Region Broad

“Not expecting you to yell ‘Rectal cancer!’ while I’m on the phone!”

2009-06-05T06:22:00Z

Yes, but if I may go on record here and point out that how the hell was I supposed to know G/BF was setting her son’s voicemail when I thought Buddy over on ”All Over the Map“ got Farrah Fawcett’s cancer wrong!?? (He didn’t, btw.) And anyway, if I heard someone yelling “RECTAL CANCER!” on voicemail, I would it hilarious. I may be the only one, but I’m Ok with that.

So it goes without saying that life is a shit-ton better when I’m not dying of some flesh-eating virus’ cousin or whatever. The Cat & Co. visit over Memorial Day was a great time—spent a lot of time in the city learning ... stuff, like at the Field Museum, for instance: We were walking through the Animals of Africa and Antarctica and whatever when we came upon a walrus skeleton. I don’t know if y’all have ever SEEN a walrus skeleton, but as I was looking at it I notice there’s a rather large bone situated between its legs, and not like a tail. I pondered this for a moment before I whispered to Cat “Cat, are you seeing what I’m seeing here?” to which she was all, “Yeeeeeah, I see it.” So we pondered it a bit longer before sharing our findings with Mr. Rags (her ex-husband with whom she’s reconciled, huzzah!) out of earshot of T-man, who’s at that age where anything scat-related is the greatest thing ever. Well, later at dinner (and I gotta interject here for a moment that for those of you who love Emilio’s Tapas: It was good, but I still think Arco is way better. Too bad it was CLOSED the Sunday we were there for whatever reason, forcing us to almost have to eat at a REALLY expensive little Japanese joint that looked good based on the recommendation of the two gay gentlemen we interrupted at dinner and California Rolls she and I scarfed down to use the bathroom), Cat whipped out the old Crackberry to look up whether walruses have ... bones in their bones. Sure enough, ALL animals have weiner bones except for, like, four of them, of which man is included. So as Cat’s sharing this information, T looks at us and said, “I know what you guys are talking about,” and we were all “No, you don’t,” when he looks at Cat and points at his unit. I of course started cracking up while Mr. Rags had to explain that we don’t point at that in public. Anyway, Mr. Rags isn’t convinced that Cat and I actually left the museum to go shoe shopping while he and T went to see the museum’s Pirate thingy; he thinks we just stood there marveling at the walrus bone.

[Fun fact: Did you know walrus bones can get up to at least 4 feet long and that one time, one that size went up for auction with a starting price of $16K? Tons of people bidded on the thing because it’s an oddity and why wouldn’t you want a walrus weiner bone in your collection? True story.]

There are other stories to tell from that weekend—like the yentas sitting behind us at the Cubs game and another scatological exchange with the BoyofWad, but I think my favorite parts had to do with T and me; it got to the point where all we had to do was look at each other, and we’d just start laughing for no reason, thereby proving once again that I’m nothing if not 12. That’s one groovy little kid, though.

Now, things have taken a somewhat contemplative turn up in these here parts—a turn that has me itching for trouble. And it IS a full moon this weekend ...

When Iadmit there’s a made-up diagnosis for everything …

2009-05-22T04:43:00Z

No need to get all excited about me posting twice in one week; I’m continuing a break I’m taking from the mass resort cleaning to which I’ve subjected myself for Cat & co.’s arrival tomorrow. Anyway, she and I were yapping, and she asked me if I’d read an article she sent about Post-Traumatic EMBITTERMENT Disorder, where a traumatizing event such as a death, break-up, divorce, job loss etc. causes someone to get so stuck on their bitterness and revenge that they become depressed and develop an inflated sense of entitlement, among other symptoms. You know, because that’s what kids who get everything handed to them on a platter need: a special diagnosis of their very own to hide behind.

I keed, I keed ... sort of.

I mean, Ok, I get that revenge is a common reaction to sudden, devastating loss; I can think of few times in my life when I haven’t wanted to unleash some diabolical plan on someone who’s hurt me, or at least wished they’d end up dead in a ditch through no fault of mine. And I have no doubt that these feelings are the root cause when someone goes apeshit and murders their family or picks off people at an amusement park because she or he got hired for the chorus instead of Daffy Duck or whatever. But I don’t know about a separate diagnosis altogether, because it seems to me that a lot of this can be placed under PTSD as a subset. What do I know, though? Thoughts?

[UPDATE 5/26: Check it out, yo! I beat the Jezzes to the punch: Lookit]

The day BFE* ceased to be the coolest thing in my arsenal

2009-05-21T01:11:00Z

Here’s another thing I hate about being a grown-up: Coming home from G/BF’s Monday night, my throat was bothering me again, so much so that I couldn’t move my tongue without wincing, right? I get home and head to the linen/medicine cabinet for some Tylenol only to discover my Tylenol had an expiration of 02/06, and I thought to myself, “Wait, it really couldn’t have been THREE FREAKIN’ YEARS** since I’ve bought Tylenol, and am I going to die if I take it? And when did I have to start paying attention to OTC med expiration dates, anyway? If I barely pay attention to the expiration of milk—when I even have it in the house—how can I be expected to pay attention to something with a longer date? Deh.” I ended up taking a shot of lemon juice and throwing back some ibuprofen, of which I’m (pretty) sure was bought more recently than ‘06 because it all but quelled the tongue/gland pain and didn’t kill me. I do have strep, though, so you know, that might.

