So tonight I’m over at Girlie’s for a candle party with the usual suspects when one of them who isn’t part of the crew starts chatting with me as I’m writing a story. She was interested in the types of stories I do, and I gave her the usual shpiel about how I write everything but sports because I’m a sports retard, etc. when she asks me if I do this and that. (It’s here that I’m going to start being vague for reasons I’m sure y’all will appreciate in a second.) I tell her yeah, I’m asked to do this and that every so often, so she asks if I’m familiar with so-and-so, and I was all “Of COURSE! I love them!” when she said “Well, don’t get too excited.” I look at her all intrigued --"Oh?”

And there it came: “So and so molested me when I was in high school.”

See, I’m one of those people that gets told a lot of things regardless of whether or not I want to be told. Part of it is because of what I do, naturally, but nine times out of 10 people just share their deep dark stuff with me. And I’m a pretty good listener, so it’s cool, whatever. But I gotta say, that one was hard to take. I mean, it’s bad enough to hear about abuse when the a-hole who did it has no connection to you, but when it’s someone you know and could conceivably have contact with!?? “Awkward” and “disappointed” don’t even come close. I’m pretty sure my jaw is still over at Girlie’s.

Could she be lying? Sure; there’s also no way of proving anything because she never prosecuted, and this was 20-some years ago. Still, based on the conversation, I don’t believe she is.

Just ... wow.

[NOTE: Before anyone calls me out for putting this in such a public forum—and I understand why you would—she told me in front of the others that I could tell anyone and use her name if I wanted. I’ve chosen not to, of course, because again there’s no police record. But if there was, I’m still not sure I’d name names, because there’s other people involved and oy! does this suck.]

except for, oh, that Snelling and I took second place in deadline reporting at the state Society for Professional Journalists Awards last night for our work on the Chase Street crash.


Holla,
muthafukkas!

Yeah, I know, I didn’t say anything here when I found out a month ago that I was up for it because bragging kinda sucks (though it didn’t stop me from mass e-mailing my posse with the news, so clearly it doesn’t suck THAT much), but I figured I’d let y’all know when I found out for certain how I placed. And I’m thrilled, though not as thrilled as I would’ve been had we taken 1st. Why? Well, because as I’ve said a million times before, that story meant a lot to me, but also because the story that beat us out was by the competition, and I ALWAYS hate that, though I dig the writer who wrote it, so I’m cool that it was someone deserving and not, you know, someone who WASN’T (ahem).

Now, I just have to come up with the value of drinks y’all will be buying me for my win. Good thing it WASN’T first, because someone would be required to cough up a bottle of Veuve, and that ain’t cheap.

New discussion over on Jez: Lookit.

Nope, didn’t watch it, don’t wanna watch it, find absolutely no intrinsic value in it, etc. Do you? And if not, do you think it should be banned?

Days like this are the reason y’all ought to wish you were me, fancy pensions and health insurance be damned. It was so warm and gorgeous, it’s, like, how could you even think about doing anything besides hanging out and getting your summer “Lincoln Park After Dark” pedicure on because all the boys think almost-black purple on your toes is super-hot? I was even ready to hit the trail for a walk or bike ride, but the whole blistered feet thing from yesterday’s Cubs game nixed that idea (Merrell maryjanes, while tres cute and versatile, are not good for distance walking. At least the blister isn’t 2 inches long like it was the last time.)

Other than that, I got nothing, except to say I’m in a pretty freakin’ fantastic mood.

So, talked to Mer the other night (who, because of the current ass-expensive flying prices won’t be coming to visit over her spring break but still plans to make an appearance before summer’s out) and we start talking about the possibility of me going to visit her in Israel after she moves out there. I tell her what, are you kidding? Israel’s on my top 5 list of places to visit before I shuffle off the mortal coil—of COURSE I want to come out, except the IRS butt-raped me and stole my seed money, so I don’t know when that’s going to happen. So SHE says, “You know, as a journalist don’t you want to visit me? I mean, this is the highlight of journalism! We can hang out at the American Colony Hotel where aaaaaaaallllllllllllllll the journalists hang out. Then you can write a juicy story.  Listen, if money is the only factor I’ll have a lot of it.  Would you come if I spotted you the ticket?”

After wiping the drool off my chin, I tell her well YEAH, but I have no idea when I’d be able to pay you back, so then, bless her heart, she says, “I’m not asking you to pay me back. Dude, it’s 38,000 in my pocket. No rent, nothing. Tax free. (She’s taking a sabbatical from teaching so will be getting paid by both.) But would you come is the question—some people are ‘afraid!’ “ And I was like, “Sheeeeee-it! I told Randy Kapers he’d go blind if he kept masturbating in 8th grade History Class. Who YOU callin’ ‘scared?’ ”

And so, at the end of September, I’ll be spending Yom Kippur in Tel Aviv. How’s THAT for a fuckin’ vaykay!?? I’m so excited, I can’t even STAND it! But in the meantime, I will be spending the afternoon in good company at the Cubs game. 10-6, babies! It’s a good start!

With today’s stellar weather and superclandestinehot liaison last night, you’d think I’d be a futon full of purring baby cougars all day. I at least started off as such, but then I turned into a bag full of hammers for most of the afternoon. That didn’t last, though, (through the wonders of age and medication, I am able to rein myself in more quickly than I used to, though I know Girlie doesn’t believe that at times; she puts up with an awful lot of whining from me), even after getting a definitive answer to something I’ve been dreading getting a definitive answer to.

(As an aside, I still might be on the fence about The Law of Attraction, but please believe that God, the universe, Johnathan Livingston Seagull or whatever thing in which you have faith will ALWAYS give you what you need to hear when you need to hear it. Unfailingly. Pay attention to that and see if I’m wrong.)

