Since I couldn't possibly make it up on a good day, y'all want to hear the latest about DtR!?? Of COURSE you do.

My assignment yesterday was to cover this one fire department that was giving a little boy a whole bunch of gifts to lift his spirits after he'd been bitten by a dog, so I'm sitting there with the chief and his crew getting backround on the sitch when I asked the little boy's name. The chief said "so and so." I thought, "Huh. That's DtR's last name, and we're in the area where DtR lived," so I asked what street they live on. The chief said, "such and such," so I asked if the boy's mother's name is Whosit and, well, whaddya know!?? I was like, holy shit, I haven't seen these people since DtR and I broke up 15 years ago, how weird is THIS going to be, right?

Not one bit, oddly enough. The little boy, who's a little doll, went out to talk to the firemen, and I walked up to Whosit and said "Fucking Whosit," and she squealed and was like, "OhmiGOD! How ARE you!?? Blahblahblahblahblah!" And so after the firemen left, she, her husband and I shot the breeze for awhile. Hope y'all are sitting down, because here's the big news: DtR's married again. Got himself a youngin' this time -- she's 23 to his going-to-be-39 -- and, according to Whosit, may have been divorced about an hour before he got remarried again. Also, while she loves her brother, he's a lying sack.

No. Get out. Imagine my sur-prise. (yawn)

So I told her before I left that mark my words, he's going to read my story, and I'm going to have an e-mail sitting in my box by time I get out of bed.

Wait ... what!??

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one day, you watch a tow truck dump off a white, later-model Monte Carlo on the street between your apartment building and the one next door, and it just sits there for weeks on end with no one doing anything about it, so you call code enforcement to tag the motherfucker because you're sure as hell not going to let your 'hood turn into the place where people leave their cars to die; it cheapens up where you live, and code enforcement got right on it when you called them last year about the burned out car left on the other street. And then you do a joyful pee-pee dance when a big ol' tow truck -- possibly the repo man -- comes out on a Sunday night to retrieve the dead car, and you think, "I wonder how they knew to come get it!??"

Sometimes, it takes so little.

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Don't like it when I turn on the function that allows me to approve comments before they're posted!?? Because I notice you've STOPPED SPAMMING MY COMMENTS. Fucker.

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Whooooooooooa ooooo-oooo/whoooooaaa-ooo-ooooo!

Your earworm for today. Y'all can thank me later.

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[Courtesy of this poor bastard]

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I just stopped over at Snidgey's to throw down my mad lyric-remembering skillz to prove that I remember the bridge to "Tenderoni" by Bobby Brown, he of the "I help Whitney Houston's constipation by sticking my hand up her ass and pulling out the shit" fame. I should be very afraid of what that says, shouldn't I!??

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I submit to you a dilemma posed by Mer, who needs relationship advice and has asked me to ask my normal, functioning friends their take, but first, did y'all see American Idol tonight? Did you see the freakshow at the very end, the one with the blonde Pippi Longstocking wig and Dorothy dress? That's the one I interviewed. And how about the one who looked like Tina Turner!?? Saw her live -- or was that a dude!?? Because s/he sure looked like one on stage. And I vaguely remember seeing the Statue of Liberty guy, too, but at that point, I was probably just too bitter at being up at 4:30 a.m. in the rain and cold.

And now, on to our dilemma.

Suppose you've been dating this guy for five weeks, and everything's been going swimmingly, better than any relationship in which you've ever been involved, bar none. You're going to spend the weekend with him like you've been doing for the previous four weeks, but you've promised one of your friends that you'd go out with her at some point over the weekend. Guy says, "Have fun," and you go out with your friend. As you and your friend are wrapping up the evening, you call guy and tell him you're on your way back to his crib to which he replies, "Cool, see you when you get here." But when you get there, you ring his buzzer, and he doesn't answer ... for at least a half hour, and you're standing in the snow and cold. Seething and not a little drunk, you catch a cab back to your own crib.

Wait ... what!??

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Is it entirely too cynical of me to think that, as I watched this group of kids at a school board meeting defend a program that's undergone big funding cuts, that they were just dorks looking for a place to belong*!?? Or am I merely observing the fact that of all people under the age, say, 18, one-millionth of a percent of them aren't completely socially retarded!??

Wait ... what!??

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Seems I can't go anywhere anymore without someone whining to my editors about it: I was covering a Lake Station Council meeting the other night, and it was running rather long. What do I mean by long? It started at 6 p.m., and when I left at 10 p.m., THERE WERE STILL TWO ITEMS ON THE AGENDA. Well, as I left (and I'm sure shortly before while I was sitting there), I let out more than a few disgusted sighs in protest. And a couple people who my editor swore she wouldn't divulge (though I bet I know who they are) called to complain that my behavior was "inappropriate."

