Um, did y'all hear about this!?? Lookit SC told me about it a little while ago.

So where the hell was I that I didn't even know another tsunami wiped out a bunch more people!??

So there's been this debate going on in the ether about rubber clogs and whether or not they belong outside of the garden. Well, I don't know about all that, but I'll tell you what: The Crocs flip-flops? Waaaaaay comfy. I bought the brown/light blue ones.

Do y'all remember when I was going on and on about Leon's Ribs a while back? I got an e-mail from Gwen, the woman who owned the one in Hammond about a week or so ago, and I must confess I didn't get around to reading it until today. And then when I read it, I wish I'd done it sooner, because then the workings of this nematode of the cloth could've been up much longer for the world to see.

Gwen sent this letter to several new outlets; I'm posting it in its entirety:

The new machines apparently don't interface well with the old machines, so all the totals need to be hand-tallied is the word coming out of the guvmint center. And all I can think to myself is, "Y'all couldn't have tested this shit BEFORE THE PRIMARY, MAYBE!?? Just a thought." Dumbasses. So now, the paper will have to spend another entire issue devoted to results, which is, like, whatever.

All I covered tonight was school board stuff, which was fine because it was my last official story on the one school board I covered with regularity. And since I refuse tono longer cover them, I feel no compunction in saying that today was a sad, sad day in Highland, because the town just reelected the man who was in no small part responsible for running the district into the ground. No small wonder since he spent the last 3 1/2 years bad-mouthing all the efforts of the current board, of course, but that's how they roll over there. This is not to say that the current board was puppies and sunshine; it handled things very badly, especially in the beginning of its tenure -- the proverbial bulls in a china shop, if you will. And I'll be the first to admit that bought into the hype put forth by the old guard. But then I saw the financials of the board on which the guy who was reelected sat -- the shoddy record-keeping, the allowing the assistant superintendent to take off for ISBA business that just happened to coincide with her daughter's college basketball games, the way he and his former board members fought so hard for LIFETIME INSURANCE BENEFITS from the school town for elected positions that they don't even pay into, the insane attorney fees with an attorney that didn't have a contract with the school board -- and I learned real quick that thpugh the new board might not be the most charismatic and touchy-feely, it had a lot of cleaning up to do. And anyways, I'm sure the old guard would've been crabby, too, if every one of THEIR meetings turned into an ugly spectacle like they made the the current board's for 3 1/2 years. Point is, I will continue to tell all my friends with school-age kidlets that they need to get the hell out of dodge before the kidlets get to middle school.

[And as a sidenote to Mr. Jackass Attorney who accused me of impartiality when covering the board debates and most likely the board as a whole over the last 3 1/2 years a couple weeks ago, I have this to say: Contrary to popular belief, reporters unequivocally do have opinions about the things they cover; if they say they don't, they're lying, myself included. The true craft of being a reporter, however, is to be able to report the facts no matter how infuriating, nauseating and offensive those facts may be to you, and I will be happy to sit down with you to go over every single story I've ever written on the School Board and compare them to every single minute of meeting tape to show you just how impartial I was. Name the date and time, and I'll be there, though I don't expect you really would because I know you were just lashing out after I asked you if you were bankrolling the one candidate. But the offer stands, my friend.]

Anyway.

My 'hood is now infested with stupid people who yell and scream like morons all the time. Most of the time, it's celebratory yelling and screaming, but I expect the "You done me wrong, Cletus, and now I'm going to throw the toaster at yew" yelling and screaming to commence at any time.

Couldn't happen to a skinnier, nastier bitch: Lookit

to fill up my fucking gas tank. That ain't right.

