And now, without further adieu:



Story and thoughts TK ...

who *I* just interviewed. Steph’s going to send me a pic, so I’ll post it, good or bad.

In the meantime, I found this really funny:

Dick Morris is quite the dandy, idn’t he:

making the Republicans cancel their parties because of a little rain:



Almost makes me wish the comments were scripted. Almost.

Would somebody like to explain to me how it is that, barring external factors like absence, if a man and a woman of the same intelligence level take the exact same classes in college; or take the exact same training program for their companies, the WOMAN is the one who needs “more training?” And if the problem is “Well, the women have FAMILIES to raise, so they can’t be there for all the classes,” wouldn’t the more effective (read: fair) solution be “provide better affordable child/elder care so women can complete the tasks with which they are given?” Just curious.

And I wish I could take credit for this question, but I shall post it here in case, by some twist of fate, someone with any means to get it to the proper channels sees it:

E! Television declared depression as the No. 1 SHOCKING MENTAL DISORDER EVER, apparently because Kirsten Dunst checked herself into Le Cirque to get her head screwed back on.

Well, shoot. Had I known, I might’ve demanded a cookie or something.

Ever eat so much meat that you’re just, like, “GUH, that’s a little gross”? I know that kinda sounds like heresy, but man. I need to get thee to the farm stand stat.

So yeah, the tornado. First off, a big sloppy mashfest with tongue to the peeps who checked to make sure I wasn’t dead—I sure wished I were at times, what with the no power and the out-of-control mother and looking like I smelled for the better part of a week (well, Ok, I didn’t REALLY wish for death, but shit’s hard when all you can do is take a washrag to your bits without freezing them off), but you know, that which does not kill us makes us stronger, except for groin injuries, etc. Since I’ve told the story to, like, a million people, I’ll keep it short: I was sitting here wrapping up my story for the night when Mother calls: “The siren’s going off! What should I do!??” I, not hearing the siren, told her I didn’t hear it and that I would call her back in five minutes when I finished my story. Soon as I hung up, what do you know, I hear the faint roar of the siren across town. Huh, I thought, so I called the desk and said, “Hey, my ma just called and said the siren was going off. Is something coming?” Night Desk Chief and buddy JG said, “Well, let’s take a look ... tornado warning for (town four miles away) ... (next town over) ... (MY TOWNOMFG) ... yeah, something’s coming.” “Oh, wow,” I said. “Well, I just sent so I guess I shou—vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvt!”

(That was ‘hood’s power going out.)

True to form, the little guy headed for the hills, so I knew there was no wrangling him, but I couldn’t find Rube, so I just left the back door open because any time the door’s open, he thinks it’s a big party and goes running for the hallway. I made my way down the back stairs to the basement, which was pitch black, and thought “Hell NAW am I going down there alone without a light apparatus,” so I sat on the steps and watched what I could from the backdoor window. As you can imagine, it was quite a storm—constant, violent lightning and the wind whipping the trees all around for a good 10, 15 minutes until all of a sudden, the wind. just. stopped. Well, I thought to myself, that’s got to be the tornado, except I didn’t hear the giant locomotive-like roar you’re supposed to hear with twisters, so I stood there trying to see if the big cat made it downstairs and waiting to get wiped off the face of the earth. About a minute later, my downstairs neighbor called out to see if I was around, and I headed up to her crib because she had beer and lit candles.

After the first beer, I call Mother back, and her machine didn’t pick up so I knew her power was down and that I’d better get over there to make sure she hadn’t gotten wiped off the face of the planet (also: to assess her mental state to see what kind week I was in for). It had stopped pouring, so it was safe in that respect even though there were no streetlights for miles. First thing I noticed as I zipped through the shortcut I usually take, aside from the water puddled in the potholes that swallow small children, was an overturned semi cab and roofing shingles scattered about. Then I looked over to my left, saw a lit-up police car in front of the subdivision nestled behind the crib. Got to Mother’s—her power was out and she was all twitchy, of course, but no worse for the wear—then went back out to the subdivision. (You knew that was coming.) Got out of the car and walked through the blockade to be greeted with the first house that had its front sheared off. Started reporting straightaway, the end.