Hmmph.

First of all, my editor and I laughed about it before I promised to refrain from showing my disgust at meetings, so please don't think that calling them will get me in trouble; in fact, if anyone details my behavior to them, it's usually ME, so really, you're just wasting your breath. But let's look, shall we, at the councilmen's behavior for a moment -- is it really appropriate for them to call a 35-minute recess during a meeting already in progress so that two of them can go to another meeting that they said was going to take only 15 minutes!?? Is it also fair of them to belabor a point for 10, 15 minutes on the money for the park equipment during the meeting, when they could, oh, I don't know, wait until it's been adjourned!?? Keep in mind, folks, that I wasn't the only person waiting for them to finish the hell up -- hell, the mayor herself left at 9:45 p.m. because she's diabetic and had to get something to eat. And let's not forget when one of the councilmen asked the council president to explain something he'd said and he, out of frustration with having to repeat for the fifth or sixth time, told her to "get the cotton out of her ears" right there in front of the public. But they're going to complain about me expressing my disgust!?? Ooooooo-kaaaaay. You do that.

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Why is it that when you try to make small talk with a guy, they blow you off, but when you ask them for help, they're all up into you all of a sudden?

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about the whole exchange with TOG? I'M the one who's feeling bad about it, as if I did something horribly wrong to upset the balance of the universe, and so I totally want to apologize and make sure everything's all right. I SHOULDN'T, however, because then I risk making things worse.

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(she says, dropping to her knees like in those cell phone commercials, then beating her head on the floor.)

Tell me something: Why is it that I can't have just ONE DAY where I have no responsibilities other than what I want to do -- which, in this case, was just sitting around the house doing nothing but drinking Pepsi and watching TV after a morning story and a nice lunch with Poppy!?? I was in for the night when I finally decided to answer Mother's seventh call of the day; she called to tell me that she needed pills picked up. (Before anyone jumps on my shit gets the wrong idea, it's a medication that she didn't absolutely, 100 percent need until Sunday, and believe me, I know aaaaaall about her meds and what she needs immediately and what she doesn't.) Oops, I forgot, along with the appointment I made at Marathon to have them look at my tire, which got really low on Thanksgiving, but Ok, I'll get them, I said, to which she promptly starts going on about how she's soooo worried about my tire and how I need to get that looked at before winter sets in, wonkwonkwonkwonk, then asks if I would then pick her up a pack of Orbit gum along with her meds because she doesn't want my aunt to complain about her breath tomorrow when they go out for lunch. (I almost said "Obit." How's THAT for a Freudian slip!?). Well, I got caught up in AMW -- again, she doesn't need these pills until tomorrow -- so as I'm picking them up, I get my eighth call of the day. I call her back:

I get there, and she tells me to grab the last piece of pumpkin pie. As I'm putting whipped cream on it, she hands me her checkbook to write out her rent check -- you know, the one THAT ISN'T DUE FOR ANOTHER WEEK, because it must be done RIGHT NOW. Sigh. Where's a pen? I ask, and then she's all like, "I don't know what I did to you." I tell her, "Nothing," but she gets all whipped-puppy like. Ok, yeah, I DID say that she should call in the pills today; I just didn't sweat it because she said she had one to take in the morning and wouldn't need it until Sunday.

Just one lousy day to myself, is all I ask. Is that so wrong?

And THEN there's TOG, who gets all pissy with me because, as we were having a little saucy talk over e-mail, I kid that he's talking to some hot chick online. (CONTEXT: Without getting into details -- shutUP, you -- I was asking what he was doing home when he COULD be with me, unless he was talking to some hot chick online.) The correct (and funny) response to that would be "The only hot chick I'm talking to is you," regardless of whether I was or wasn't, or to just not say anything at all. But no, he gets all, "See? You gotta kill the mood," and I'm all, "Um ... wasn't trying to ..." and then he tells me he's going to bed because he's falling asleep. Oooooo-kay, then. Fine time to tell me that's a sore spot; that'll REALLY encourage me to indulge in saucy talk the next time, but whatever.

Stupid boys and their periods ...

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Things have been a little drama-ridden up in Chez Broad over the past couple days -- nay, weeks. I just haven't talked about it here.

