You know how I was talking about nipple clamps the other day in random conversation? Ok, the universe is apparently trying to turn me completely off to the idea of nipple play, because here’s this—Lookit—and I’m just like, “That’s it, I’m out.” I can’t imagine that it’s a real procedure, but I mean, I don’t know about y’all, but many strippers, with their fake hair and nail-art painted nails, are already walking, breathing fire hazards. Do they really need to be more combustible? That’s what I’m saying.

Today’s new song obsession is Slade’s “Run Runaway.” Ask me how many times I’ve played it. Go on, ask me! ZILLIONS. Over and over and over. Fiddles, crunchy guitars, simple lyrics sung by ugly Scottish men in kilts—what’s more fun than that?

Had dinner with the fam celebrating my and B-Dub’s birthdays tonight (his 32nd is tomorrow—Happy B-Day, baby!), and the best thing ever happened: We were cleaning up, and B-Dubs wanted to take the leftover hamburger from the burgers we grilled because, you know, it’s 21 degrees out and we’re hardcore up here in the NWI. So he’s putting the hamburger in a Ziplock, and I looked at it and said “A bag of meat—wow, a big bag of meat, even,” not really thinking anything other than my brother had a big blob of hamburger in a Ziplock.

Not two seconds later, my nephew starts chanting in an almost rap-like fashion, “That’s a big bag o’ meat! Oh YEAH!” and then of course my niece starts chanting along.

Well, B-Dubs and I looked at each other and fell out at these two little kids rap-chanting about a bag of meat, so I of course encourage the nonsense by telling B-Dubs to throw a beat behind it, and he starts beat-boxing while the two of them are marching around the coffee table yelling at the top of their lungs, “That’s a big bag o’ meat! Oh YEAH!” and I’m at the table just dying. (There also may or may not have been some further encouragement by me in the form of bustin’ out some chair-dance moves.) My sister, meanwhile, is looking at us like we’re high on crack and is all, “Yeah, I don’t want to hear this all the way home.”

I swear I didn’t say a word to them. I can’t help that my influence, it is stealthy in its mightiness.

Earlier this week, I sent my peeps an e-mail with the historic CBS Nightly News clip that aired either Thursday or Friday night about the 29 year-old Marine who died of melanoma for which he was never given a diagnosis until it was already Stage 4. The reason I sent it was not because I wanted to discuss politics* but because it was an amazingly well-done piece and I was blown away by the condition of the guy when he died. (I mean, Dad weighed 130 when he died, but under 80 pounds on a guy that was likely average height!?? Good Christ, that’s unreal.)

Yeah, should’ve thought to embrace the bcc mechanism on my Thunderbird, because today—not Tuesday or yesterday, mind you—I had a whole e-mail war going on and all kinds of people annoyed, and I’m like, “Whoa, y’all! I wasn’t even talking about Universal Health Care!” That’ll learn ME. Jeez.

My big assignment for the week so far has been, in anticipation of Valentine’s Day, talking to NWI’s most “roMANtic” restaurants to find out what makes them the place to be: Is it ambiance? Food? What? And as I’m interviewing them, it occurs to me—and this will shock no one, I’m sure—that I’m probably the least conventionally romantic woman on the planet ... well, maybe not the PLANET, but it’s gotta be the Northern hemisphere, at the very least. I mean, the various owners were talking about this and that, and I get the whole flowers/cards/candy/nice dinner out thing. I just prefer to find “romance,” if you want to call it that, in less contrived ways. Or maybe that speaks volumes as to the guys I’ve been involved with over the years, I don’t know, but if someone wanted to take me out and spend that kind of scratch on me for Valentine’s Day, I wouldn’t appreciate it like he would want it appreciated. This of course is not to say that I would rather go to Outback Steakhouse over Rodizio’s or Lucrezia’s; I’m just saying it would be lost on me. (And probably something about the manner to which I’m accustomed.) But, like, rose petals in the bathtub and that kind of stuff? I could see myself thinking “Great. A cliche” if that ever happened.