Yeah, that wasn’t really a short story, was it? Alas, they never are where I’m concerned. And I ain’t even STARTED on the nightmare that fixing my shower became. THAT was even worse than not having power (but not as bad as not having cable).

Still here; STILL without cable/neenernet. Hope to regale y’all with all my complaints later this eve.

Have a little excitement going on up in these here parts, but because there’s no power, posting my version of events is going to be light (Doing ANYTHING computer-related is pain at the moment; I’m over at Ogger‘s as we speak, and I dictated all my storm coverage last night. In the rain). Tell you what, though: I think I need love my big storms at a distance.

Allow me to state for the record here that I absolutely HATE when women use their monthly as an excuse for being pissed off, but since I’m sure some jackass out there will think it, I thought I’d save you the trouble. (And I DARE YOU to ask me about my meds. Do it. PLEASE.)

Earlier today, a company in town had its big send-off for the almost-to-scale replica of the Statue of Liberty it created for one of its biggest accounts—you know, music, free food, a zillion balloons released into the air, 30 (!) semis leaving the lot and hauling the statue, traveling with police escorts all the way to Missouri. A real feel-good, family thing I was covering, except it wasn’t JUST a big feel-good, family thing because also at this hootenanny, the company’s owner announced which municipality would be taking the statue once it comes back. What’s go great about that, right? Well, considering that the real statue’s in NYC and there’s no other replica anywhere else (never mind that not everyone may make it to NYC or even see the real one if they’re there; I know I’ve been there twice and haven’t seen it yet), this thing has the potential to draw a whole lot of people to NWI. Oh, did I mention it’s made of STYROFOAM!??

So I cover this thing; covered it all week and sent in the photo request, like, 10 days to two weeks ago like I’m supposed to for this admittedly feel-good but pretty important and highly photogenic event. But a photog from MY paper was nowhere to be found. See, they had to go to the beach today to wait to see if a dead kid washed ashore from a drowning yesterday.

Are you KIDDING me with this!??

First of all, no credible paper, even with the industry’s current horrific state, is going to risk running a shot of a dead, bloated body unbagged, so what? You’ve already shot rescuers searching for the kid, and you’ve gotten the poignant “crying relative” shot and the “concerned onlooker” shot; why the hell would you waste the photog’s time on something that MAY NOT HAPPEN when you have a huge event THAT IS!?? Un. real. And I’m sure I’m going to hear the “Bleeds/Leads” crap—NO. It was a piss-poor call. Hell, *I* could’ve taken the shots. My camera’s not that great, but it sure would’ve beat leaving a good photo op with its dick hanging out.

And while I’m at it, could someone please tell me why there’s another drowned kid!?? Park officials don’t close swimming at the beaches for their health; they do it for OURS, so why would anyone think moving to another beach = No Undertow!?? It’s not In-ground Pool Michigan, people. No, the kid didn’t deserve to die. What he deserved were guardians who wouldn’t let him and his brother go out in dangerous water.

Last year during BUS DEMOLITION! season, I volunteered to contribute to the drinkage supply, and having just been introduced to the nectar of my people, I wanted to, ahem, share my cultural heritage with them. And lo, it was wondrous and painful, with throats burning and heads hurting, and threats of further wretching this year at the mere suggestion of Serbian Moonshine gracing the cottage table. But LFitz forgot to pack the leftovers, so that was that. We thought we were safe.

But then another among us—as payback for the burning or just as a lark, I’ve not a clue—brought his own spirit concoction he’d concocted: Bacon. Vodka. Yes, bacon vodka. I just kind of looked at him like, “Huh. Whodathunk?” He said that he put bacon in the vodka (yes, COOKED bacon, lest he run the risk of trich) and stuck it in the freezer for some amount of time, then removed the bacon and strained the liquid through a coffee filter to, gulp, remove the fat from the liquid. Afterward, he threw in a jalapeno—you know, to give it more flavor. He insisted I take a shot.