So, did y'all hear about the Native American warrior goddess (and I mean that in the most reverant, respectful way, because any woman with cajones as big as hers deserves a befitting title) who, when the fucktards in South Dakota (is that even really a state?) decided they were going to ban abortion, said she would build a Planned Parenthood on her reservation, where the fucktard government doesn't apply? Here's the information to either donate or give her a shout-out for her brilliance and bravery, since you just KNOW the rest of the fucktards are going to nail her to the cross simultaneously: Lookit

[Via mac, of course]

Nicole Kidman: Loved her look, even with the blonde hair and the massive forehead.
Jon Stewart was entirely too hip and smart for the Oscars. Bring back Steve Martin.
Charlize: Whose idea was it to take the big-ass bow off the butt of her dress and put it on her shoulder? Seriously.
Jessica Alba: Needs a sandwich.
Rachel Weisz: Why did she have velcro straps around her arms?
Jennifer Garner: Hasn't weaned Violet off the boob yet, in case you couldn't tell.
Keira Knightley: Eh. She looked all right. She's got a big ol' moon face.
Three-six: Holla!
Naomi Watts: Couldn't find a seamstress to fix her dress after she got part of it caught in a paper shredder.
Michelle Williams: Is my new Emmy Rossum. And nice red lipstick with the canary yellow dress.
Rachel McAdams: Putting a '40s 'do with a '60s frock doesn't work.
Jennifer Lopez: Usually I hate some aspect of the looks she goes for, but she was dead-on this time. Loved her dress, loved her hair, everything.
Felicity Huffman: Looked like used the double-sided tape for more than just keeping her dress in place.
Reese: Fine, but too conservative for my taste. Also, I didn't take her "real women" comment as a slam against Felicity playing a transsexual, but apparently others have. Who knew?
Dolly: There are no words for glammed-up trailer trash. It just kind of speaks for itself.
Ziyi Zhang: Gor-JUS.
Uma: I think she looked all right. Better than that other crap she wore a year or two ago.

Your turn.

Ok, so where are all the Oscar fashion entries? I'm dyin' over here.

Still no official word if Maust is dead dead or not, but here's the suicide note as reprinted by the P-T. It's really very sad.

Is it just me, or does anyone else want to pop actress Emmy Rossum in the face!?? I swear, every time I see her, I just want pummel her and smash her stupid little head into the ground. Don't know what it is.

Geena Davis -- A vision in red. HOT.
Marcia Cross -- Coral does NOT go with your coloring, no matter what your stylist says.
Who punched Scarlet Johanssen in the mouth!??
Alanis makes enough money, so what was up with the see-thru burlap sack? (and where was her hot fiance!?)

Got to reading the whole James Frey-A Million Little Pieces controversy yesterday -- if you haven't read it, here t'is: Lookit. Well-executed, if lengthy, piece of investigating journalism. If you're not familiar and don't want to read the whole thing, here's a rundown: Frey wrote this book about his drug-, violence- and booze-addled life; it became a huge best-seller and eventually got the coveted Oprah seal of approval. Thing is, there were several passages that fell into the whole "if it seems too unreal, it probably is" scenario, so TSG investigated. The verdict? About the only thing they could prove true was that Frey spent time at Hazelden. According to its account, Frey even admitted to TSG (off the record, natch) that a lot of the stuff was written with dramatic license, even though to the outside world, he pimps it all as 1 million percent true.

Well, after Frey figured out that the TSG homies were sitting on his funeral pyre with a blowtorch, he freaked and sicced his lawyer on them, and then like a big dumbass posted on his Web site TSG's response to him -- which enumerates their off-the-record conversation in detail -- on his Web site, effectively ruining any defense he had about keeping stuff "off the record" in the first place. What posessed him to do that, I don't know -- perhaps he thinks because all these people bought the book and therefore bought into the lie, they won't buy stone-cold evidence.

But I digress.

I wish I would've watched Frey's Larry King interview last night, because according to AP, l'Oprah called in and stood by him, saying the only relevant point on which the masses should focus is that Frey was a drug addict who overcame his drug addictness. NOT that he wholesale fabricated or embellished to the nth degree THE ENTIRE BOOK and claims it's his life song-and-verse, but that he's a survivor.

I don't know how it is that I keep being amazed by the lengths in which people will go to protect their almighty dinero, but Jesus Christ, man! I mean, if it was mere getting facts wrong or that he pimped it as a work of fiction like he originally tried (but publishing houses wouldn't touch with a 10-foot pole), that's one thing. But HE LIED. How could Oprah think it's a good thing to come out and support this guy!?? Is she screwing him or something? Because that's insane.