Two words for this past weekend:

Freek Johnson.

Freek’s a local jazz quartet whose rhythm section is comprised of 2/3 of The Unit, and they played their first gig in awhile Saturday night. Yeah, I keep pimping out the guys as if I’m getting rich off doing it, and some of y’all are probably, “Jesus, whatever already” (I’ll tell you what’s “Jesus, whatever already”: The hillbillies at the end of the block who were neither drinking responsibly nor, more important, QUIETLY this morning at 2 a.m. This isn’t open acreage, you Cheech-sounding motherfucker, so how about taking the hootenannies inside!?), but ... unreal, people. Outside of a brief flirtation with Scofield when I dated the One-Eyed Wonder in high school, I know nothing about jazz other than it’s like a song that starts out as the skeleton, and it’s up to the musicians to weave the organs and muscles and skin and nerves and stuff around it, and it doesn’t always come out the same way twice. It was good, then, that I had no real musical reference on which to get stuck, because then I would’ve totally missed the sheer joy and artistry emanating from every pore as they played. The drummer, for example (yeah yeah yeah, it’s always the drummer, I know): I’ve seen him play just about every weekend since the end of January-start of February, and he’s always really good—hardly breaks a sweat, looks like he can do it in his sleep and probably does. Watching him play what he loves Saturday, though? “Visceral” comes close to describing it in that it felt as if someone just set him loose, and yet there was such control in everything he did. Just gorgeous to behold.

But here’s where the high drops kinda: As I was heading down 12 (which is one of my favorite drives in the whole world, but oddly just the heading-back part, not going toward) and flipping through the iPod looking for an even remotely challenging drumline, there wasn’t a one, and it reinforced the notion that playing in NWI really is a suckfest. Not that the guys don’t love playing, because they do, and they’re grateful to be as popular as they are. But like Cheeks and I were talking about earlier that evening, there’s a million other things they COULD play that would make THEM happy but would confound or completely turn off their audience, so what do you do? Still, just hearing how elementary the drum parts were in my playlist compared with what I now know he’s capable of was almost heartbreaking.

[*BFE = Brooklyn Funk Essentials]

[**See, I KNEW I’d bought Tylenol recently, because there’s a whole new bottle of it that I completely overlooked the other night. But I got good drugs now, so it doesn’t matter.]

Mercury’s back in retrograde, and God, I feel like a dick, Pt. 2

2009-05-12T03:25:00Z

Things that have struck me dumb since, oh, let’s say Saturday:

-- On tonight’s second Intervention episode, the dude took to drinking foamy hand sanitizer when he couldn’t get out of the hospital quick enough to hit the fifth of vodka he had stashed at home.

-- The customer at the restaurant who, when he discovered his order was wrong, said—and I quote—“If I wanted to be treated this bad, I’d have stayed in Afghanistan.” Seriously? You’re really going to equate not getting your burritos grande to getting shot at in the desert? That’s a tad dramatic, n’est-ce pas!??

-- Then pal and co-waitress Double D (as in “Designated Driver,” you pervs) told the douchebag that her brother’s been in the Middle East twice already, yet she still doesn’t get why we’re there. I mean, I love that she said it, but during work where other customers might hear probably isn’t the best time or place.

-- In the first episode of Intervention—and this is one I’ve seen before, so how I missed this, I’ve no clue—the love-interest enabler chick basically just told the world the drunk with whom she’s in love either can’t get or keep it up. Wow. Hope he didn’t see THAT when he got out of rehab.

-- On our way home from the boys Sunday morning, G/BF tells me her latest nightmare (who we now refer to as “Dumbass No. 3,” or DA3 for short) told her if he moves back up here, he would STAY WITH ME so she could feel safe in knowing what he’s doing. O RLY!?? Because I would WANT his dumbass germs contaminating the resort.

-- The blatant homoeroticism of the latest Quizno’s ads: “Put it in me.”

-- Cheeks wearing a blowup doll with an arm-sized appendage on his head. (Ok, that didn’t strike me dumb, but it needed to be mentioned. We have the pictures to prove it.)

Despite all the toy play, I didn’t enjoy the weekend—still felt rotten and had family nonsense, after which I should’ve just taken my ass home instead of forcing myself to be social, because that rarely works and then I end up all fired up about stuff that’s, like, whoa, what the hell are you talking about. But tomorrow, I have a Cubs game with my old boss, so a slight change of scenery should do me good, and she and I always have a good time. Actually, it’s going to be an expensive month: Cubs tomorrow, RCPM Friday, another Cubs game over Memorial Day and possibly Great America at the end of the month to see my niece in her dance recital. Maybe I should start enterprising stories more.

