So tonight I’m over at Girlie’s for a candle party with the usual suspects when one of them who isn’t part of the crew starts chatting with me as I’m writing a story. She was interested in the types of stories I do, and I gave her the usual shpiel about how I write everything but sports because I’m a sports retard, etc. when she asks me if I do this and that. (It’s here that I’m going to start being vague for reasons I’m sure y’all will appreciate in a second.) I tell her yeah, I’m asked to do this and that every so often, so she asks if I’m familiar with so-and-so, and I was all “Of COURSE! I love them!” when she said “Well, don’t get too excited.” I look at her all intrigued --"Oh?”
And there it came: “So and so molested me when I was in high school.”
See, I’m one of those people that gets told a lot of things regardless of whether or not I want to be told. Part of it is because of what I do, naturally, but nine times out of 10 people just share their deep dark stuff with me. And I’m a pretty good listener, so it’s cool, whatever. But I gotta say, that one was hard to take. I mean, it’s bad enough to hear about abuse when the a-hole who did it has no connection to you, but when it’s someone you know and could conceivably have contact with!?? “Awkward” and “disappointed” don’t even come close. I’m pretty sure my jaw is still over at Girlie’s.
Could she be lying? Sure; there’s also no way of proving anything because she never prosecuted, and this was 20-some years ago. Still, based on the conversation, I don’t believe she is.
Just ... wow.
[NOTE: Before anyone calls me out for putting this in such a public forum—and I understand why you would—she told me in front of the others that I could tell anyone and use her name if I wanted. I’ve chosen not to, of course, because again there’s no police record. But if there was, I’m still not sure I’d name names, because there’s other people involved and oy! does this suck.]
Region-y goodness
except for, oh, that Snelling and I took second place in deadline reporting at the state Society for Professional Journalists Awards last night for our work on the Chase Street crash.
Holla,
muthafukkas!
Yeah, I know, I didn’t say anything here when I found out a month ago that I was up for it because bragging kinda sucks (though it didn’t stop me from mass e-mailing my posse with the news, so clearly it doesn’t suck THAT much), but I figured I’d let y’all know when I found out for certain how I placed. And I’m thrilled, though not as thrilled as I would’ve been had we taken 1st. Why? Well, because as I’ve said a million times before, that story meant a lot to me, but also because the story that beat us out was by the competition, and I ALWAYS hate that, though I dig the writer who wrote it, so I’m cool that it was someone deserving and not, you know, someone who WASN’T (ahem).
Now, I just have to come up with the value of drinks y’all will be buying me for my win. Good thing it WASN’T first, because someone would be required to cough up a bottle of Veuve, and that ain’t cheap.
Days like this are the reason y’all ought to wish you were me, fancy pensions and health insurance be damned. It was so warm and gorgeous, it’s, like, how could you even think about doing anything besides hanging out and getting your summer “Lincoln Park After Dark” pedicure on because all the boys think almost-black purple on your toes is super-hot? I was even ready to hit the trail for a walk or bike ride, but the whole blistered feet thing from yesterday’s Cubs game nixed that idea (Merrell maryjanes, while tres cute and versatile, are not good for distance walking. At least the blister isn’t 2 inches long like it was the last time.)
Other than that, I got nothing, except to say I’m in a pretty freakin’ fantastic mood.
I just sent this to most of my Facebook homies:
Are people even allowed to Rickroll themselves? Whatever, I don’t care. Beaker is my homeboy.
making want to sleep instead of meeting up with all the reporters so we can piss and moan about the man and drink our faces off.
see more crazy cat pics
Anyone know what the fish are on bottom? Because they ugly.
All right, now Accounting’s just screwing with my head, because my check totally came in today. That’s not a BAD thing, per se, especially right this second, but there are in fact a few things in my world that need to be consistent, and my money is one of them.
As promised, here are the pictures from my drunken night with Roger Clyne, except, there won’t be too many pics of me because I look retarded in most of them. But everyone else is fair game!
Awwwww, my first Shiner of the evening.
At $5.50 a pop. Yeah, Joe’s on Weed might
be a great bar, but fuck those prices, man.
Also, whatever that thing is in the lefthand
corner, it’s not a scrote. I think.
You can’t see him real well, but this is the drummer from
opening act, Georgia. Great band, but I kept wondering if
the drummer had some sort of deformity that glued his head
to his right shoulder.