If you got the time, read TSG's report -- especially the part about how he took credit for a fatal accident in which he WAS NOT INVOLVED EVER. Un.real.

Driving to Poppy's yesterday, and what do I see but a big fancy white Hemi truck with its business advertising all up on it. The name of the business? "Rolling Stone Masonry." "Clever," I think, for an NWI business.

NOW IF ONLY YOU HADN'T GONE AHEAD AND ADOPTED THE ROLLING STONES LOGO AS YOUR OWN AND EMBLAZONED IT ON THE SIDE OF THE DAMN TRUCK, I COULD'VE LET IT GO, DUMBASS.

My editor's going to send me the story I did on what happens to businesses who don't do their due diligence before choosing a company name, but basically, if you get caught using a company's name, likeness or anything about it, it's called trademark dilution, and you're screwed: Lookit. And the penalties ain't cheap. At the very least, the Rolling Stones could send a "cease and desist"; if he's smart, homie would change his truck, letterhead and all other facets of his business -- a huge expense, as the subjects of my story found out. But we've already established he's not by virtue of using the trademark in the first place, so if he doesn't get rid of it, the fines start about $250,000, as I recall.

I wish I'd gotten where this cat's out of, because I'd have no qualms sending him a letter instructing him of his dumbass-ness.

[UPDATE: See story below.]

Going through my e-mail this morning, and I took a gander at Al's Morning Meeting, like I'm wont to do. (AMM, for those who've never been, is a journalist newsletter that provides topics from all over the country.) The first topic this morning was about how these t-shirts with a snowman on them are getting banned in schools; this rapper inexplicably named Jeezy uses them as his logo. Thing is, "snowman" apparently means "drug dealer" in certain circles, so schools are all freaked out about it.

The following is what Master Jeezy said to Mtv in defense of his logo:

Watching a bunch of middle-aged teachers trying to learn West African dancing tonight was pretty damn hilarious, I must say. Different syncopation, my ass -- even I could figure out how it went. Or maybe it's just the repressed drummer girl in me.

So, did I tell y'all about taking Mother to get her flu shot a week or so ago? No no, nothing particularly remarkable about it except for these two Mexican women who brought a Satan spawn of hell into the waiting room. Now, I'll point out that we had to be up early to get Mother there for me to work the rest of the day, so clearly my happy wasn't firing on all pistons. But these two started chattering away loudly in Spanish, and the kid started screaming for whatever reason. Well, you'd have thought someone was stabbing me in the head with a spoon, because I'm quite sure my blood pressure went up and I had steam coming out of my ears. I tried shushing them first, and that worked for about two minutes before the brat started howling again. So after giving them the hairy eyeball for awhile, I made a production of getting up out of my seat and moving to the other side of the waiting room, and that shut them up long enough for Mother to have gotten her shot.

The reason I bring this up? Chicago trixie moms are having a hemorrhage at a bakery/coffe shop owner for putting a sign up in his shop that asks them to make sure their children are using their "indoor voices": Lookit.

Now, when I was a wee broad, it was tradition that on Fridays, the folks would pick me up from school, then pick up my grandmother (the one I hated, of course, and who hated me back with equal ardor) and we'd go to Baker's Square when it was known as Poppin' Fresh, or perhaps Steffie & Joe's in Highland, which is now a parking lot on the corner of Highway and Kennedy. So we'd go and enjoy our dinner, and in order to keep me quiet, the folks would allow me to make "lemonade" with the water (read: pour as much salt, pepper, sugar and lemon into my water as possible. It was pretty). Either that or they'd let me bring in a book of some sort, but there was no crawling under the table or looking over the side of the booth at the neighbors or any other such nonsense; if there was, I'd have had a foot up my ass. So would someone like to tell me why it's so offensive to ask these parents to control their children? It's not like the guy is even being a jerk about it, but here are all these women talking about boycotting the joint. I don't think it's too much to ask that if you're child is acting a fool, get him or her out of the situation.*

If Mother is difficult to deal with when I'm firing on all pistons, believe me when I tell you she's downright unbearable when I feel like shit warmed-over. I take her to Strack's to get some groceries, and this woman came up to me and started making polite conversation in the deli line. Well, Mother, who was previously in the bakery line, comes barreling up and talking right over the woman about how she wants "five slices of chicken roll" and how "Wait, chicken breast isn't the same thing as chicken roll!" and ohmifuckingGOD, will you stop behaving like an 8 year-old already!?