“It’s like mole sauce: You either love them or hate them.”

2009-05-06T04:24:00Z

I just retrieved the following off my voicemail from a certain 8 year-old ginger:

Hey, [Broad], it’s T-Man ... I have to tell you about my cup ...

If y’all haven’t read Cat Rags’ post on this very subject, do. That kid KILLS me, and he and I are going to be living it up in a couple weeks, when Cat makes her triumphant return to the north for a bit of mayhem.

So anyone hear Miss anti-gay marriage California’s defense for the cheesecake pics of her that’ve been leaked? She’s saying they were released to ruin her reputation and poke fun of her values ... (sigh). I mean, her idiot comments on gay marriage aside, I watch enough E! Channel to know that pageant contestants? Not supposed to pose for pictures without their clothes on, and I don’t think that’s changed from the ‘80s and Vanessa Williams, so if she knew she was going to hop on the pageant circuit, why would she allow the photos to be taken in the first place? I don’t know, I guess I’m just annoyed by the hubris of her trying to turn it into a religious persecution argument when hey! shouldn’t have been posing in your panties in the first place, dumbass!

Similar but not congruent, G/BF ... not so much into boyshorts, she informed me apropos of nothing the other day when we were on our way to Localpalooza II. Apparently, there are creepage issues that *I* don’t experience. And now I’m sure you feel better for knowing that.

I think my rock n’ roll lifestyle has caught up to me again, because my sleep’s all screwed up and I woke up with my throat on fire and bloody mucous, making me completely miserable and reclusive on such a gorgeous day. (And before anyone says anything about my hypochondria, whatever this is is NOT H1N1. The thought didn’t even cross my mind. I’m serious! I ain’t all freaked out about no stinkin’ swine flu. Now, sinus cancer? That might’ve been googled. Go big or go home with your pretend illnesses, I always say.) This is going to be one of them nonstop weekends, too, including a family Communion thingy that got thrust upon me this morning by Mother for Saturday, so whatever this is better get gone quickly.

Once there was a title, and it was a gas … until we kept forgetting the damn thing

2009-04-28T17:47:00Z

I was just sitting here ruminating over how I was going to even start telling y’all about the weekend when the one of the many levels of hell that is my job popped up in my inbox: It’s graduation time, and here’s the first of about 20 you’re going to get to cover! Want it!?? No, I DON’T want it, because damn Region people don’t know how to act during commencement ("WE LOVE YOU, NEECIE!"). But I will do what I always do, which is take as many as they shove down my gullet with the understanding that I’m going to bitch about it the whole time, because I’m nothing if not consistent.

I think the best way to sum up the weekend is it was Girlie/Bitch Fantastic’s (G/BF) weekend to alternately shine and crap out early. From the top: Friday night, I’d just gotten off the horn with my seester to solidify plans for her coming in (she didn’t, although she’s talking about coming in this Friday) when G/BF calls, first to bitch at me for not picking up my phone all day (I get like that sometimes) and then to enlist my help in finding her cousin who inexplicably went MIA. We were talking when all of a sudden her husband starts cussing and yelling like a fool for some reason I didn’t even catch, which is nothing new but whatever. We hang up and I press on with laundry when I get a text from her about 2:30 a.m.: “Relationship emergency. Get here now!”

Well, it’s really her story to tell, so I won’t share particulars except to say “LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE!” and that having the big, dead weight off her shoulders is already doing her a world of good. What WASN’T good was the lack of sleep the bullshit caused as you’ll see; I didn’t leave her crib until 6:15-ish, and I think she and Curlie were up a little longer than that.

(On the subject of dead weight, I should mention that in between all this, the phone rang twice, and whose number should it have been but that of TOG. Not sure if he dialed me by accident or was leaving a “calling card” so that I would get back to him, but the appropriate response, of course, would’ve been to not respond. I, however, am not quite in the mood at this point to not respond and would much rather be as annoying as humanly possible, so I texted some crappy little remark. No response, so I guess that makes HIM the mature one for not taking my bait. Good for him; he gets the cookie. Yawn.)

(I should also add that I’m not anti-men or anti-relationship at all; in fact, there’s a gentleman or two I might be interested in as we speak. I’m just fervently anti-dumbass, and an inordinate amount of male dumbasses have been pissing up my rope lately, is all.)

ANYWAY.

