the SNL sketch with Amy Poehler, Kristen Wiig (I think), guest star Shia LeBeouf (who also happens to be my new pretend celebrity boyfriend) and the rest of male cast where Amy and Kristen are in a nice restaurant, and at every table there’s men, only the men have these dopey expressions? And then, when the women—completely enamored with all of them—wonder what they’re thinking, you hear them thinking “Doy da doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doy doooooooyyyyy!” Ohmigod, the LOOKS on their faces! I about PEED myself laughing. See, that’s the kind of thing my one oldest and dearest does to me all the time: We’ll be chillin’ and then I’ll go to the can or get us something to drink, and I when I come back he’s there with one of those exact expressions on his face, and I can’t breathe because I’m laughing so hard. Last time he was in the NWI, I was trapped in my bathroom for, like, 15, 20 minutes because he was sitting on my couch with that look. We weren’t even stoned, and I was just dying. I hope someone puts that sketch up on youtube so I can post it or send it out or something.

In other news, I hemmed my first pair of pants tonight, and not just with hem tape. Ima make me a good wife someday and shit.

[UPDATE: I FOUND IT! Lookit. I’m telling you, pure, unadulterated GENIUS!]

How have this woman’s innards just NOT fallen out her body, is what I want to know.

[Courtesy (or not) of Jez]

Why is it that when I get a 10-cent coupon off 10 gallons of gas, that equals $1 off, but when gas goes up 10 cents and I put in 15 gallons, I pay $5 more than the last fucking time I had to fill up!?? Yeah, that was without the coupon, but still, the hell!?? Or am I just that retarded?

Um, Hoosiers from the South? Yeah, hi. Would you mind keeping your stupid, uninformed pieholes shut about Lake County, a place you’ve no doubt never spent any time in because you still think Al Capone rules the roost from the grave!?? Appreciate it much!

Kisses!

Broad

Or maybe it was the too-much-beer-and-tuna-Subway combo, because I felt like shit on toast all day, exacerbated by the fact that I had to be in court at 9 a.m. for a story. It’s not like I was even out that late, but I NEVER sleep well after I’ve had more than I should, so it wouldn’t have mattered. Not even a mid-afternoon nap snapped me out of it. Gross.

So, Wad’s and my visit was engrossing as always: We drank, we shared, we discussed at length my compulsion to always be right, I may have cried a little—you know, the usual. All right, well, not the USUAL usual, but it’s a discussion we’ve had before and one that’s sort of pertinent for me right now. As someone who’s been on the ass-end of that compulsion so many times we’ve lost count, Wad has a valid take. Where we disagree is on the point of compromise and how it should factor into the equation—he maintains that even if you know you’re so right, a 90-degree angle ain’t got nothing on you, suck it up for the good of the friendship/relationship and apologize from the bottom of your heart, because being right isn’t worth the loss, just let the shit go already, etc. I, on the other hand, think that if two people are wrong, they both need to acknowledge their individual wrongness and if it can be worked on, work on it from there.

I don’t think he’s wrong at all, and I admit that I do probably need to pick my dealbreakers more thoughtfully than I do sometimes. But see, when you start taking it for the team no matter what in a relationship or friendship, one of two things is bound to happen, if not both—1) the person will eventually lose all respect for you, and 2) you’re going to start resenting the ever-loving hell out of them. I know this because I’ve done it time and time again, and it never turns out any different. Not once. As such, my knowing when to hold and fold IS skewed because of it. Still, if I’m ever going to rid of my “I’m Responsible for Global Warming"(TM) complex, I have to relearn to stand my ground; it’s not something I do easily anymore, and I miss that about myself.

It’s now time for me to die, so no poignant ending. But I’m glad he and I talked.

If someone can find me at least one Healing Garden Green Teatheraphy Meditation Tea Candle, you would be so awesomely rewarded, you don’t even know. I fired up the last of mine up tonight, and I’m dying because I LOOOOVED the smell, and now it seems that Healing Garden/Coty doesn’t make it anymore. Please! There’s gotta be some left SOMEwhere!

