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

You’d think as an adoptee I’d be all about this, and I’m not not about it, I guess, but. I mean, why now when this partnership could’ve been conceived (hah! pun) from the very start of PP? Is this something PP has to do to keep whatever paltry funding it gets? Is it a countrywide trend? And there’s a zillion different adoption agencies out there, so why would PP want to get into the fray?

Again, it’s not that it’s a bad idea at all—PP needs to continue to be the leader in reproductive services, and that means ALL services. I ... just have questions.

As is the rule, tread lightly if you’re going to comment.


[EDITED TO ADD: Check it out, y’all! Jez picked up my tip: Lookit! And it was even written by Moe! Cool beans!]

If you had a dream where

a) you lose three molars in the span of, like, five minutes;
b) you try to go out to dinner with your dad and a friend but y’all don’t end up eating after you tell your dad you’ll skip your final semester of college and work a ton of jobs to pay your half of the dentist bill if he’ll pay the other half;
c) you end up leaving your car to get fixed at a shop in a bad neighborhood;
d) after you somehow manage to snag a late appointment with your dentist, a verbal spar with two old ladies who cracked on your weight in the crowded dentist office results in a topless chick, and then the cops come;
e) your dentist, who’s cranky at having to work so late, says your lifestyle is the reason for your teeth loss and uses the two more molars you lost while waiting as examples (recognizing that he’s had a hard day, you end up asking him if he’d like you to schedule a second appointment to talk about solutions, to which he gratefully accepts);
f) you contemplate calling your parents for a ride home from the office because it’s dark out, but then you run into your downstairs neighbor, who’s got a date with another dentist in the practice, and you end up getting set up with semi-dorky other suitor hitting on her;
g) as the four of you are driving back to the restaurant at which you were going to eat in the first place, a number from the skeevy neighborhood where you left your car comes up on your phone;
h) when you answer it, the guy on the other end won’t identify himself, which freaks the shit out of you, but he ends up telling you your car and others in the area have been vandalized by guys seeking tranny sex; and
i) you end up mackin’ on the semi-dorky guy after he was nice to you, and when he whips out Magnums you ask him how he feels about per10d sex;

what would you suspect was going on?

Despite all the significant dream elements (losing teeth, nekkidness, not finishing school, Dad, etc.) it wasn’t a nightmare at all. But it might be proof that Poppy’s baked beans shouldn’t be eaten before sleepy time.

[EDITED TO ADD: Girlie, you were the friend in the dream.]

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.

So, have y’all heard about Private First Class LaVena Johnson? The Army claims Johnson, an African-American woman, killed herself in Iraq 3 years ago, even in the face of the following:

Wow. If killing herself was the goal, that’s an awful lot of self infliction to go through when there are a lot more efficient ways to get the job done, one would think.

What the Army didn’t take under consideration is that Pvt. Johnson’s dad is A DOCTOR and therefore wasn’t fooled by the whole “It was self-inflicted” horseshitpronouncement the Army gave his wife and him, and he of course has been trying to get the investigation reopened. Unfortunately, it’s taken THREE YEARS so far. Let’s hope with all the publicity it’s now going to be getting, our Congressional monkeys will do something about it. After all, they did finally straighten out the Pat Tillman debacle, right? Fair’s fair.



[*Yeah yeah yeah, I know what I said about talking politics; as far as I’m concerned, this has more to do with psychopaths running the nut hut than who put them there. Nevertheless, one word about which party’s responsible or that this an attention ploy by the family, and your comment gets deleted. In fact, I came thisclose to closing comments on this post altogether, so if I have to do it early, I will.]

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 found the crew and me at yet aNOTHER gig with our boys, this time on the way sout’ side of Chicahga at a bar to which I’d never been and Girlie hadn’t been since, like, 1994. It was remodeled, sure, but you know the phrases “Throwing 300 pounds of shit into a Gucci bag is still 300 pounds of shit,” and “This is the place where people go to die?” Y’all, my D-list celebrity BFFs have chosen the wrong market in which to ply their trade, because these were some of the saddest looking m’erf’ers I’ve encountered in a looooooong time. And—AND!—they have absolutely NO taste in music. The opening act, which I will cleverly disguise their real name as “Crotch Louse,” was this blues-metal-country fusion mess that tried to evoke, I don’t know, the Butthole Surfers, maybe? Girlie thinks they thought they were being unique, what with the lead singer using that distortion thingy that singers use to sound like they’re far away and all, but dude, seriously. All that came out was only slightly impressive guitar playing at times, and the drummer didn’t completely suck. Oh, and there were at least two songs about butt secks, because we could understand THOSE lyrics clearly. And then when Steepwater took the stage, every time Jeff whipped out the weedlee and other hot tricks, a-holes were WALKING OUT OF THE BAR! What a nightmare. The mood was all off; even the boys knew it was bad and cut the set by two tunes.

So we entertained ourselves, as we always do. Some choice quotes from the night --

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:

Girlie’s slacking on sending me the Saturday night pics (which are magnificent acts of cyberphoto terrorism in and of themselves and you will DIE when you see them finally), so bide your time sorting through THESE beauties: Lookit. Many thanks to ButterCup Trix for this bit of 12 year-old boy humor that had me tearing up with laughter but a few minutes ago.

I know, I know, I’ve been neglecting my duties. I guess I’ve just been feeling PRIVATE lately and not wanting to share my innermost goings-on, like having a sit or critically deconstructing the merits of “It’s Complicated” or my oldest sticking his butt in my face for the millionth time in a day (but not before he delicately kisses my hand). It’s all so personal, and I just don’t want to feel so JUDGED all the time.

(snerk)

I’m being an ass. Sorry. Sort of.

Life’s still pretty quiet around these here parts, though; outside of the magnificent weather last weekend that I DIDN’T GET TO SEE (dammit), just been working a lot and looking forward to next month, when all the cool things happen (hint: BUS DEMOLITION!). But tonight’s Girlie’s birthday party, and since we’re going to see Metalicious, she’s making us dress all 80s stylee. Lemme tell you, my ensemble is SICK with authenticity, and they’re going to DIE when they see it. You will, too, because I’m sure pictures will be posted.

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.

Not sure which I’m more disturbed by—that someone is using his junk to procreate, or that his hair looks frighteningly like mine in this picture. And TELL me he’s not wearing at LEAST mascara, if not false eyelashes (of which mine are still languishing at the bottom of my purse from last weekend. Suppose I should get them out of there.) As always, there’s just no accounting for taste sometimes.

So my one oldest and dearest e-mails me excitedly yesterday all about our, get this, 20-year high school reunion. At first I was kinda like, “Ew, I’m in touch with all the people I want to be in touch with from high school, thankyew,” but now that I’ve been looking at the Web site the committee’s set up, I’m thinking there are some comedic possibilities that’ll be too good to pass up. And anyways, my pal promised he would stay at Chez Broad and dry-hump me until my leg’s raw, and really, how could I possibly turn THAT down?

From our ol’ pal and self-proclaimed BBW Kaffy:

Naturally, this resulted in great laughter between us.

Ok, so as Girlie, Curlie and Li’l Holly and I were standing at the ghe-TTO flea market waiting for our rib tibs, a seagull shit on my head.

I’ve heard somewhere that it’s supposed to be good luck when that happens, but so far, the only thing lucky about it was that Girlie had baby wipes on her.