However, allow me to point over there on my sidebar, where it says ”Pussy Ranch“ and has for, like, forEVER. That there means I’ve been reading Oscar ingenue Diablo Cody for at LEAST four years now, so don’t y’all be jumping on the bandwagon and saying you’re all huge fans. Because I was THERE, man, before y’all were.

Now that we’re talking about movies, here’s my dilemma for tomorrow: I’ve been invited to a movie world premiere and afterparty in a cool locale with good friends, and it’s been on Girlie’s and my social calendar for weeks, right? Did a story on it (of which I really liked the way it turned out) and everything. So Saturday I’m doing some work (read: screwing around on the Innerbunny), and I get an e-mail from one of my excellently reliable sources in a town I normally cover but haven’t since the latest election because the new councilmen are insane and there’s only so much insanity I’m willing to take when it comes to covering municipalities. In it, my source provides the context of the next meeting, and it’s the kind of story I LIVE for, with corruption and major players that are doing something really really WRONG. I fire off an e-mail to my one editor (who’s LEAVING and as such is one of the reasons I’m a sad panda right now) letting her know I SO want to cover this meeting.

Aaaaaaaand ... you know where this is going.

So, my choices are work and do a story that will really stick it to some deserving, corrupt dumbasses, or go to a cool movie premiere and drink expensive beer with friends who appreciate me. This is not as easy a decision as it seems.

And I totally have the recipe to make them Serbian stylee, too, so I should, because GoshDAMN they’re good. Y’all can have your mac n’ cheese as comfort food; give me them green beans and some sausage and kraut (or even better, stuffed cabbage), and I’m good to go. Of course, all I want right this very minute is a phospho cocktail, because I ate entirely too much today and kind of feel like I need to purge*, especially after preliminary dress shopping with Girlie earlier this afternoon. God, it’s already as big a suckfest as I imagined.

Interesting discussion over here at our former sister paper (I think—no, wait, it was The Telegraph, says Wikipedia): Lookit. If you’re not going to clicky, it talks about how men and women experience music differently, and the basic conclusion is that men are more, ahem, intelLECtual and women are more emotional (of course we are ). Based on this, I don’t see how men could be classified as enjoying the music when really, they’re just kind of collecting stuff about the music in that nerd way they do, be it rare paraphernalia or discussing the relative merits of a Gibson over a Strat. What has that to do with the music itself? As for me, I’m the first to admit I have visceral responses to music. But then you know what happens next? I start listening for harmonies (or creating them in my head if there are none) and breaking down beat patterns and all manner of other deconstruction. And with a refresher course on scales, I could listen to a song and write out the music for it, too; used to do that quite a bit as a kid with my recorder. Don’t know about y’all, but that’s about as nerdy as it gets.

I wouldn’t call the article divisive, necessarily. I just think they’re talking about two different things.

And may y’all quickly find some sort of peace after today’s events.

Because I suspect this is to what ye sick m’erf’ersy’all diehard fans have to look forward:



It could happen.

Great debate over on Gawker about celebrities’ rights to not be talked about in the press ... well, it’s not so much a “debate” as it is people with half a clue rightfully taking talkshow meathead Jimmy Kimmel to task over his performance on “Larry King Live” last week. Nevertheless, I’d have weighed in, only every time I was ready to add something productive to the the bashing, someone else beat me to it. Anyway, here t’is: Lookit

and it’s all Karl Rove’s fault.

Any of y’all watch Flip This House? Did you see tonight’s where Armando buys this house that should be leveled but then takes his vacation and leaves his brother David (who I LOVE) to pick up the pieces? And he’s all cocky and shit? Seriously, what a dick.

A certain Innerbunny character (who shall remain nameless) wrote a very, very disgusting, yet very, very true (but very, very disgusting) account of one of life’s little pleasures today.

Who knew pus could even collect down there? Wouldn’t that be akin to, like, digging for gold or something? Like, what if you brought up knee cartilage or something?

Another title having nothing to do with my entry, other than the people who need to know what I’m talking about do. It’s funner that way sometimes.

