloszyn) is truly offended by the sign and if he is upset, others are as well.” None of the 20 or so people who came out for the auction were bothered by it, though, least of all Stephenie Back (CQ – please make sure caption reads same, b/c I told Leslie wrong), who bid the high amount at her husband Jason’s behest. ”We have a couple of (Zakula’s) signs, and (Jason) has always liked that sign,” she said. “We’re not into the controversy, but I don’t think it should be a big deal.” Although she didn’t know where she and her husband were going to hang the sign, Back knew one place it isn’t going to be. ”It’s not going to be on the front of the house,” she said. Another woman, who identified herself only as “Hobart Brickie Senior Gal,” watched with amusement as Zakula climbed a ladder to remove the sign. She couldn’t understand the hoopla, either. ”I think when you think of Dallas, you think of the grassy knoll,” she said. “I don’t think the sign bothered the majority of people.” For his part, Woloszyn was glad Zakula agreed to take it down. He, however, didn’t attend the auction, which was held in Zakula’s front yard. ”I think that he should take a chainsaw to it, and then build a bonfire and throw the pieces in it and watch it burn,” Woloszyn said on Friday. “I don’t understand what was in his head putting it up there in the first place. And I don’t think he’s been leveling with us about why, either.” Zakula, who designs antique sign recreations, said he has nothing to hide. ”As an artist, I've always tried to create work that is edgy and provocative,” he said. “I certainly respect Mr. W's right to dissent, and I consider everyone's thoughts no matter how negative. When you fly close to the flame, stern criticism is inevitable.”
Oh, whatEVER.

I was editor-in-chief of my college newspaper, and I had two Hispanic writers on my staff. They were freshmen and new to the whole college thing, and they wandered into the office looking to experience extracurriculars. The thing was, they referred to each other as "Spic." Now, I remember distinctly looking at the two and asking them, "Are you sure y'all should be calling each other that?" or something to that effect, and they said, "Sure! In fact, we encourage YOU to call us "Spic," too." Well, being of the college mindset in one of the most tenuous racial demographics in the country, me and the officemates were thrilled, right? I mean, we thought we were subversive and all about the inside joke, so if two minorities were going to allow us to call them something derogative, well, who were we to be the morality police? Please.

So anyway, the two decide to write a column about getting involved in extracurricular activities. Which was fine, but they submit it with the hed, "What it's like to be a Spic in an all-white office." Well, my first instinct was, "Oh, absolutely not," but the rest of the gang was like, "Oh, c'mon! That's awesome! PLEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAASE?!?!?!" And I was still like, no, but then my graphics guy said, "Well, how about, "What it's like to be a Spic in an all-GRINGO office? Then the two racial slurs balance it out." For some reason, I thought that would be PERFECTLY acceptable and decided to run with it. After all, the column was going on page 11, so it's not like it was going to smack people in the ass or anything. And hell, do people even read the paper? People don't read us, I told myself.

Except that they DID, and wouldn't you know, the very day the issue came out, our student advisor came in and said, "We have a meeting with the Publications Board and members of the community next Monday, and you WILL be there," or again, something to that effect.

So, Monday rolls around, and we meet with the Pub board and five -- count 'em, FIVE -- members of the Hispanic community who were outraged that we used the word Spic in a headline. We debated, and basically, the Pub Board found that we were exercising freedom of speech and so on and so forth. And what did we do to repay the Pub board for allowing us to keep our positions? Banner headline, top of the fold, next issue:

"Cleaning up racism with Spic and Span."

Not only that, the whole issue was riddled with as many awful puns using the word "Spic" as we could possibly come up with in our sleep-deprived stupors during layout. Yeah, the Pub Board didn't love us too much for that one.

It might not have been as fun as a beer party, but hey! we take our victories where we can, right?
Oh, whatEVER.

I won't link to the story because, well, it's the competition, and we didn't have anything on it in today's edition. But since I'm covering the folo on it Saturday, here's the scam: The friend in question -- and I do consider him a friend, even though he is the one guy's best friend, which somewhat limits my claim to him -- is a rather talented artist who specializes in recreating antique-looking signs; he and the one guy had a business in New Buffy, Mich. a couple years back, in fact. And when they closed the business, Friend brought back a bunch of the signs he created and hung them on the front of the crib he rents. One of the signs, put up on his front porch's roof, reads "Texas School Book Depository" in big red letters.