Nothing especially new over here: Cleaned off my desk for the first time since forever, even throwing some Old English on it, and I had a great political story yesterday that didn’t make me want to shoot myself. Eight Belles, however, made me want to cry; that poor, poor baby. Thankfully, I didn’t hear anything about it before I left the OTB (I was doing a story on Derby Day in NWI), or I’d have been horrified on top of weirded out over being there, as the OTB is NOT my turf. Oh, and I can now pull both the front and sides of my hair into a pony-knot on top of my head, which I haven’t been able to do since college, but I won’t be showing that until I get my roots did.

I’ll be having drinks with Herr Wadensteiner tomorrow provided I don’t have to work, though, so I’m sure there’ll be something interesting out of THAT mess. We have mucho catching up to do.

I just might be inspired to fire up the ol’ iPod and get out and take a walk, like, RIGHT NOW.

Life is good, yo.

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.]

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.

New discussion over on Jez: Lookit.

Nope, didn’t watch it, don’t wanna watch it, find absolutely no intrinsic value in it, etc. Do you? And if not, do you think it should be banned?

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.

So, talked to Mer the other night (who, because of the current ass-expensive flying prices won’t be coming to visit over her spring break but still plans to make an appearance before summer’s out) and we start talking about the possibility of me going to visit her in Israel after she moves out there. I tell her what, are you kidding? Israel’s on my top 5 list of places to visit before I shuffle off the mortal coil—of COURSE I want to come out, except the IRS butt-raped me and stole my seed money, so I don’t know when that’s going to happen. So SHE says, “You know, as a journalist don’t you want to visit me? I mean, this is the highlight of journalism! We can hang out at the American Colony Hotel where aaaaaaaallllllllllllllll the journalists hang out. Then you can write a juicy story.  Listen, if money is the only factor I’ll have a lot of it.  Would you come if I spotted you the ticket?”

After wiping the drool off my chin, I tell her well YEAH, but I have no idea when I’d be able to pay you back, so then, bless her heart, she says, “I’m not asking you to pay me back. Dude, it’s 38,000 in my pocket. No rent, nothing. Tax free. (She’s taking a sabbatical from teaching so will be getting paid by both.) But would you come is the question—some people are ‘afraid!’ “ And I was like, “Sheeeeee-it! I told Randy Kapers he’d go blind if he kept masturbating in 8th grade History Class. Who YOU callin’ ‘scared?’ ”

And so, at the end of September, I’ll be spending Yom Kippur in Tel Aviv. How’s THAT for a fuckin’ vaykay!?? I’m so excited, I can’t even STAND it! But in the meantime, I will be spending the afternoon in good company at the Cubs game. 10-6, babies! It’s a good start!

With today’s stellar weather and superclandestinehot liaison last night, you’d think I’d be a futon full of purring baby cougars all day. I at least started off as such, but then I turned into a bag full of hammers for most of the afternoon. That didn’t last, though, (through the wonders of age and medication, I am able to rein myself in more quickly than I used to, though I know Girlie doesn’t believe that at times; she puts up with an awful lot of whining from me), even after getting a definitive answer to something I’ve been dreading getting a definitive answer to.

(As an aside, I still might be on the fence about The Law of Attraction, but please believe that God, the universe, Johnathan Livingston Seagull or whatever thing in which you have faith will ALWAYS give you what you need to hear when you need to hear it. Unfailingly. Pay attention to that and see if I’m wrong.)

Unfortunately, most of my day tomorrow will be spent covering the funeral of Pfc. Shane Penley, from start to finish, for the paper and its sister. I suspect it will be draining. 

Stupid car depreciation falling off my list of things I can deduct. So much for being frugal about shit.

Worse thing is, the so-called “rebate” won’t even cover my whole tax bill. Boo-URNS.

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.