Hey, everybody! It’s Lenny and our ol’
pal Opie, wearing Buck Daddy t-shirts like
they planned it or something, which they
totally DID.
The picture I really wanted to use would’ve gotten me killed
by my seester, so here’s one of her with her pal. I think she
looks a little more like me in this shot—if I were blonde, anyway.
First shot of our man of the evening, looking very Johnny
Depp-ish in his, what is that, a porkpie hat? I don’t know.
Such a pretty, pretty man.
He’s singing to me, you know.
Lenny, his lovely wife and, buried under her
coat, their first baby boy, John Jackson --
or Jackson John. They haven’t quite decided,
but they’re going to call him “Jack” either way.
Requisite sexy flipping of the hair.
Sigh.
If you ever need proof that no
hairspray on this earth can make my
hair stay straight in humidity, here it is.
And I wonder why my head’s cocked so high?
Oh wait, that’s right: Because THIS a-hole kept
FARTING in front of us the whole time. Do yourselves
a favor: Memorize the back of his head and RUN if
he’s ever in front of you. You’ll thank me.
Right around now, Opie reappeared after a length of time that HE said he spent talking to “some chick” but Girlie put him in his place with the entry headline, and I started trying to take more band shots. That’s when my seester nabbed my camera and said, “I’ll do it.” I’m sure you’ll note quite quickly who the pro here is:
Yeah.
Steve!
Such gorgeous hands.
(blinks) WHOA.
Girlie and Lenny sing gleefully.
Little Holly and DDDenise (as in “designated driver,” pervs!),
the other part of our quartet. I covet Little Holly’s hair.
Don’t get what he’s having.
I ... have NO idea.
More post-show wrap-up later; need to finish another story.
Here’s the conversation I just had with the night editor about my BIG. F’IN. STORY:
Night Editor: (verbally shrugs) How long you got?
Me: I got as long as you want, baby.
NE: How ‘bout writing the news? You know, put all the good stuff up top and all the crap on the bottom, and then when we run out of room, we cut the crap off. That’s how we do it, you know.
Me: But I don’t write crap. You know that.
NE: (likely rolling his eyes) Well, then I guess we don’t cut it.
Me: Exactly.
NE: Well, at least put some enthusiasm into it, then.
Me: Oooooh, I’ll GIVE you enthusiasm. I’ve got enthusiasm flying out of my ass.
So yeah, Chelsea Clinton in E.C. Sunday afternoon: Really good stuff, even if the powers that pretend chose possibly the lowest-rent place in all of NWI to host her. (I ask you, how is letting the former First daughter speak one street over from Lake County’s most dangerous neighborhood a good idea? I suppose it cleaned up all right, but still, wood paneling went out in the ‘70s and made the lighting for shit in there. Seriously, your constituents would’ve come to her, Jorge; there was no need to waste taxpayers’ dimes on the extra police protection to put her off Guthrie.) I couldn’t get over how poised and relaxed she was; I suspect she knows more about Hillary’s plans than Hillary does, to be honest.
The other thing that killed me was that here we were in the most heavily populated Hispanic city in Indiana IF not the Midwest, and the only question posed about immigration was how Hillary was planning to keep immigrant families together. How about streamlining the process to make it easier for people to become American citizens? What about that? Not a concern, apparently. A politically connected pal of mine surmised that people didn’t ask the question because we were in “Puerto Rican territory” and that immigration issues mean different things to Puerto Ricans and Mexicans, but still, right? It’s not like Chelsea couldn’t have answered the question.
Of course, when I tried to go up to her after she was done to clarify*, E.C.’s finest goons kept pushing me away from her like a commoner. Not even Secret Service, man! One of them jerks stepped right on my foot, too.
But right now, I’m waiting for Girlie and Co. to pick me up for a night of drinking and merriment with Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, so y’all will just have to wait (or figure it out if you’re in the NWI).
Someone can stick THAT up their ass real quick. Good Christ.
(A summary of the Bower-Mollin wedding)
So, the wedding to end all weddings, right? I don’t even know where to start other than to say it truly was a fantastic night, full of joy and love, great friends, designer couture and all the free booze you could handle (as long as the bartenders were at their posts—whut up with dat, Ben-ha-meen? Like, every time the band went on break, so did the barkeeps.) Ben wore the hell out of his ascot, suit and silverish pimp shoes, of course, but Ann?