Now, Hobart, for those not in-the-know, is a small city southeast Gary known for producing steelworkers and a once-phenomenal high school football team. It's the kind of place that, if you don't look like you belong, people make it known that ya ain't supposed to be there. I mean, you can have purple and green hair and wear your jeans down to your ass cheeks and be one of them, but they know when you're not of them. Like, I'm born and bred in these here parts, and I still get the hairy eyeball from people who don't know me when I go there to drink or visit family. They must be able to tell each other by smell or something, and I must not smell like I'm from there, because they just know. They hide their predjudice and narrow-mindedness behind middle-class ideology, and they're really patriotic: The All-American town. Think of the movie "All the Right Moves," except cleaner and with slightly bigger, more opulent houses in some parts, and you're just about there.

Knowing Friend like I do, I can guarantee you he never gave any thought to why he created the sign or why he hung it up where he did; if he gave it any thought, the sign was something interesting to recreate, and the roof was the only place on the front of the crib that it would fit. Unfortunately for Friend, however, he lives on a main thoroughfare through town, and people took offense to it. Yes, yes they did. They took offense to a sign that depicted the place where Lee Harvey Oswald turned President Kennedy into brain pudding some 40 years ago. And not only did they take offense to it, they complained to their councilman, who wrote Friend and asked him to take it down.

So, you'd think that he would be sufficiently outraged and would climb up to the rooftop screaming "FREE SPEECH! FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION! I'm SO getting the NEA up y'all's asses!" But he's not. Instead, he's going to take the thing down and hold an auction for it on Saturday, sort of like the dreaded Bartman Ball. I hope there's burning involved.
Oh, whatEVER.

Wait! I know! Let's start with how hot I looked; for someone who lives in yoga pants and sweatshirts (and dyes in the summer), it's always an adventure when I get decked out. But the simple white sweater from Old Navy, the black dress pants, the rose/orange dyed silk scarf from Israel, the genuine pearl stud earrings and, of course, the red, 3-1/2 inch Manolo slingbacks served me well. Hair? Perfect. Makeup? It enhanced, not hindered. (You know how sometimes you wake up and realize that makeup is just not going to help you and, in some cases, make it worse? Didn't happen today. Zits were sufficiently covered and everything.) What can I say? I was hot.

Got to the Hilton about 15 minutes before Perry was supposed to speak (took the Outer Drive downtown since every road between here and Chicago is a disaster) and was warmly welcomed by my former colleagues, most of whom didn't recognize me at first. I'd like to think it was because I was too hot for words, but more likely it was because I've gained weight. Or it could be because I was wearing my contacts. Anyway, my girl Kaffy, who still works at IEG, escorted me to the Continental Ballroom, where Mr. Farrell was giving his keynote. I was told I could sit anywhere I wanted, so I chose a table that was not too close, but far enough up front that I wouldn't have to watch him on the big sceeen.

About 15 minutes after I sat down, the lights went down, and a video higlighting Lollapalooza 2003 roared onto the screen. Since it wasn't in a This-is-what-it-is kind of format, it was funny watching the sponsorship people so not getting it, so not sure whether to laugh at the hijinks or whether to admit they were frightened of what was going to come next. I mean, hey! I can see Perry killing the $1,500 conference buzz for the 40-something Norah Jones set populating it.

And then, a little haltingly, he walked in.

For some reason, I was totally expecting him to be in a black suit with exaggerated pin stripes, kinda like the one Dave Navarro wore on his wedding day to Carmen. But I was at least in the ballpark: The man walked in wearing a well-tailored, vintage gray pin-striped suit with a dusty pink shirt and matching tie. I know, right? Much more conservative than I anticipated. And yeah, he really is that skinny. Couldn't tell how tall he is, but way thin. And totally out of his element talking to a bunch of business people.

But damned if he didn't pull it off.

I'm not going to go into what he talked about, because I was covering it, but aside from the fact that you could tell he was like whoa, this is so not my thing, he delivered a thoughtful, intelligent speech THAT I GOT TO SEE AND YOU DIDN'T! Bwahahahahahahahaha!

But it only got better from there. See, after he finished, I went to say hi to Lesa, the owner of the company, and to thank her for letting me sit in. And get this: She and her sister Laren, who also works for the company, told me that they thought Perry would be dropping in on the Conrad Hilton Suite for the exclusive cocktail party before the evening festivities and that if I WANTED TO GO, THEY WOULD GIVE ME A VIP PASS UP THERE! Holy Shit, right!?!?! I was stunned -- and totally unprepared; here I thought I was going to be listening to him speak, and now, I might actually be talking to him, and I have not one damn intelligent question. So after hyperventilating on the phone with my editor at the magazine, we pulled it together, and I was ready to go.

So of course he doesn't show, but I still got to hang in the Conrad Hilton Suite and catch up with some of the folks I used to work with, plus find out what everyone else thought of Perry's speech, which gives me more fodder for the article I want to do.

Did I mention how cool my day was?
Oh, whatEVER.