Not sure if any of y'all pay attention to New York media like I do, but there's a story out about a free-lancer who's been arrested for impersonating a firefighter and sexually assaulting a co-worker of his ex-girlfriend for 13 hours after setting a small fire in her apartment building and holding her hostage: Lookit. Authorities have pegged this guy, whose star once shone bright but then hit the skids, right? Well, this guy's got a rap sheet, and on it is how he stalked and tormented his former girlfriend for, like, two years. Even better? He kept a couple blog-like up things about it -- cleverly hidden in a Web site about a play he'd written. Here's one of them -- Lookit -- and on it is the link to the other one. Just ... wow. If the guy wasn't so fucked up, you'd almost have to admire his writing. Goes to show you what too much intelligence can do to a person sometimes.

[Link via Editrix]

The horror that is David Maust, behind perhaps the most notorious murder in Northwest Indiana, has finally come to an end, it seems; he took the plea and will now serve three consecutive life sentences at an undisclosed prison for the murders of Jimmy Raganyi, Michael Dennis and Nick James.

I'm proud to say that I was the one who broke the story to the world when it happened in December 2003; a source of mine called me to tell me that the Hammond Fire Department was going to the Ash street house to follow up on a suspicion that bodies were buried in its foundation. I immediately called the paper, and they ... gave it to staff writers to write, which is what they do on huge stories like that. But, since I was the correspondent who gave them the tip, they were cool and threw me a bone: Find the kid with a common Mexican surname in a predominantly Mexican neighborhood who was with Michael Dennis the night he decided to run away from home. I did it, too, on the first try, and that's still one of my best reporting memories -- that and the fact that I was the only correspondent the paper allowed to work on the story.

So anyway, I've worked on the story since then, covering vigils for the boys and whatnot. But reading the way this ended has made me incredibly sad, not for the kids' parents, because I've been sad for them since it happened. I'm sad for Maust. Seriously.

The following is taken from Post-Tribune crime beat correspondent and homegirl Ruthann Krause:

Once again, the cleanup has begun at Chez Broad for the impending arrival of the Snidge; this time, she's bringing along her baby brudder, and we're going to see this massive hunk o' musical genius at Park West Saturday night, to which I've never been. Save for Roger Clyne this summer, it's my first real concert in a long time, so I'm pumped. And thankfully, the crib still is in pretty good shape from when she was up here for the races in September. Could it be that I'm becoming less of a human pig?

(snicker)

In the meantime, I'm taking a break from picking up, and I check the competition's Web site to see what they've got going; it's something I do to a) see if we've been scooped and b) compare stories with the reporter I covered something with. So I scroll down to the columnist section, and I see this one columnist has a new one up about an incident that happened last Wednesday near East Chicago where this pigfucker named George Soltis made a couple homeade bombs and took his soon-to-be ex-wife Dora on the ride of her almost-death. By the grace of God, Dora was able to jump out of the moving vehicle, but not before pigfucker beat the will to live out of her with the ass-end of a .357. As well, pigfucker called Dora's son to tell him his plan to blow the two of them to kingdom come, and the boy was able to call police, who then found the two, arrested pigfucker and detonated the explosive devices.

[A side note: This all happened not more than five minutes from Chez Broad, and I DIDN'T HEAR A DAMN THING. I was home all night, too. And not drunk.]

Naturally, the event was front-page news with the requisite photos of a badly beaten Dora, so the columnist wrote about it and how yeah, it was great that Dora escaped from the pigfucker alive, but you know, she saw the signs that the guy was bad news. Why didn't she get out sooner!?? Or why did she go out for that one last dinner with him!?? And I thought to myself, "You know, [name redacted for not wanting to pimp out the competition, plus this guy's a jerk], methinks that you're spending too much time in the casinos observing people's behavior -- to which you devoted a whole column -- or you've forgotten the time you spent over in the Balkans covering the war, or you're just not getting a whole lot of real-life assignments, because you really don't have a clue, do you?"