Unfortunately, most of my day tomorrow will be spent covering the funeral of Pfc. Shane Penley, from start to finish, for the paper and its sister. I suspect it will be draining. 

Stupid car depreciation falling off my list of things I can deduct. So much for being frugal about shit.

Worse thing is, the so-called “rebate” won’t even cover my whole tax bill. Boo-URNS.

I just sent this to most of my Facebook homies:



Are people even allowed to Rickroll themselves? Whatever, I don’t care. Beaker is my homeboy.

In my lameness at not joining my comrades, I trolled down Seamus O’blogroll to catch up, and if y’all aren’t reading Skot from Izzle Pfaff!, a pox on you because he’s freakin’ BRILLIANT. Immerse yourself in the beauty of his prose, will ya?

Some months ago, Budweiser had the astonishingly shitty idea of teaming up with Clamato to release this . . . beverage that they called “Chelada,” a perversion of a perfectly fine Southwest/Mexican drink tradition of leavening shitty lager with tomato juice, lime and salt in order to create a refreshing summer drink (I swear this is true). And when it came out, J. managed to sneak a can of it into my fridge as a joke; when I discovered the offending thing, I swore to him that I would make him drink it.

This was the night. I pulled out the giant can--24 deathless ounces--and squinted apprehensively at the label, which, yes, was still trumpeting the good sense of this collison of Budweiser and Clamato. With a coroner’s clinical eye, I examined the “nutritional information” boxlet, and encountered this terrifying fragment: “Contains shellfish/clams.” I clouted J. about the head and torso and wept at our fate.

I poured the stuff into a couple of glasses; pinkish and wan, it looked like poorly oxygenated blood, or perhaps a pleural effusion. It bore virtually no head whatsoever, the carbonation presumably overcome by the angry, imprisoned shellfish/clam zombies. Even pouring it was dispiriting, like watching suicides falling from tall buildings. We smelled our samples and were not encouraged: it was a hellishly chemical lime nose that seemed to grouchily throw punches at the only other olfactory note, which was a sickly tomatoesque sweetness. Finally, we took a sip.

This was possibly as close to the American tradition of St. Patrick’s Day that we got that evening. For one brief horrifying moment, J. and I drank an alcoholic beverage that was, for all intents and purposes, like drinking pure, unadulterated malignity. For a mere moment, we were as one with all of those douchebags out there in all of those Stygian Irish bars, drinking the undrinkable.

making want to sleep instead of meeting up with all the reporters so we can piss and moan about the man and drink our faces off.

I know that boy-cut panties are the shit-diggity—they’re my preferred cut, if you must know—but if you’re going to wear a white, high-collared bad 80s sweater AS A DRESS, rockin’ the white boy-cuts underneath defeats the purpose.

And don’t even get me started with that stupid wide gold belt with the black pumps.

[EDITED TO ADD: This comment is to the snooch we saw workin’ it after the gig, not Roger Clyne himself. He wouldn’t dare be so crass about his underwear choices.]

see more crazy cat pics

Anyone know what the fish are on bottom? Because they ugly.

All right, now Accounting’s just screwing with my head, because my check totally came in today. That’s not a BAD thing, per se, especially right this second, but there are in fact a few things in my world that need to be consistent, and my money is one of them.

As promised, here are the pictures from my drunken night with Roger Clyne, except, there won’t be too many pics of me because I look retarded in most of them. But everyone else is fair game!


Awwwww, my first Shiner of the evening.
At $5.50 a pop. Yeah, Joe’s on Weed might
be a great bar, but fuck those prices, man.
Also, whatever that thing is in the lefthand
corner, it’s not a scrote. I think.


You can’t see him real well, but this is the drummer from
opening act, Georgia. Great band, but I kept wondering if
the drummer had some sort of deformity that glued his head
to his right shoulder.


Hey, everybody! It’s Lenny and our ol’
pal Opie, wearing Buck Daddy t-shirts like
they planned it or something, which they
totally DID.


The picture I really wanted to use would’ve gotten me killed
by my seester, so here’s one of her with her pal. I think she
looks a little more like me in this shot—if I were blonde, anyway.


First shot of our man of the evening, looking very Johnny
Depp-ish in his, what is that, a porkpie hat? I don’t know.


Such a pretty, pretty man.


He’s singing to me, you know.


Lenny, his lovely wife and, buried under her
coat, their first baby boy, John Jackson --
or Jackson John. They haven’t quite decided,
but they’re going to call him “Jack” either way.


Requisite sexy flipping of the hair.


Sigh.


If you ever need proof that no
hairspray on this earth can make my
hair stay straight in humidity, here it is.
And I wonder why my head’s cocked so high?


Oh wait, that’s right: Because THIS a-hole kept
FARTING in front of us the whole time. Do yourselves
a favor: Memorize the back of his head and RUN if
he’s ever in front of you. You’ll thank me.

Right around now, Opie reappeared after a length of time that HE said he spent talking to “some chick” but Girlie put him in his place with the entry headline, and I started trying to take more band shots. That’s when my seester nabbed my camera and said, “I’ll do it.” I’m sure you’ll note quite quickly who the pro here is:


Yeah.


Steve!


Such gorgeous hands.


(blinks) WHOA.


Girlie and Lenny sing gleefully.


Little Holly and DDDenise (as in “designated driver,” pervs!),
the other part of our quartet. I covet Little Holly’s hair.


Don’t get what he’s having.


I ... have NO idea.

More post-show wrap-up later; need to finish another story.

Here’s the conversation I just had with the night editor about my BIG. F’IN. STORY:

Whose idea was it to hand me shots of Southern Comfort? Oooof.