the smell of pre-pubescent boy has now permeated most of the rest of the crib. Between it and the orange oil I used on my desk, I’m thinking I’m pretty sure I’d rather smell catbox at this point. (I would NOT rather smell pew-tchouli, however. That’s just gross.)

Happily, Poppy and the Peapod are picking me up for lunch and shopping momentarily, so maybe either the stench will be gone or the boys will do enough bidness to kill it. Plus, I’ve already been promised a ride on the giant carousel. Take THAT, office people!

I don’t know what the heck kind of oil my downstairs neighbor is burning in her living room scent burner, but it’s making my kitchen smell like either that drugstore cologne or deodorant that middle-school boys wear. You know what I’m talking about? Kinda musky and sorta spicy, yet ... not? All it needs is rank prepubescent-boy armpit, and I’d be in some version of hell.

So the other day after I threw out my little discussion point about the idea of “nutjob,” I was kinda thinking I didn’t want to go back to it because it came out of not-so-great place that I get into every time I have to make a decision I don’t want to make. And now that I’ve tried to sit down and write it a number of different times between assignments over the past day or so, I’ve decided not to do it here because a) it’s been coming out as a big stream-of-conscious thing of epic proportions even moreso than usually comes out of my head, and who wants to slog through that, and b) I’m feeling strangely self-protective, which is kind of unusual for me. I mean, if anyone’s really that interested in waxing philosophic on the finer points of what makes a nutjob, what I’m thinking is not exactly revolutionary and I’m fine with talking about it—just not here right now.

to anyone who may have received communique(CQ?) of any kind from me last night. Why I thought it was a good idea to down a pitcher of beer BY MYSELF probably correlates with the ugly, self-indulgent mood I’ve been in the past couple weeks, but I tell you what: My mood has improved dramatically since. And I wasn’t even as hungover as I was expecting!

Also, muy thanks to Paul for going to the meeting I was supposed to go to, because I very likely would’ve hemorrhaged had I been:

HIGHLAND—A Highland Police Commission member accused by Town Council members of violating his oath of office will not continue to serve on that board.

With Councilman Mark Herak absent from the meeting, the other four members unanimously voted to oust John Koval from his position on the Police Commission.

Following the vote, public comments were permitted. Former Councilman Joseph Wszolek of Highland read a prepared statement in opposition to the action taken against Koval.

Wszolek said Koval’s behavior was consistent with the recently adopted Code of Ethics for Highland officials in that he took the responsibility to expose corrupt behavior and took action to support the public’s right to know.

Attorney Joe Hero, who represents Koval, was not allowed to speak.

Koval’s reprimand stems from a letter to the editor he wrote before the November election countering information in Highland First Coalition literature.

The brochure said the previous Town Council trimmed $311,633 from the Police Department’s budget, which in turn would reduce police patroling capabilities by 19 percent.

The Police Department’s net operating budget for 2007 was cut, said Highland Clerk-Treasurer Michael Griffin. But most of that money was made up through two other funds on which the department relies.

In Koval’s letter, dated Oct. 31, 2007, he said former Republican and current Highland First Councilman Mark Herak “concocted a fairy tale.”

“I find it morally offensive for (Herak) to use scare tactics and prey upon our citizens’ fears regarding their safety for the sole purpose of trying to maintain power,” he wrote.

In January, the Police Commission’s four other members—James DeGraaf, Chairman James Turoci, Patty VanTil and Danny Stombaugh—sent a letter to the council requesting that Koval be removed from the commission because by identifying himself as a police commissioner he was allowing politics to influence the Police Department and Commission. The council turned to Town Attorney Rhett Tauber for an opinion.

In a letter dated Jan. 8, Tauber said Koval’s actions weren’t a violation.

Nutjob: Legitimate description, or term used to describe someone who either doesn’t see eye-to-eye with you or doesn’t let you have your way? Discuss.

[I do have a post swimming around in my head about this, but no time to write it this second since I now have the best of both worlds because I? will be sitting amongst my awesome peeps watching a world premiere while some other poor suckeranother correspondent will be at the meeting. And because I’m doing the background reporting, I’m sharing the byline. AND I came up with this solution all by myself. My genius knows no boundaries sometimes.]