You'd think that being in the biz I'm in, I'd be a lot more jaded and not surprised about the stuff I learn about people and their natures. But sadly, that is not the case, and I'm continously stunned.

Snidge and I spent a good portion of tonight pouring through a message board a couple friends of mine (and hers, sort of) frequent. We did this because she has somewhat of a vested interest, although after what we saw tonight? I doubt that's going to be a problem for much longer, because holy fucking shit, Batman! The crap that the one friend spewed absolutely horrified me. (The other one wasn't anywhere near as bad, but then, that friend and I have talked about his views before, so I wasn't quite as shocked. Also, he wasn't a complete jackass when espousing his views, either.) The topic they were discussing? Gay fostering.

In case I have to spell it out for y'all, here's what I think about it. Me, and me alone:

1. Homosexuality is biological.
2. There are exceptions, such as gross sexual abuse or a domineering fucktard parent that may possibly affect a person's sexuality, but they're not the rule.
3. Homosexuals do NOT wake up one day and decide, "Mmmmmmmm, sucking d!ck/eating pie sounds like fun. I think I'm going to try that today."
4. Homosexuals do NOT pass "gay cooties" to anyone, not even in prison.
5. Homosexuality in prison is NOT homosexuality, but rather an exercise in dominance and control about 95 percent* of the time.
6. It is NOT anybody's business what anyone else is doing in their bedrooms, kitchens or attics.
7. Ergo, since there's no such thing as gay cooties, there is no reason on this Godforsaken earth that a foster child should not be given to a couple who can provide him or her the love and security s/he desperately needs, be they straight, gay or asexual. Period.

My friend, in the meantime, said on this board that, among other things, he would support legislation that would make it tougher for couples to divorce when there's children involved. Now, the guy has been divorced with children already, so I can appreciate where he's going with that. However, he himself describes his current marriage as a "nightmare" a goodly portion of the time, complete with yelling and screaming and all kinds of nonsense unbecoming to a family unit. So how is having your children exposed to that kind of behavior any better than having them raised by gay people? Seriously, can someone reasonably explain that to me? (And if you're going to, have your sources ready, because "It's just WRONG" is NOT an answer.)

I'll tell you what: If you're hellbent on doing a background check on a potential trick? Get their e-mail handles and then look them up on as many BBSs as you can find. THAT'S where you'll learn the most.

Patty caved. All's well with the world.

Thanks to Mac again for spreading the good news.

And thank God for Cipro, because man! is it nice not to piss fire. Just as good? A doctor who gives you a scrip with refills.

Yeah, I'm still prone to UTIs. Nothing's changed.

Alice over at finslippy posted the other day about weaning off her brain meds, which happen to be Effexor, just like I take. And lots of people wrote to comment that "weaning good, cold-turkey bad," especially with Effexor, which apparently has a hellacious withdrawal. "Apparently," I say? Well, I'm going to let y'all in on a little secret: I've never experienced it. That's not to say people don't, because obviously they do, or there wouldn't be board upon board talking about the "head sloshing" and other awfulness. I just don't have it. In fact, I can go a few days where I forget to take it, and I'm all right. Now, if I don't take it for longer than, say, a week, I start getting monster-crabby and more anxiety-ridden, but nothing seriously painful. I wonder what kind of freak that makes me? It always scares me, though, when people focus only on the withdrawal and thus judge the medicine by that and not its merits; if it weren't for Effexor, I don't know what would've become of me after Dad died. Or like B-Dubs when I saw him on the 4th of July and he asked what meds I was taking now (full disclosure: He and I are both ADHD, and we've both done the whole Ritalin/Adderall/Concerta gig). When I told him Effexor, he was like, "Oh," in that "Wow, you're seriously fucked up if you're on THAT" kind of way. And I was thinking, "Yeah, and you were on Haldol and Risperidol when you were coming down from your bullshit. What the fuck?" Anyway, my doctor says I can stay on it forever if I like, and with my propensity for anxiety and paranoia, I don't see any particular reason to ever come off.

Speaking of the gene-pool, got a call from the detective today: He's setting up an appointment to talk to Crackhead in jail Friday. This ought to be good.