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.

LAYER ONE: -- Name: Broad -- Birth date: Feb. 3, 1970 -- Birthplace: Gary, Ind. -- Current Location: Still in NWI -- Eye Color: olive green -- Hair Color: You mean my natural color? -- Height: Call it 5'3 -- Righty or Lefty: Righty -- Zodiac Sign: Aquarian with a Cap moon and I want to say Aries rising. LAYER TWO: -- Your heritage: I've been wondering that myself, since my biological mother doesn't know who my father is. As far as we know, however, it's Polish and Croatian on her side, and possibly Macedonian on my father's side (provided that my father is one of three people that she thinks fits the bill.) Otherwise, I take pride in my father's name, which is Irish, baby! -- The shoes you wore today: blue and white Adidas cross-trainers -- Your weakness: Taco Bell (or any kind of fast food, really), this one guy, shoes, Coach leather goods, my cats -- Your fears: abandonment, not getting my facts straight in stories, not having steady income as a free-lancer -- Your perfect pizza: right now, ground beef and onion, but it changes with my mood -- Goal you'd like to achieve: Not allowing the crazy people in my family to drive me to the point of insanity. LAYER THREE: -- Your most overused phrase on AIM: "You're kidding, right!?!?!" -- Your first waking thoughts: "Whine." -- Your best physical feature: eyes, boobs, smile, though not necessarily in that order -- Your most missed memory: camping trip to Warren Dunes, Mich., with my best friend in eighth grade's family; met the guy I lost my virginity to (a few years later. Perverts!) First time I ever snuck out of anywhere. LAYER FOUR: -- Pepsi or Coke: Pepsi is the nectar of the Gods, yo. -- McDonald's or Burger King: like them both, but McDonald's has better cheeseburgers -- Single or group dates: definitely single dates; snogging in a group date gets weird -- Adidas or Nike: digging Adidas now -- Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea: Lipton, if you're going to force me to drink it -- Chocolate or vanilla: Chocolate -- Cappuccino or coffee: Safety-Steve Special from Steeltoe Joe in Hammond, with vanilla and caramel syrup, skim milk and lotso whipped cream LAYER FIVE: -- Smoke: What're you offering? -- Cuss: Sheeeeeeit, muthafucka. -- Sing: Very quietly; when I put my diaphragm behind it, I fuck it all up. -- Take a shower everyday: every other day, because my skin is dry and my hair doesn't need it (and sometimes every other other day since sometimes, I don't have to leave the house to work, and I've gotten to be a lazy slob like dat, yo). -- Do you think you've been in love: I've convinced myself I was many times, but I truly am in love now. -- Want to go to college: Took me eight Goddamned years to finish. -- Liked high school: Not until I got involved in Speech and Debate. Then I was cool. -- Want to get married: Eh ... ask me again in five years. -- Believe in yourself: It's a learning process. -- Get motion sickness: That's why I don't ride roller coasters. -- Think you're attractive: Yeah, for the most part. Losing 50 pounds would sure help, though. -- Think you're a health freak: Sure. I run for the Border at least three times a week. -- Get along with your parent(s): Adoptive mom: have no choice but. Adoptive dad: He passed away almost three years ago, but he was the love of my life. Biological mom: Not at all right now and don't forsee that changing, although not through any effort of mine. Biological dad: Did I mention we don't know who he is? -- Like thunderstorms: Awww, yeah. -- Play an instrument: Played the clarinet for 4 years, but then quit freshman year because I didn't want to be a marching band dork and didn't realize that I could sign up second semester for concert band. I am, however, a drummer at heart. LAYER SIX: In the past month... -- Drank alcohol: Oh, honey. Please. -- Smoked: Depends on what you're talking about. -- Done a drug: Depends on what you're talking about. -- Made Out: Mmm-hmmmm. -- Gone on a date: No. -- Gone to the mall?: Sure have. -- Eaten an entire box of Oreos?: No, but my mom has some at her crib. -- Eaten sushi: No, not a big fan. But I don't hate it. -- Been on stage: No. -- Been dumped: Not as far as I know, but that could change any moment. -- Gone skating: No. -- Made homemade cookies: Nah, don't bake. -- Dyed your hair: Got my roots touched up two weeks ago -- deep mahogany red. -- Stolen Anything: I gave up stealing my sophomore year in college, when I got busted for trying to lift yeast infection medicine. (Yum yum!) LAYER SEVEN: Ever... -- Played a game that required removal of clothing: I did. -- If so, was it mixed company: It was. -- Been trashed or extremely intoxicated: Sheeeeit, mothafucka. -- Been caught "doing something": Enough close calls, but never inflagrante delicto. -- Been called a tease: Once, when I wouldn't give it up to "Phil the one-eyed wonder" sophomore year of high school. -- Gotten beaten up: In fact, I did, when I was in eighth grade. But it was all good, because I started smashing my Hawaiian Punch can on her head. Because I was one of the "good kids," I was suspended only a day, while she got kicked out for three. -- Shoplifted: Yeah, I said that. I once even stole baby fever medicine for the daughter of a guy I was nailing. Ain't that romantic? -- Changed who you were to fit in: Absolutely. And then I got over it. LAYER EIGHT: -- Age you hope to be married: Eh ... ask me in five years. -- Numbers and Names of Children: (shudders) Not going there. -- Describe your Dream Wedding: Informal wedding at the Aquatorium in Gary's Marquette Park, followed by a beach party with a live band. -- How do you want to die: Happy. -- Where you want to go to college: Graduated IU ... Northwest. (Parents couldn't afford to send me to Bloomington, which was just as well since I was a late bloomer and probably would've drank myself into a coma.) -- What do you want to be when you grow up: A free-lancer, except with more money. -- What country would you most like to visit: Israel would be cool. So would Venice, Italy. LAYER NINE: -- Number of drugs taken illegally: three-ish, but I once OD'd on No-Doze. -- Number of people I could trust with my life: three or four, tops. -- Number of CDs that I own: 30-ish -- Number of piercings: one in each ear. -- Number of tattoos: none. -- Number of times my name has appeared in the newspaper?: at least five times every week -- Number of scars on my body: seven. -- Number of things in my past that I regret: DtR. (And yes, that's as bad as it sounds.)
Oh, whatEVER.