What do I find romantic, then? That’s the other thing: I never know until it happens. Anyone else like that?

Funny, but I don’t recall GERMS being on my birthday wishlist. I better not be coming down with a cold.

Speaking of birthday gifts, I was going to model CatRag’s gift, but my boyfriend insisted on doing it himself: Lookit. (Mother loved it, too, Cat!)

It’s now almost 12 hours into year 38 for me, and I at least I no longer feel like I’ve been beaten about the upper back with a truncheon (even after yesterday’s 3-hour nap, necessitated by one of my editors who thought it would be funny to have me up and working yesterday morning after an extra-late night). But it was a good pain in which to suffer; anything that can restore my faith in the NWI music scene with the sheer joy akin to getting picked up by a 20-something and then bent over the hood of a car signifies a good night all around.

I’m not even sure I can describe Friday night’s show with River Oaks, FIL and The Steepwater Band other than with a slack-jawed “Whoa ...” Like, put your drink down and stare in wonder at how three skinny boys from Portage can make all that rock. Just unreal. At one point, guitarist Jeff Massey did this thing where both his hands were on the base of the guitar, and it was all “weedleeweedleeweedleeweedleeweedleeeeeeeee!” with fingers flying, swear to God. I’ve never seen anything like it. River Oaks, led by my D-list celebrity BFF hairstylist Ben Mollin (I love bringing that up), opened up the gig, and it was the quirkiest of the three—Girlie describes it as “middle-aged punk,” while FIL was hard-driving power pop(Girlie and I hate this cliche, but I have no better way of describing them at the moment). Then Steepwater, then a jam featuring Steepwater and NWI guitar virtuoso-leprechaun Danny Giorgi, who can sing backup with a cigarette in his mouth like no other. Seriously, I can’t say enough about these guys, and not just because they’re friends of mine. (Sidenote: Are they REALLY going to make them play the last freakin’ second of the Super Bowl!?? Really!??) So, when Steepwater comes to a bar near you, treat yourself and go. Oh, and I would say go buy something of theirs off iTunes, but keep in mind that magic can’t really be recorded well.

Second day of my birthday weekend: Up at the asscrack to work, then lunch with Kaffy, then sleeping. Glorious sleeping.

Today was lunch with Mother—who’s doing well with the anti-psychotic, and that’s the best gift for which I could ask, really—and now I’m over at Girlie’s for Crap TV night after hanging at her family restaurant for the Super Bowl. Have I told y’all lately that my peeps are the greatest peeps in the world? Because they really are, and I love every one of them. The birthday wishes have me all mooshie and stuff, even the drinks from my Facebook pals whom I’ve never met. It’s nice being remembered.

I’ll post pics from Friday night when I get home...

12:26 ayem: Ok, I’m home now, so pics ahoy below the fold (please note that for my purposes here, I ran some of these through Photoshop quick fix, so colors and stuff are going to look wonky): 

Went shopping with Girlie today to get a new pair of jeans before the big bad snow comes to bury us all, and as I came out to model, the following conversation ensues:

Especially if it’s real chips and salsa, not store-bought crap.

Tonight finds me crabby, introspective and not willing to share, so that’s about all I got for today. Oh, except wad? Just thought of something else you can pipe over to me on the FTP tip: “Spooky,” by Lush, since you WERE the one that ganked it from me lo those many years ago. Well, all of it except “For Love,” which I downloaded today and remembered, “Hey! wad stole my “Spooky” cassette lo those many years ago.” And don’t forget G-Town Tap Friday night—promise you won’t hate it.

Gotta say, I’m a little surprised the GCSC released it, unless of course the paper FOIA’ed the shit out of them. And you’d think that if she was in such a gorgeous locale, her food choices would be a little less bouzhie. Oh wait, I’ll bet she was trying to save the district money, because Ms. Ledbetter is nothing if not conscientious of what she spends:

School official’s Hawaii trip expenses detailed

By Sharlonda L. Waterhouse
Post-Tribune staff writer

GARY—The Visa bill for Gary School Board member Andrea Ledbetter’s recent trip to Hawaii was mailed to the district last week, with a total due of $2,501—$1,000 more than she said her trip cost.