My friends, I’m here to tell you that I’ve now been bested, because that. shit. BURNED. worse than ANYTHING. EVER. Not even the shljivovitca comes close. But if it weren’t for the burning, I can’t say it was ... horrible, exactly, though I do kinda wonder how it got a GREEN hue to it. The homies said it made for fantastic morning Bloody Marys, though.

It’s now, oh, midnight-ish up here in Chez Broad, and I’ve been following with morbid fascination two posts on Jez (SHOCKING!) that my favie Moe wrote about condom-less sex. The original post was about an NPR segment calling said sex “the new engagement!”—an interesting premise, if you ask me—and the second an APOLOGY post for the first post because people read it as Moe singing the virtues of unprotected sex, and we’re not supposed to do that in this day and age. Only, the people didn’t like her apology, either, because of its flip tone.

The first thing I gotta say is to all the commenters who let everyone know—AGAIN—that this time was the LAST time they’d ever read Jez: We KNOW you don’t like Moe’s writing, and we KNOW you have your reasons because you tell us every damn time she posts something. If you’re going to go, KEEP YOUR DAMN WORD AND JUST FUCKING GO. Y’all are like the spurned party in a rotten relationship who keeps threatening to leave but NO ONE takes seriously because you keep coming back and repeating yourself (not that *I* have any experience with that whatsover, but ... (cough) ... and I mean the rotten relationship, not making dramatic pronouncements on Jez. I reFUSE to do that).

The other thing is this, and it’s in reference to the particular commenters who insist that Moe’s a role model via her position on a well-known Web site: A role model, by its definition, is something to which one aspires, but what if Moe doesn’t WANT anyone aspiring to be her and just wants to tell her truth? To me, “role model” signifies a lofty position that should be filled only by a specific type of person who I would say is almost beyond reproach, and that ain’t Moe, nor is it many people I know. So why should she have to be someone she’s not or doesn’t want to be? I know I sure as hell don’t want to be a role model; poster child’s more my speed, anyway, and I’m good at that.

And they’re STILL at it over there. Talk about a mob mentality. Man.

At least, that’s what I think was going on, but I was all lightheaded for a good portion of the morning, and trying to cover an RDA meeting while lightheaded = not enjoyable. Not that an RDA meeting is a party, but there WAS lunch, and then I wasn’t lightheaded anymore. I’m probably diabetic now, on top of all my other maladies, real and/or imagined though they may be.

-- So back to this little nugget from last week: You know, I get the whole feeling like you’ve been betrayed when someone in whom you believed turns out to suck; I would say it happens at least once a quarter that either someone I know and love or cover disappoints me in a major way, and I always take it really personally. Why is it, then, that I kinda want to punch that girl in the face? She’s all “I hurt those that I talked about in my article, ...” in her blog post (I’m not linking it, but you can find it via the Gawker post if you’re interested), but I’m like, “Oh, Sweetie. You really think those people give a fuck about you and your feelings. How cute!” Yes, she’s only 20 and this is the first of many disappointments she’s going to experience, but the disingenuousness of being all “I didn’t WANT to name names, but my super-honesty prevents me from being anything BUT honest! HONEST! And now I have to FLEE to Fronce to escape the hypocrisy, even though I was scheduled to go there for school anyway!” does her in for me. “I will do everything possible to avoid that world: not the media world as a whole, but the specific elitist circle that I so decried in my article.” I’m sure she will—until she gets her own huge following and book deal, and then it won’t be so elitist anymore because it’s her. I will give her credit for being honest about not passing up an opportunity to write for NY Mag, though. 

Next time some jackasswell-meaning soul tells me I need to get off my meds, I shall direct them to this: Lookit. I encourage all y’all with the same to do the same.

[Courtesy of Liz Spikol, the modern day patron saint of hopeless causes]

My downstairs neighbor once again went to get her colored and has once again asked me to help her “fix it.” Yes, there will be beer and food for my trouble, but one of these days, her hair is going to plum fall out of her head, and then I’m going to feel responsible. How it HASN’T happened yet, I’ve no clue.

But at least there will be beer.