After about 5-ish hours, give or take, I got up and made my way over to Dark Lord Day, the widely popular beer festival Three Floyds throws to celebrate their signature stout that *I* think tastes like molasses but people are crazy-wild about. I covered the event, but after experiencing it once, I’m ready to get a crew and pitch a tent out there next year. Freakin’ thing is a Dead show, only with much nicer and less smelly people; they had the Waco Brothers out there performing and some other band I can’t remember but is supposedly really good. Well, so you can’t go to a beer fest without partaking; it’s not like I was getting out of there without trying some with all the beer hippies offering me a swig of this or swig of that, anyway. Let’s see, that was 2-ish, 3-ish in the afternoon? Came home, showered then picked up G/BF and Curlie and headed toward a breast cancer benefit where we caught Bravo Johnny in one of their two or three reunion gigs of the year. I’d never seen them before, but it kinda turns out I really didn’t need to—chicken-egg, you see. I mean, they are really, really good, but just saying.

At this point, we headed over to G-Town for TSB, and this is where it all started going to hell for G/BF, in no small part because I kinda happened to mention to my D-List celebrity BFFs that she’d had a rough weekend and may need some liquid assistance. They of course obliged and, well, lack of sleep + several 7-7-roses limes + a metric shit-ton of tequila shots = TKO, and by time we got to the boys, she was all “I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.” So Juggsie, G/BF’s pal of a zillion years, left Curlie and I with the boys, who were crooning “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You” to some busted-ass Rod Stewart lookalike (no seriously, this dude was rockin’ the hair) as we walked in, which freaked me out because ew? Really? Then, just as THAT debacle was over, some guy in a wheelchair offered to let Cheeks ride around with him, and who would Cheeks be not to take him up on that? I’m sure other shenanigans went on, but after getting into my second Stella, I too started to wane. White Castle (but not that pulled pork nonsense) was procured, the end.

Fun fact: G/BF calculated our spendings Saturday. Grand total = $200 worth of alcohol between the three of us. That’s a lotta booze, folks.

For those of y’all who aren’t on FB, I’m having issues with posting pictures from the night, so I’ll try to post them later.

“Go F* yourself, convict!”

2009-04-23T06:12:00Z

Did any of y’all hear something about a cat being tossed out of a baseball game by its tail? One of my dearest friends/old editors has been yakking about it on FB, and I of course am all horrified at the thought. No, I don’t want a youtube link if it exists; I just want confirmation so I can prolong my outrage accurately.

Witnessed a near ass-whooping tonight at one of the bars a town over, and it was AAAAAAAALLLL Cheeks’ fault. I was at home catching up with Kaffy and CatRags and getting my underwear in the wash when Girlie (who sometimes wants to be known by her handpicked superhero name, Bitch Fantastic, from here on out) rings in to let me know she and one of her pals are out at said bar, get my ass over there. Threw on some clothes and arrived to Cheeks without the rest of The Unit (and here I COULD make several scatological “That’s like A without B”—what the hell’s that device called?—thingies, but they would be WRONG, WRONG WRONG. Also, Cheeks has informed me he’s now reading along with the class). So I’m sitting there with the gals drinking my Dog Style and trying to come up with our obnoxious request for the evening because it’s my new goal in life to think of the most pedantic, awful song requests for them to perform ("Hell is for Children” was particularly inspired, I think, and has been my favorite so far), and a crowd starts gathering at the door. Upon further examination, we notice that the big hairy bouncer at the front is squeezing the neck of some douchebag like he’s going to pop his head like a zit while others are trying to separate others and we don’t know what the hell’s going on when suddenly, Cheeks yells “GO FUCK YOURSELF, CONVICT!” then starts singing “Why Can’t Weeeeee Be Friends?” which we thought was hilarious and perfectly appropriate. There was one chick who clearly didn’t, however, because SHE RUSHED THE STAGE AND TOOK A SWIPE AT HIM WITH HER NAILS. Now, all we saw was her bounding up to the stage, and we were like, “Whoa, holy shit!” but we didn’t think she actually made contact with his flesh.

So the story is, this chick was trying to put in a request or talk to him while he was in the middle of a conversation, and he was all “Hold up, give me a sec,” so she wigs out and tells her douchebag friends to tell him what-for, only instead of reaching HIM, they went up to aNOTHER table of douchebags, who got all puffy, and then fighting ensued and so on and so forth. I just hope they weren’t waiting for him in the parking lot.

Oh, and since everyone’s been asking, no, I have NOT given up my reporting career as perhaps my FBing has led y’all to believe. I HAVE been picking up shifts at the restaurant, though, since Girlie/Bitch Fantastic has been a little shorthanded and, you know, it’s the LEAST I can do n’ shit since I essentially live there, anyway. And I have to say, it doesn’t suck. I mean, I think I’ve talked about how I waitressed for a little bit in college and how God-awful it was and how even worse *I*was at it, but this is actually fairly cool. I just need to get the hang of it a little better, so no, I do NOT have a set shift and no, I will NOT tell you when I’m there. At least let me get a little better at it before you come in and try to make me lose my shit, huh?

“Thank you, Easter Bunny!” (Also: “Wake up and smell the arsenic!")