The deal, if you haven't read about in other places, is that I had to tell someone I hold dear to me that I have to keep my distance while they're atttempting to work out some serious shit. It's not because I don't love them or want them in my life; it's that I physically and emotionally cannot watch them do what they're doing to themselves and the people they love anymore. Outside of profoundly sad, the whole thing makes me violently angry in ways that I haven't been in I don't remember when, and I'm not willing to put myself through that anymore. I mean, and I can bear a shit ton of weighty matters -- more than most people, I would say -- and I do it gladly when I'm not forced to, too (i.e. Mother). Thing is, you can't help someone if they're not listening, and like all people who think they have the answers, I'd hoped that my stepping away would turn on the lightbulb for the person. It hasn't. So now, all I can do is hope that at least some of the things I said were taken to heart and that they will stop happening right now, regardless of anything else.

It wasn't at all an easy decision to make. However, to paraphrase the great Dr. Phil from a book that became my bible in my crazy pussy days, there comes a point where I would rather be healthy and alone than sick with someone else.

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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?"

Wait ... what!??

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If she hasn't already posted it, Snidge is in the process of preparing the long, sordid tale of why she and I don't have our new skins.

Yep, more big, scary blogdrama, y'all -- but hopefully, it's the end of this particular drama for real this time. No, seriously! I swear!

I'm going to let her lay the foundation, because 1) she's the one who finally came out swinging, and 2) the whole ordeal just astounds me, especially since I'd considered Christina a friend. Maybe not in the way I love these fine homies, but the potential was there. Instead, she used our burgeoning friendship to get out of any urgency I might've had about wanting my new skin, and then, when the price of poker went up (to use my favorite Dr. Phil phrase), she made it personal, and that's when it all went from frustration to unadulterated ugly. 0-60, just like that.

Yes, I know there are quite a few people who have had skins done by her, and they're gorgeous. This has nothing to do with her talent, and it sure as hell has nothing to do with the rest of the group, because the rest of them were more than willing to do what they could to avert the trainwreck. But this is the way she did business with Snidge and me. If you want to take your chances, have at it -- I can't stop you. I'll just say that there are a million other designers out there who're just as good if not better, and with them, you'll have a better chance of actually GETTING your stuff without getting ignored outright or lied to.

The good news in all of this -- because there's always good news, you know -- is that I'm going to be Headcase's first skin-uea pig. We've got a theme and everything, so I'm gazzed, man. It's going to be fun. And not a violation of major copyright laws.

Wait ... what!??

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I've been informed by a certain wad that I need to be updating more often. Sorry -- long week, sort of.

Last year, I'd wanted to post the whole "where I was when the planes hit on Sept. 11" like many in the blogosphere were doing, but I didn't. Can't remember why -- perhaps it was because by the time the day came and went, I didn't want to look like a tool posting it after "the day." Anyway, I was covering a 9/11 ceremony at our County Government Complex Friday when one of the commanders for one of the Legion posts asked participants if they remember where they were when it happened.

I remember it like it was yesterday ...

Wait ... what!??

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So.

Did y'all get a load of this yesterday? Lookit. If you didn't, go on and look -- the whole entry. I'll wait.



Ain't that some shit?

Now, based on an exchange that was had in the days surrounding the whole affair, the homies and I had some suspicions as to what went down, but we left it at, "Eh, leave it alone and give them the benefit of the doubt," so on and so forth. After all, everyone used to be close, so they couldn't possibly do them like that, right?

Well, I for one can't honestly say what happened and what didn't, because I wasn't there when the deal when down. What I can say with the utmost authority? It looks SPECTACULARLY BAD from where I'm sitting -- bad enough that they'll never see a dime of my money again. No, I don't spend a ton of money on skins because I can't, so I'm sure my money means dick in the grand scheme of things. But I do have the power of recommendation, so I leave y'all this: When choosing art for your design, you better make for damn sure you or your designer has permission to use the art, because you never know how badly it's going to bite you in the ass.

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Just when I thought I wasn't going to have talk about Crackhead anymore, I get this: Her one dealer friend? Wants to shut me up.

Like that?

The story goes that Crackhead said the guy "heard" from his "cop friend on the force in which I live" that I was asking about him, and that if she didn't shut me up, he'd have to "take care of it." Well, she was like, "I don't even talk to her," but she saw to it that I got word. Translation: When I reported the burglary, I told the detective that the reason she was even out here in my area is because she was hanging out with some dude in town. So, the cops probably came to his house looking for her, and he got pissed and bitched at her about it. I mean, seriously, the town force here isn't that big that it would likely even have officers in cahoots with dealers. What the fuck is she talking about?

Yawn.

Nevertheless, this guy allegedly called my uncle/her dad looking for me, so I'm going to talk to my uncle tomorrow and see if he brings it up. If he does, I'm then going to have him call the cops and verify it so I can file a complaint. That way, if I end up dead or beaten within an inch of my life, it'll be less work for them.

Just kidding. Sort of.