It could be among the last credit card statements paid by the School Board, which is reconsidering its credit card policy.

First Financial Bank records turned over by the school district show Ledbetter spent $1,264 to stay at the Waikiki Beach Resort Hotel operated by Marriott, for the Jan. 5-8 Hawaii International Conference on Education.

While there, she dined at Lulu’s Surf Club Waikiki for $36.49, Cheesecake Honolulu for $61.81, a Honolulu Red Lobster for $41.65 and Jamba Juice Makai for $4.97.

She also made a purchase at ABC Stores in Honolulu for $19.65.

Her USA Airways plane ticket cost the district $600 plus $5 for online registration. Ledbetter also spent an additional $36.49 at O’Hare airport on the day of take-off, records show.

No paperwork or documents to support the business nature of the trip have been submitted to the accounting office, notations on district records show.

A history of trips

A look back at Ledbetter’s expenses over the past year show more than $5,000 to other trips in Las Vegas; San Francisco; and Orlando, Fla.

For example, the January 2007 bill for Ledbetter’s credit card included two $236 airline tickets—one for Ledbetter and one for a J. Woodson. Her husband is James Woodson.

The two charged $843 to stay at the Rosen Hotel & Resorts in Orlando in November 2006.

The district requested reimbursement for Woodson’s ticket but did not receive it.

In April 2007, records show Ledbetter spent $1,500 on restaurants, cabs and a hotel in San Francisco.

In November 2007, Ledbetter spent $1,373 on a trip to Las Vegas, which included a room and meals at the Bellagio, as well as $45 dinners at a steakhouse and a $74 dinner at Cheesecake Las Vegas.

No receipts or paperwork was turned in for that trip either.

‘It’s embarrassing’

Gary School Board president Nellie Moore and vice president Michael Scott refused district credit cards.

Moore said it’s a vow she made when she campaigned, and she has stuck to it.

School Board member Darren Washington, head of the policy committee, said the board must take steps to ensure that’s the routine for everyone. Washington is drafting a policy that would discontinue the use of individual credit cards by board members. Washington said when news of members spending thousands in luxury locations reach legislators across the state, it’s hard to make the case to the General Assembly that the district needs more money.

“It’s embarrassing,” Washington said. “It sends the message that we’re just going out and doing anything at taxpayers’ expense no matter how much it may cost. That’s a disrespect for other people’s money.”

Drop the cards

Washington uses a personal card and seeks reimbursement.

Moore said board members are elected on the assumption that they will do what’s good for students and the district and don’t need censoring by peers.

Moore said she did not feel it was necessary to require public announcements of board trips.

“I don’t see the benefit of that. I do think as a board we should look very carefully at conferences that benefit our district and have some order in which board members attend. Some conferences are very beneficial.”

Contact Sharlonda L. Waterhouse at 648-3085 or

--------------------

Hawaiian trip


Airfare $600
Conference $440
Honolulu beach hotel $1,260

Total $2,500

I ask you: Is there anything better than Journey’s “Escape?” Ok, don’t answer that unless you could totally see yourself getting past the cheese factor and hitting Steve Perry’s upper range like I am this very second. Scott Malchus featured it on his “Mix 6” of songs with great drummers last week, and it’s like I’m right back in 6th grade, when I bought the same-named album for “Stone in Love.” ("Open Arms?” Pssssshhhht. That was for pussies. I was a hardass in middle school.) Good stuff.

I wish, though, that these guys wouldn’t mix their choices all together in one giant mp3; with just 857.1 megs left on my new iPod, I’m loathe to throw huge files on it. Does anyone know how to break up a giant mp3, perhaps?