2009-04-16T05:44:00Z

First I get, “EnterTAIN ME!” then I get “Oh, OH! You go a whole MONTH without blogging, and now you want to do it aGAIN!?? WhatEVER!” The hell. A broad can’t get a break over here.

Show of hands: How many of y’all are having problems with your significant others? I swear, all my girls’ relationships are imploding, and it makes me really, REALLY glad I’m single. Like today, we were at the restaurant, and one of them was talking about how now that she’s asked her husband for a divorce, he’s now all up her butt and—oh God—CRYING all the time. Another one doesn’t have the crying (much), but hers is waiting on her hand-and-foot when all she really wants is for him to pay some of the damn bills. And yeah yeah yeah, I know emotions make me itch and all, but I was, like, horrified, because when I think about the usual complaints, it’s always women jawing about how their men are too involved in work and whatever. But a guy clinging would be SO much worse to me, I can’t even TELL you. Seriously, how do you get “I need to do everything short of wiping my woman’s ass” from “She’s asked me to start contributing to the household”!?? That doesn’t even make sense. But yeah, so, being able to never change out my jammies and loving my cats doesn’t sound quite so bad now, does it? (Not that it ever did to ME, but ...)

Hey, remember my skin flute? It’s on loan to The Unit boys since Holy Saturday. I don’t think they’re going to do anything completely disgusting to it, but I know it brought them great joy, hence the “Thank you, Easter Bunny!” reference. Cheeks took to it quite nicely, in fact. On another note, they played the HELL out of “Honky Tonk Woman”; these guys are really good, but I was FLOORED by how good that was.

No title for the impending apocalypse

2009-04-09T03:53:01Z

Since my two whole fans have been endlessly harassing me to entertain them for the past week, all RIGHT, already! I’m here!

It’s been a little stressful in these parts the past couple weeks, what with our parent company on the brink of financial disaster (thanks again, Conrad—you filthy nutsack), waiting for the courts to release my paychecks and the whole thinking about what my next move should be thing and all, and there really just hasn’t been a lot to say that hasn’t involved me being in a semi-state of panic. I’m marginally better this week, although the thought that I might have to go back into an office setting makes me want to choke on my vomit like nothing has in quite awhile. The nice thing, though, has been the support of friends: A guy with whom I went to high school and who was on the periphery of my college crowd and his wife, for example, totally offered to pay for me to go to this benefit just because they thought I might need the distraction. I haven’t talked to this cat in 15 years, maybe? And I didn’t know him well in high school, either, but here they were, ready to take me out. I don’t even know what to do with that kind of kindness, you know? And Girlie or wad—Jesus. I wouldn’t even know where to start.

It hasn’t been an entire suckfest all month, though—in fact, some parts have been downright entertaining, such as those that involved our new favorite cover band, The Unit. It’s not often, after all, that you get to see the lead singer’s ass on a regular basis. It also may or may not be why we’ve taken to calling him Cheeks.

What’s with all the bawl-bustin’!? Damn

2009-02-25T02:37:00Z

Evidently, I’ve been doing my job right this week, because damn people all butt-hurt and telling me how to do my damn job. Jesus. Look, lady, I didn’t stay for “the whole meeting” because my deadline is 9 p.m., and it takes me a half-hour or so to write up a story. Therefore, since I left at 8:45, surely you can see the dilemma, right? As for how I cover a story and what I end up writing about it, my job is to provide readers with the newest information humanly possible, and I hate to tell you this, but the people in the crowd were NOT SAYING ANYTHING NEW. I know you think they were, but between the nutjob who had his son refigure the study numbers, the Rush-wannabe wingnut accusing the board of entertaining real estate offers and HIS mother getting up and talking about how her father was the first union president, really, they weren’t. In fact, the only parent who offered anything remotely reasonable was the woman who asked what improvements would be made with the money that would be saved. And no, no one on EITHER SIDE gave any viable solutions, either, so tell you what: When the parents CAN say anything I haven’t heard ad nauseum since November, I’ll stop acting like I have better things to do. ‘k?

THAT one wasn’t even the best one, either. Behold the atrocity I got over the weekend; my comments are obviously italicized. [WARNING: It’s SUPER long.]

February 21, 2009

Dear [Broad]:

I am writing to you to let you know the utter distain and frustration I have for the article you wrote regarding the generous donation given by the Embassies of Christ Church in Gary, Indiana of $36,500 to retain a police officer from getting laid off her job.

[Yikes. Sounds serious.]

To say that you minimized a major event that took place in the City of Gary and made it to look like a minor event is an understatement! You evidently are an expertise in downplaying that could have been a monumental change in our city had you wrote the article correctly.

[Hold up—did you just accuse me of subtlety? I don’t think anyone’s EVER accused me of subtlety before. Huh. No one’s ever called me an “expertise,” either, so this makes two foreign concepts for me to digest, and I haven’t even gotten through two grafs yet.]