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.

Girlie and I were having a discussion about the dumbasses who have kids for which they can’t provide the other day, and she brought up the Duggars and how even though they might be batshit crazy, they at least provide for their 37 spawn. So what’s on TLC right now? “On the Road with 16 Children, all wearing red shirts and granny boots with stupid hair and insipid grins on their insipid faces.” (I made part of that last part up; they really ARE wearing red shirts and granny boots, at least the girls are. And while I can’t really speak to their insipidness, I didn’t know were so many names starting with ‘j.’ )

I’m thinking there’s got to be better things Girlie and I could be putting out in the universe.

I’m reading the further comments on the former beauty queen with the prosthetic issues post, and a commenter left this bit of nonsense on the board:

and this is the kind of stuff that you only hear about (at least I have, I don’t know about y’all), but don’t you wish you could actually see it in action: Lookit?

[via Jezebel, natch]

Barry Williams is on “Celebrity Rehab” giving Chyna (the former American Gladiator with the giant ladyflower part) the business for ruining his New Year’s Eve act in Las Vegas.

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrowr!

Why does my hair look like someone cut it with a bowl in pictures? I swear it doesn’t look like that IRL.

eat the whole pint of Ben & Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake last night, but I put the lid of it on the floor for the little guy so he wouldn’t be all up in my shizz while I was working, and by the time I’d had enough, the lid disappeared, and even I know that you can’t put ice cream back in the freezer without a protective covering or else it’ll taste like frozen ass.

(I did find the lid eventually; he snuck it under the desk. He’s a sneaky one.)

Feeling tons better about the whole Mother thing but still rather moody. And no, not because of V-D (huhuhuhuhuhuh). More like, I’ve been invited to the Wedding of the freakin’ Year at the end of March, so that means I’m going to have to get something killer to wear, but so far I’ve found nothing that either I love or that I can get the fashion committee to agree upon (i.e. “That green will wash you out,” and “Your boobs’ll bust out all over the place.").

Preliminary results from the colonoscopy: Two little baby polyps that the doctor said he would be surprised to find cancer in, a blood vessel that may or may not rupture but wouldn’t cause issues if it did and ...



a. whole. lot. of. nothing. else.



So what does Mother choose to focus on after he gives us the big news (and after I hug him for figuratively pulling me away from the shotgun)? “Now, what about this blood vessel!??” Of COURSE she does.

But no matter, because it seems like the Pimp is just about thawed out. If it’s not, at least I have my downstairs neighbor’s Camry in which to tool around, and I love me the Camry. As far as realistic dream cars go, that’s my car. Ima get me one one day.


[UPDATE: We have lift-off! After a few tries and few pumps of the gas pedal, the Pimp is back in action. The idle is a little kludgy, but I’m guessing that’s due to watery gas maybe. I have a bottle of Heet all ready to go—that is, if my gas door wasn’t frozen shut ...]

Tomorrow is Mother’s last test to determine what, if anything, is wrong with her (physically, anyway, since we already know the mental part). And except for an annoying call a little earlier, she’s been a million times better than she was a month ago, and like I said a few days ago, that’s been a fantastic turn of events—definitely easier on me, anyway. And she’s actually been pretty zen about the test itself, which is a miracle considering.

But now—and this just hit me in the last hour, so I’m not processing anything at the moment—I’m the one that’s freaked out about what it might find. Googling colon cancer just now didn’t help; turns out that some of the symptoms she’s been having are in fact indicative of colon cancer. Not going to tell HER that, of course, but ... then again, her doctor said her lower stomach didn’t feel lumpy or hard, and that was a good sign, and nobody’s talked about her being anemic. Still, I’ve spent so much time focusing on her mental health (which, make no mistake, I was absolutely correct to do so) that I haven’t really thought about what a cancer diagnosis would mean. Selective thinking at its finest, right? But here it is, and I don’t like it one bit, especially the part about how it would affect me. Yeah, no need to pile on about how shitty it is of me to think that way; the Catholic guilt and I already have that covered, thanks.

The test’s at 9 a.m. Don’t know how much we’ll know immediately after.