How ‘bout I just show you:
Ok, she doesn’t have a head in this shot,
but you had to see the back of the gown first
to get just how gorgeous it was. (Standing
next to her is her son, Lathan, who cut quite
a dashing figure in his mini-tux.)
Not good enough? Then how ‘bout this:
This was taken after mucho drinkage,
and she STILL looks unbelievable.
I, on the other hand, had started wilting
at that point.
Lessee, what else? Oooo! Here’s a cool shot of the Hava Nagila that killed my feet and knees:
Ben’s momma and pop sang it.
My seester and I as she took a break from
all that shooting (and man, did she get some
awesome shots.) (And if you’re thinking we
don’t look that much alike, you’re correct. I
got all the Eastern European features, while she
got the pretty skin that tans.)
Thas righ, Reality TV sneetchez! That most certainly
IS Steven Rosengard of Project Runway Cycle 4.
That’s who designed Ann’s incredible dress and day-before
wedding ensemble, which was equally sharp. (The hot chick
is Girlie, who accompanied me.)
Joe Winters and me. Don’t he clean up nice?
After Girlie and I split the reception, our presence
was requested at a local benefit at the Hobar
American Legion, where we ran into this cat,
the infamous Randy Anderson ("Buck Daddy”
to his musical fans). Evidently Randy doesn’t
remember ever seeing me without my specs,
because he kept marveling at my eyes the whole time.
And so as not to give you the impression that the wedding was all about me even though I acted like it with all that prep and planning my outfit, here’s one of my favorite moments of the night:
Right after the three of them walked out to
the chorus of “Come Sail Away” by Styx, Ben
yanked Lathan up and swung him around.
My other favorite moment was in the video of the wedding: The moment the judge told Ben to kiss his bride, the sheer elation on their faces was proof enough that they’re going to be a couple for the ages. You don’t see love like that often, and it’s always so breathtaking to see.
And then I started doing a little jig at the bar.
It’s snowing AND thunderstorming out here right now.
Figure THAT one out.
Apropos of nothing, have any of y’all seen that new Burger King commercial about the cheesy tots? The one about “Morning Tongue?” Pretty darn funny.
Been having kind of purging spree the past few days, both physically and emotionally, and gotta tell you, who knew cleaning could be therapeutic in that regard? (I did. No, seriously—I even wrote a short story about getting rid of a toxic boyfriend compared with cleaning the shower when I was 19. Got published in the college lit mag and everything! Of course, life didn’t imitate art for another three or so years, but you know ...) Got the bathroom and kitchen scrubbed down spic n’ span and am now working on the mess that is the living room. Now if the laundry will just stay in the hallway and not revolt, I might get Chez Broad up and running again.
No, I have NOT been asked to cover his glorious, uber-hotness. At least, not yet. But I’m not above begging ...
I was going to tell y’all about having to cover a live rendition of The Last Supper tonight and how their communion crackers were the size of Chiclets, but after talking to the performers and seeing how earnest they are, can’t bring myself to be snide about it. Hell, I even refrained from imbibing the shot glass of “wine” after passing on the Chiclet, and I was tempted!

100 things
Info meme #1
Typelogic says I'm an INFP.
Check my weekly astrological groove here.
Give it to me, baby.
Pssst ... My birthday's Feb. 3, and I want this, and this, and this ...
The Make-Believe Oral Cancer Foundation (M-BOCF) is now accepting donations on my behalf. Won't you please help those of us who jump to hideous conclusions regarding our oral health and help me get a root canal or two!??:


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Broad said: Like I said, my feelings are complicated on the matter, so ... I’m interested, however, in Her Highness’ thoughts on… ...[go].
Caterina said: ARGH!!! Not to deny you your goddess-given right of reflections and wishing what might-have-beens, but this guy was straight up… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, guess who was most nasty about the charitable giving? The frigging church. My church and my mom’s… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: By the by, I’m not the only one I know. I have friends who work at soup kitchens because they’re… ...[go].
Wholovesya? said: As you know, I was a voyeur to the beginning of this, and I was loving your comment! I have… ...[go].

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EE Core
script assistance by
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This explains that large bit of type at the top.
Tagline by Ben F'in Mollin, talking about those times you wake up still drunk from the night before.

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