A couple of y’all are wondering about my comments and why they seem to disappear after a time. Much as I’d like to say that it’s because I have soooooo many people clamoring to egg me on in my insanityendeavors, it’s really because of the damn spammer dicks and how they’d go apeshit if I left them open any longer than 36 to 48 hours. For example, see how Tempe, Arizona keeps coming up in my Feedjit thingy? Upon further investigation, 10’ll get you 20 it’s a spammer dick looking for whatever virgin orifice I might not have protected. (Hahahahahahahahahaha! I’m funny sometimes).

Anyway, that’s the reason, so if you have something scintillating to say, say it quick. 

Ever eat something that you dig SO MUCH, you start eating it for like days straight because you totally can’t get enough of it, only to never pick it up again (like when I worked at Olive Garden in ‘94 and went on a green-noodle-marinara kick for weeks)? I’m really hoping that’s not going to happen with my beloved cauliflower thingy, because this stuff is like crack. Seriously. I’m not sure if it’s the lemon and olive oil or the pepper and lemon together (always a favorite of mine) or the fresh parmesan over all of it, but you know when I’m standing in front of the sink at 10:30 at night chopping up a damn cauliflower, I’m in love. 

All you Neanderpundit people sneaking over here without saying anything. What’s up with the lurking? I mean, I KNOW y’all ain’t shy ...

Four or five years after the blogging boom, the paper is now allowing its more popular beat writers to have blogs. And who are writers asking for advice? That would be ME. 


whoo boy

I have my own ideas, of course, but what do y’all think makes a good blog?

Jammies and underwear should NOT feel like I put them in the freezer for whatever reason when I take them out of the dryer.*

Has anyone invented butt warmers for the toilet (that don’t involve yarn, naturally)? Because it ain’t right that I should be freezing my ass off INSIDE MY CRIB. Good Christ. Glad my outdoor assignment was canceled today (for lack of snow instead of appendage-freezing-off weather, of all things); now, I can throw myself into such intellectual pursuits as laundry and oven-cleaning, and maybe some Crap TV at Girlie’s later if I can be persuaded to go outside.

Everything seems to be back in order after hell week—Mother’s settled in, and after sleeping most the day Friday, I don’t feel quite as beaten down anymore. Chatting with my pal Laura was also somewhat helpful: She lost her mom a little more than a year, I think, before Dad died, and her dad, God love him, isn’t much further along than Mother in the grieving process (though he IS much more responsible for his own health and can take care of his own doctors’ appointments). So anyway, Laura has three sisters and a brother, and her dad has started mentally noting what they call “grieving points,” wherein her dad reports to each of them who’s paid the most attention to their mom’s tomb for the week (i.e.: “Your sister left the most beautiful arrangement and stayed x amount of time"). The object, apparently, is that all the siblings are then supposed to top the others’ efforts. Fortunately, all five them have sick senses of humor, so they’re well aware of what their dad is doing and can laugh heartily about it. That right there is what I wish I had the most; I mean, I can tell people how ridiculous some of the shit is that goes on with Mother and me, but it feels like all I’m doing is being an ungrateful cunt, and that includes to those who either have met her or have known her as long as they’ve known me. With siblings—or even Dad himself—at least there’s someone who knows exACTly how it is, and you don’t feel like you have to defend yourself when you’re frustrated. And you know, I had no intention of turning this into another “Woe is me” diatribe, so pardon me while I go suck it up ...

There. That’s better.

So Friday night I covered my alma mater’s MLK Jr. celebration, which featured King’s youngest daughter, Bernice. And once again, it was an assignment that there was no way in hell it could be given the treatment it deserved in 8 to 10, which is what I’m typically writing these days. The reporter chick from the competition and I just looked at each other like, “Fuck. Where do you even start?” Just amazing, and timely to something my sister and I have been talking about the past few weeks, but I’ll talk about that later since I think it’s been two hours since I sprayed the crap out of the oven and therefore should probably clean it before I stick my cauliflower thingy in to cook.