Your slant and opinion was revealed in your headline title, “Church Kicks in Cops Salary, left much to be desired and showed your lack of respect in several ways. [Since I don’t write the headlines, please go on. I will say, though, it hasn’t been long enough to notice you forgot the close quote on the hed.] In the first place, the derogatory slang word, “cops” is not an endearing word that denotes honor and dignity nor is it a respectful word such as policeman, or police officer would bring to mind. The word cops is generally used by unsavory individuals who lack respect for our men and women who lay their lives on the line everyday to protect us, and your negative input and comments helped to bring forth negative comments from outside readers was even more frustrating.

[Again, had nothing to do with the headline, but would you have preferred the more common vernacular of “Po-Po?” “Pigs?” “New World Odor?” C’mon, at least let us have “5-0.”]

They were clueless like you, for Pastor Cedric and Joyce are giving and loving shepherds who have loving and giving hearts and believe in blessing others generously.[Huh? What has that to do with using “cops?”] They feed the hungry with food baskets and clothing every month, people in financial trouble get assistance from the Transition Housing we have, where those in financial distress don’t have to pay rent for a year, and are given free utilities to help pay off their bills, and every year, they give away brand new stoves, refrigerators and washer & dryers to help needy people. [I know; I was there during the service, where the good deeds were announced on the giant flat screens via “newscast.”] They have never had a Pastor’s anniversary, but instead give their members a Worker’s Appreciation every year at their expense.

[Mmmhmmm. They also have “Member Appreciation” cards that members swipe each week for the chance to win a trip to the Bahamas. Person with the most swipes wins. Wonder where the money for THAT comes from ...]

Secondly, you misspelled Pastor Cedric’s name(not Cedrick as you spelled it), and had you done your research or took time to even interview him or his wife, you would have known he does not use the title of Rev, and prefers to be called Pastor C or Pastor Cedric.

[He can call himself the Goddamn “Lord of the Rings” if he wants. *I* have to call him “The Reverend” on first mention and by his last name on all subsequent references. Don’t like it? Call the people after whose stylebook we and the entire news industry have modeled ours for the last 75+ years: (212) 621-1500. Good luck with that.]

You had the opportunity to show Gary and the surrounding cities of a love and kindness shown to Shanesha Emmons, who was about to be laid off her job due to the City budget deficit. Your article should have contained words like:

• WAY TO GO !
• GOOD JOB EMBASSIES OF CHRIST!
• WONDERFUL !
• GREAT!
• EXCELLENT!
• CONGRADULATIONS! [This isn’t even a word.]
• MAGNIFICENT!
• SUPERB!
• FANTASTIC!

Yet none of the above words were present in your article at all. Why not? I’ll tell you why, because they are positive, uplifting and inspiring words. Instead, your condescending words painted a picture of distrust of motives, downbeat, unconstructive, unenthusiastic, and had a very pessimistic slant on a good deed that was done, and to me, your article was a waste of good paper.

[See, that’s interesting to me, because REPORTERS AREN’T ALLOWED TO EXPRESS OR INFER THEIR OWN OPINION WHEN THEY WRITE A STORY, and if you’re taking away all that ish from what I wrote, that’s coming from inside you. You might want to talk to the Olivers about that.]

Your style of writing reminds me of the National Enquirer [Note to self: Stop trying so hard.], where they feed on negative assumptions instead of reporting the whole truth of the matter. Good journalism-definitely not!

We have enough negative people, as well as some reporters, who down-play any good thing that happens in Gary, but they are great on reporting crime news, or articles that reflect anything bad and for you to minimize something great as this event was, the word unbelievable comes to my mind.

Your small dig when mentioning the Honorable Mayor Rudolph Clay [Aaaaaaaaah, I get it: You’re a city employee, aren’t you? Because I’ve never met any people who aren’t, yet call him “Honorable.”] was uncalled for and your total disrespect of not acknowledging Senator Earline Rogers, Ms. Emmons, and the Chief of Police who were present and on hand, was an insult to our distinguished elected officials, and the honoree, and this was basic elementary reporting that you neglected while writing your article.

[(takes deep breath) Ok. Point one: Now I’m not sure you even read the article, because Ms. Emmons WAS THE STORY LEAD, and Chief Harris comprised the WHOLE SECOND PART OF THE STORY. How is that not acknowledgment!?? Point two: Regarding my “little dig,” let’s talk about the “honorable” Rudy Clay’s views on crime in the city. Rudy has been quoted many times as saying “There’s no crime in Gary”—see here and here, and how can we forget this one here, when he talks about how “domestic” crime isn’t the same as “hard” crime. That means if one of your loved ones is killed by someone he or she knows, it won’t rate the same to your “honorable” mayor. Are you Ok with that? Because if you are, you need the Olivers’ help for much more than your negativity.]