Except for the Martin funeral, however, there really isn’t much to dish about—that is, unless you count the complete wang Gary Mayor Rudy Clay left in my mouth after his ugly show of ego at Martin’s wake Sunday. MerFer rolls up in his Mayoral Hummer, assistant and bodyguard/driver in tow, and waltzes up to the front of the line and bypasses the hour and a half wait the rest of us had. Yeah, I know this guy thinks he’s a marked man since someone’s tried to shoot him up once already; whatever. No one’s going to convince me that he and Gary Martin were THAT good of friends that he should’ve been given rights reserved to the family, close friends or even the sheriff. I mean, Hobart Mayor Linda Buzinec stood in line maybe 15, 20 people ahead of me—you didn’t see HER taking advantage of her position. Neither did any of the law enforcement officers who attended, at least none that I saw. Tool.

I do get to write a Political Notebook item out of it, though, and that’s always fun because you get to be as snarky as you wanna.

Our good buddy mac posted a little something about some broad who got busted for smuggling heroin by—get this—soaking her unnywears in it. Managed to get, like, three pounds into 15 pair of assorted panties and long johns and shit, right? So here’s my question: How the hell do you get the heroin back OUT of the unnywears*? Seriously.

Since I’m on my college newspaper nerdfest these days, here’s a story about the time I had a cartoon drawn about me. No, no, don’t get all excited; it’s not a happy story. See, there was this guy who was on the paper with us knuckleheads, a rather talented bloke who served as our design chief. He and I were a year apart and went to the same high school, and he was fun-loving and wonderful and an all-around great guy. In fact, the two of us to see Van Halengar together and had a fantastic time, even after his car broke down on the road and we had to hitch a ride in the back of a pickup to get to the show. It was all good.

Well, the college newspaper being what it was, and all us knuckleheads being in our early 20s with maybe the sense God gave a goat, drama of only the most vicious kind nerds can dream up ensued, and through the fallout this guy made the rest of us sworn enemies—so much so that he transferred to the other commuter campus we have in the good ol’ County of Lake and became a cartoonist for them. And in one of his cartoons, he fashioned a character that not only looked like me, but hit a little too close to home with the insider information, if you catch my drift. Didn’t mention my name, though. Now, I’d heard about the cartoon at some point after it ran in the other campus paper, but I didn’t actually see it until several years after it and all the ensuing drama were semi-distant memories.

Perhaps it was a delayed reaction, but I remember being fairly outraged by the whole thing. I mean, here was a cartoon character that absolutely looked like me and was sharing not-so-thinly veiled information about me to all of Lake County (or at least the people who went to this other campus and actually read their rag)—of COURSE everyone was going to know it was me from looking at that cartoon, even though my name wasn’t attached to it. DUH, right!??


(Whatever, man. Rock on with that sense of self-importance.)

Anyway, I’m bringing y’all this story because for the first time since I rented my space here on the Innerbunny, my peeps have been kind of wiggin’ about it and what I may or may not be writing about people. And I understand that if you can recognize yourself in something, there’s a chance that other people will, too, and people as a rule want to control the message that’s put out about them. I work with it every single day of my life, so believe me, I get it.

But.

The reason I started blogging—aside from the fact that I write so devoid of character in my everyday life, I wanted to see what my voice sounds like now that most of the creativity has been pounded out of my brain; and that I, like 99.99999999 percent of all other bloggers out there, am vain and more-than-slightly exhibitionist—is because I like having a place where I can share my life and the goings-on in it as I see them. And if I talk about the people in my life as they relate to me and my goings-on, I’m allowed to do that, at least to the point that I’m not putting them in danger or sharing things they want kept secret. Really, it’s no different than me talking to any one of my closest friends, except for the fact that here, I keep real names out unless I either have people’s permission to use real names (like Tara and Kaffy) or they have a documented, public reputation. The other thing with which I take great pains is that anyone who interacts with me is likely not going to be surprised by anything I have to say here, because it’s pretty much the same thing that I’ve said to everyone else a million times already.

All of this to say, as much as we think we’re that important, the Innerbunny really is a vast wasteland where nobody really knows anyone, so it’s likely that no one’s going to know who you are.