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You know what I think? I think there are entirely too many people in this world who underestimate me.

Wait ... what!??

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[NOTE TO OGGER: Ze tire, it is done.]

Spent time at casa del Wad this eve, where we scarfed down Lincoln's carryout (a local chain that has the best sandwich-y type grub, and for cheap cheap cheap), drank beer and then trekked to the video game place for games that could possibly eliminate SoW's Godzilla obsession and Target for plants (for HIM, not me), then came back to scarf down Oreos and watch "Eddie Izzard: Dressed to Kill," of which I NEVER get tired. My God, the facial expressions! I was laughing hysterically, and Wad was like, "What is your problem?" Then he passed out asleep and I came home. The end.

As we were traipsing through Target looking at plants (and wireless phone connectors for me -- $60, man! The hell?), I filled him in on the rest of the great TOG debacle.

Wait ... what!??

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Is it wrong that I felt absolutely no sympathy for Greta when, upon finding out her niece has lice, she went apeshit and on about how she was going to have to stay up all night to make sure all her clothes were washed!? And how, because they're all cold water washables, that her sister was going to have to pony up for new threads to replace the ones that shrink? And how she was going to have to call work (yeah, she's working now) and tell them she can't come in because she stayed up all night washing the nits out of all her earthly possesions? I don't know, it all seemed so dramatic when it didn't have to be.

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It seems there's a bit of confusion about my thoughts on removing the unauthorized skin. Guess I need to break this down for everyone.

1. First of all, I'm a free-lancer. I get all about unauthorized usage, and I'm a big proponent of copyright. (See here, here and here.)
2. That being said, it was a huge mistake on my part -- NOT Christina's, so back off on her -- to assume that listing a credit to the artist's work (which I had) would be acceptable. I should've have asked him for permission at least, commissioned work from him at most.
3. When Snidgey and I talked to Christina, she was under the impression that someone with damage against Bonafide contacted the artist.
4. I contacted the artist as soon as I found out he contacted Bonafide to extend my apologies and to see if we could work something out.
5. Annoyed that someone would play Bonafide like that, I posted Tuesday's entry with them in mind, NOT THE ARTIST. I also mistakenly used the word "author" when I meant "artist." I didn't go back and change it, though, because I figured anyone reading it would understand what I meant.
6. I was wrong, because the artist himself also misunderstood what I was saying.
7. I've since explained the situation to the artist -- who, I'd like to stress, has been extremely gracious and fair during this whole mess -- with the hope that he'll understand that I meant no damage with him, but with the people who were being underhanded toward Bonafide.

So there you go, y'all. And to you who called yourself "what?" and posted anonymously: Although I appreciate what you said, there's no reason you couldn't have contacted me with your concerns privately if you didn't want anyone to know who you are; after all, the artist did. That's why I deleted your post.

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If there's one thing I can appreciate about TOG, it's his candor. Doesn't make it hurt any less when I'm on the ass end of it, but ... I guess I admire the ability to self-preserve with such authority at the first sign of something uncomfortable (snickers weakly and shakes head). But I'm cool -- honestly, I'd much rather know than be ignored -- so we're just going to let it lie. It'll work itself out however it's supposed to.*

Let's talk instead about the really big news: Cousin Crackhead is supposedly going to the station tonight because she's "really anxious to clear her name," according to the detective. I'm sure she is (rolls eyes). Oh, and guess who I talked to yesterday during the parade I covered? That would be Boy Wonder, who was there with BFKAS and Snarling Cur. (shudders) B-dubs looks well and seemed to have his head about him; we talked mainly about Crazy Aunt and her troubles, which have become so out of control, I'm not even. He also talked about a little bit about a fight he had with his dad wherein his dad basically said he would never accept his lifestyle, and that made me sad for him. But we parted on good terms and he said he would stop by one day and we would have coffee or something.

Wait ... what!??

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The latest installment of the DtR chronicles has us trying to set up a second meeting. For the past few days, he's been quiet, saying he's up to his eyeballs in "personal issues." And then this afternoon, he drops it on me: He's asking his wife for a divorce and moving into his own crib this weekend. But don't tell anyone, because only his sister and boss know what's going on.

For anyone taking bets out there as to how long THAT was going to take, it was two weeks -- actually, not even. Sigh.

I mean, how stupid do you think I am!?! Do you honestly think I don't KNOW that guys tend to look up their old flames when the shit hits the fan with their current old ladies!?! Like you're the first dude that ever came up with this? Puh-LEEEZE. I may have been born in the morning, but it wasn't YESTERDAY MORNING. How much more contrived* can you BE, fer chrissakes.

$750 to go ... $750 to go ...

Wait ... what!??

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