Evidently, a $10,000 fundraiser by the NWI Credit Union to the Northwest Indiana Food Bank was obviously greater than the $36,500.00 Embassies gave freely from their hearts. [Yes. Because the money EOC raised is worth more than money for a stinky old food bank—one that y’all over there at EOC likely dip into to do your good works since Angie and her crew give food to 92 entities throughout Lake and Porter counties, but you know, details and whatnot.] The donation by the Credit Union has a picture with their people holding a copy of the check and was on Page C2, yet not one picture of the pastors, mayor, police chief, the recipient, nor Senator Rogers’ picture of them holding the check for $36,000 make the paper at all-why I ask? There was a post tribune reporter there taking pictures.

[No, there wasn’t, because only a handful of reporters take pictures, and I’m not one of them.]

A half-fuzzy picture of 3 people in the choir with the article did not compare and again, added insult to injury. [It’s too bad you feel that way, because the performance was spectacular and much more visually attractive than a pack of mopes holding a damn check. But since YOU know how to do our job better than we do, I’ll make sure to pass your critique to the award-winning photographer who took the shots.] This reflected to me on the attitude of your Editor as well, is why I am sending him a copy of this letter as well.

[I’m sure she’ll welcome it ... as much as anyone likes anything from a know-it-all harpie.]

I feel you both did an injustice here and owe my Pastors a positive rewrite for the negative coverage given [Will I get to go to the Bahamas if I do?] because something good like this could have generated much good will in the city had it been done right, and it seems this was done purposely. Nobody could write such a bad article about such a good event unless it was done purposely. How sad!

[Yes, I intentionally set out to offend a large portion of the population by not using “Way to Go!” in my story. Do you know how dumb that sounds?]

The next time you are assigned to do any news worthy and exciting about a wonderful event that is done in Gary-DON’T! PLEASE DECLINE!! We want positive reporting when a positive thing happens.

[There you go again with that “positive” nonsense. I told you: I DON’T GET TO EXPRESS OR INFER OPINION WHEN I WRITE A STORY, so anything negative you took from it is ALL YOU, sweetie!]

I would rather have no news reported than to have your slanted view with your gratuitous remarks reporting anything else good that happens in our City.

[So then I guess you’re really going to hate knowing that I’ve moved into the Gary office and have been given the church beat, huh?]

Sincerely,

[redacted]
EOC Member

Cc: Editor-In-Chief
Jerry Davich

One last note: The story she’s bitching about? Was referenced ON THE FRONT PAGE.

Anyone low on kittens?

2009-02-18T03:01:00Z

Because I may have just inadvertently given one a death sentence, and I need to find her a home.

I was heading to my dye job this afternoon when, in somewhat of a déjà-vu* moment, I heard loud mewing coming from the bushes. So I psssssspsssspssssssssed, and a pretty little brown and cream calico – one that looked suspiciously like one of my other downstairs neighbor’s kittens that she got in the fall – ran out of the bushes and gave me tummy. She wasn’t malnourished, but her lower back was all ragged and full of dander. She kept following me to my car and crisscrossing my legs as I walked, and I was just heartbroken and outraged because I thought I saw this kitten out a week or so ago, and if this was Pixie, I was going to have to hurt a bitch because I TOLD this heifer that I would look in on the kittens since she’s not home a lot, and now she’s just kicking one OUT THE HOUSE!?? Aw HELL NAW. But I had to make my appointment, so thinking it’s no-kill, I called Animal Control to come get her, right? Well, I just found out from Girlie that my town’s animal control is NOT necessarily no-kill, so now I’m even MORE heartbroken than I already was. She’s really pretty and very friendly; if anyone’s interested, hit me up. I would take her in a HEARTBEAT iff’n I didn’t think the boys would go ape.

Now for a complete digression, does anyone else think Taylor Swift looks like a stuck-up ferret? Discuss.

Here’s another digression: Suppose you were chatting with a gentleman you fancy, smiling and generally being cute (or as cute as someone like you can be), and when you said something makes you excited, the gentleman pulls back your jacket to, ahem, GAUGE said excitement. Would you consider that getting hit on or playful banter? Whatever it was, it got ME all tingly – so tingly that I completely blocked out that AFTER we got done talking with my gentleman crush, I slid on a patch of ice and fell flat on my ass.

[UPDATE 2/18: Got a call from the animal control lady—she didn’t get the kitten, and when I called for her in the bushes a minute ago, I heard her, so she’s still here, and I can now get her someplace safe.]

[*For those who haven’t heard the story, I found my oldest in the bushes. He, however, was two weeks old when I found him; this kitten is considerably older.]

All I’m sayin’ is

2009-02-10T01:37:00Z

if Michael Phelps can get his Wheaties revoked for hitting a bong, punk-ass bitch Chris Brown better lose his endorsement for hitting a girl. Who’s with me!??

Another Friday night

2009-02-07T02:49:00Z

Here’s an exciting moment in my rockstar life: I’m sitting here on the couch, and I WAS thrilled to have my oldest lying on the pillows next to me, but now he’s gotta be all up in my grill, which entails sitting on the laptop. Oh, and now he needs to take a bath, leg up. You want to be me now, don’t you?