Peerless are produced in a Gary factory probably no larger than my apartment building. They have one machine making in excess of 375 pounds of finished product per hour (compared with Jays in Chicago, which does 35,000 pounds), and they are the best damn potato chips in the world: Salty, but not too salty, and rarely, if ever, burned because the guy uses specific potatoes that don't oxidize all crappy with the oil. Not only that, but they're healthy, at least as far as potato chips go; having one machine means they constantly use their oil, which means the taters aren't getting cooked in sugar-laden sludge. Best. chips. ever.

But Peerless, in business for 78 years, is dying.

See, Corporate America can buy shelf space on which to put its wares without ever giving thought to the little guy, which yeah, if you have the money, why not? It's business, happens all the time. Except I spent, like, an hour talking to the owner. He's a Vietnam Vet, inherited the business from his mom, likely grew up knowing he'd inherit the gig. And if you saw the sadness in the guy's eyes when he talked about how he had to take out a second mortgage on the building (which had to have been paid off, like, decades ago) ... sure, he played it off like it's business, but just the sheer defeat in his face would've broken your heart, too.

Now, I know a lot of people reading this aren't from NWI, so you may not know the goodness that is Peerless. But if y'all just contacted the guy and purchased a bag or two ... it may not be much, but it might get the ball rolling. They can be found at 1661 W. 11th Ave., Gary IN 46404, (219) 885-6843. Go on! Screw the diet for a weekend and help a brother out.
Oh, whatEVER.

It's a complicated relationship we have, he and I, and yet simple on most levels. I met him through my sister and brother-in-law (both of whom I don't speak to at the moment, for reasons I'm sure I'll get into later), and we knew each other for a little more than a year before we actually hooked up. That was going on five years ago, and since then, we've been off and on in this, this thing that has all the makings of a solid, loving relationship -- at least, in my opinion, and at risk of incurring the wrath of all my closest friends -- but it never quite makes it there. He says that's because he doesn't think of me that way, even though he wishes he did. Oh, yes, there've been many discussions, e-mails, full-blown mad drama about the the whole thing, much of which has revolved around his declarations of that's-it-he's-done-he's-found-someone-else-and-so-on-and-so-forth.

And yet.

So, what the hell am I doing, you ask? A combination of things, really. Saying that I love him, though to-the-depths-of-my-very-being the honest-to-God truth, isn't the whole deal, because a) it's too easy an excuse, and b) you can absolutely love someone without prostrating yourself. (I've seen it happen, too, so no, I'm not crazy.) So, how about habit, or my own fear of commitment? Sure, I'd buy either one of those, too. Another large part of it is because I swore to myself that I would never abandon him. Of course I realize that you can't teach someone to love themselves enough that they don't think everyone's going to up and leave them; I'm adopted and therefore the quintessential fucking poster child for abandonment issues. But sometimes, it helps to have someone there to steer you through the bullshit, and he deserves someone to be there. The trick of it all has been to be there without completely losing myself.

I'm getting better at that, though. It used to drive another nail in my heart each time he'd tell me there was someone else, but now it just makes me sad. Not just for him, but for both of us, since we both seem to be seeking something we just don't seem to be ready for.
Oh, whatEVER.