Yesterday, the sibs and I wandered the city while my sister took shots of homeless people for her Web site (that’s back under construction but will be fabulous and show all her spectacular work when it’s done), and we had a blast—B-Dubs took us on a wild goose chase to find all the homeless he used to encounter when he worked downtown and passed out candy bars to those we did find. The day would’ve been absolutely perfect were it not for the wind trying to eat my face off. But let me ask you something, and I know I’ve talked before about this, but why don’t people understand that there’s no such thing as privacy on the Innerbunny!?? I don’t know, maybe I’m not the best person to ask since I’m published, but when you put something on the Web, I don’t care if you have your Myspace or Facebook set to private. YOU PUT IT ON THE INTERNET. IT’S NOT PRIVATE. If you want something to BE private, DON’T PUT IT ON THE INTERNET. PERIOD. (Now, to me, e-mail is a different critter because you’re sending something specifically to someone, but I know some would disagree with me on that.) Anyway, I wish my youngest sister would get that instead of railing against the world with her perceived injustices. Lord, that gets tedious.

My birthday was excellent, filled with happy wishes, good cheer and great swag from my peeps. Was kinda crabby for the Super Bowl, but three Absolut 7 and Roses Limes, three shots of Rumple and two 16-oz Buds in penis bottles will do that.

It’s my damn birthday

2009-02-03T16:39:00Z

Could my cousin PLEASE stop blowing up my phone about the story I’m doing!?? I GOT IT! Jeez.

More on my birthday tomfoolery later—just had to get that out.

“Why the drug dealers gotta be the ones hitting on us?”

2009-01-28T03:13:00Z

Ah, to be young and little and thinking it’s a good idea to wear summer clothes when it’s ass-cold out: Saturday night, Girlie and I turned up at Flat Rock to catch The Unit, a hilarious cover band partial to taking requests from the crowd (including “It’s Raining Men,” which I requested), when this little longhaired girl and her douchey Pete Wentz boyfriend with a horrendous underbite—clearly impervious to both the music style and the cold based on the pot smell coming off her—took off her corduroy jacket and started flailing her arms and swaying in that Dead/Phish way. Poor thing was wearing a halter dress not unlike one I bought from the Guinness Flagh some 11 years ago—same color except longer and with a red bra underneath. Ever the asshole and to Girlie’s amusement, I started grooving with her, but when I stopped she came up and yelled, “You can’t stop when you’re free!” (snerk—I know, right?), to which I replied, “That’s true. Now go put some clothes on, Hippie Girl!” but by then she’d grooved out of earshot. Other funny things from that night include the drug dealer who bought us a round after watching his stuff when he went out to make a sale and the girls who were doing the equivalent of pole dancing without the pole: Girlie calls that their “vaguely entertaining, yet completely useless skill set.” I just wish I was still that limber, IF I ever was.

Brian Vander Ark played the last of his month-long series at Schuba’s last night, and as much as I’ve seen him the past year (five, six times, I think), last night was probably the best yet. He played with a group of musicians he’s befriended over the past year or two, and they were really good, though much as I dig folk, it was a bit too mellow after two Stellas and I retired to the bar, where some kind soul threw some Clash into the jukebox. But he opened up with my first favorite song of his, “Then We Fell,” about a couple who contemplates leaving the U.S. after 9/11, and ended with my second favorite, “Someone Like You” because I kept requesting it when he took requests. I just wish he didn’t have to play “The Freshmen” every. time. I see him. I know it’s everyone’s favorite, but it’s not like you don’t hear it enough on any adult-contemporary station. Why you gotta ruin MY show-going experience!??

Forgot to mention this in my vignette dump of last week, but I grabbed lunch with my college boyfriend a couple weeks ago. Nothing big—we ran to Subway—but as we were yapping, I kinda got the impression he still thinks of me as I was in college (read: TRAINWRECK). So I shared my thoughts with Poppy, who reminded me that to someone who’s married, MOST things single people do look exciting even if they’re really not, and it’s not anything personal; and most people are who they are by time they’re 17-ish anyways, so if you’re a little dramatic like I was (snerk), that doesn’t usually go away. He kinda said the same thing when I told him I think he still thinks I’m a trainwreck the other day, and that there are some ways in which I haven’t changed. That’s true; my penchant for attracting crazy remains unabated.

The other thing I forgot to mention: I covered the grand opening of a casino hotel last week, but do you know I turned down the invite to stay overnight and get the royal treatment because I thought it would be improper, yet I could’ve because it in no way biased my coverage!?? Dumbass. Actually, you know why this bums me out so? Not because I could’ve gotten a massage or hobknobbed at swanky cocktail party. Nay nay. I’m bummed because I wasn’t among the first to ever sleep on one of them cushy hotel beds, thereby NOT leaving my DNA for the blacklights to pick up during an investigation.