Paging Dr. Dorian

Broken wineglass: 1
Hours in the emergency room: 3
Stitches: 4
Boyfriends who can't go to work for several days because their job involves working with their hands and one of their hands now has four fat stitches in it: 1

You're So Far Away
The Pegaphone and I just serenaded the departing Bossman in front of the entire agency. It should be noted that neither of us could carry a tune if it was in a basket. But the intentions were good.

Who Did That
Click here and watch the illustration that loads. It gives the term "Flash animation" a whole new meaning. Way to go CB2, you dirty perverts.

Clockwatching

Since my boss quit, I no longer feel the need to go to work. Well .... technically I'm at home waiting for the cable guy to come (Hello DVR, sweet nectar of life!), but still. Instead of working on that big project like I said I would, I might just take a nap. See if there's anything good for sale on Craigslist. Do a little scrapbooking.

C'mon, blow off work for a little while and let's hang out. It's not like anyone will miss us.

Hol-ee god. If you haven't seen this video of Karl Rove "rapping" and "dancing" at the White House Correspondents' Dinner, then you are truly missing out on one of the great moments in hip hop history. Also: HA HA HA HA HA HA.

Are you a pirate?

Tequila: drink to your colon health!

Hypnotic and strangely relaxing. I don't know what it is, but I like it.

The Infinite Cat Project, Japanese mouse pointer guys, and Spot the Difference are but a few of the fun things I found to do at my favoritest timesuck, Pointlesssites.com.

What time is Oprah on, I wonder.

OH NO.

HE'S LEAVING.



Boss. Soulmate. Mentor. Karaoke partner. LEAVING ME.

This sucks so hard I can't properly express it without sobbing uncontrollably. It's a good opportunity for him and everything but it's fair to say that I'm having a little trouble adjusting to the news.

The Devastation Mix
"All Out of Love," Air Supply
"Everybody Hurts," REM
Ohio Players, "Baby Come Back"
"Miss Me Blind," Culture Club
"Good," Better Than Ezra
"Missing," Everthing But the Girl
The Supremes, "Someday We'll Be Together"

Memory Lane
• Getting a Raise
• Calling In Drunk
• Boss as Pinata
• Calling In Drunk, Again
• Trip to the Boondocks
• 6 Years of Happy Hours & Holiday Parties

Buh-Bye

Don't let the door hit you where the good Lord split you.

It's Official

Skirt? CHECK!
Breeze? CHECK!
Everyone and their brother gets an eyeful of my underpants? CHECK!

Spring has sprung!

Brutality

It was 6:30 PM on a night in December, and I was on my way home from work. I had just gotten off the el and was hoofing the 8 long blocks to my house. The walk signal at the intersection of Lincoln, Damen and Irving blinked to white and I began to cross, only to be nearly run over by an impatient driver. I slapped his rear window with my gloved hand, yelled "Asshole!" His car missed my legs by bare centimeters.

It's dark out at 6:30 in December. I didn't see him coming, didn't hear the click of his footsteps running towards me over the music in my headphones. The force of the punch he delivered to the back of my head staggered me, but I stayed on my feet. Some of my military training must have kicked in because the next thing I knew I was running after him, running as fast as I could. I chased him back towards the intersection, caught up with him at his car. By that time I was on the phone with 911, and I had a good look at his license plate number. A crowd had begun to gather, and through the plate glass window of the tapas restaurant next to us, patrons watched with open mouths and forks paused mid-air. He must have known he wasn't getting away clean.

"You hit my car!" he screamed, rounding on me.

"You hit ME!" I screamed back. "That's called assault, motherfucker! You're going to jail!"

He slapped the phone out of my hand, and when I bent to retrieve it, punched me in the chest, shoved me to the ground and kicked the phone into the street. Without any real plan in mind, I wrapped myself around his leg. The only thought in my head was DO NOT LET HIM GET AWAY WITH THIS. Suddenly people came pouring out of the tapas restaurant. "Let go of him," they screamed. "He has a gun."

I scrambled backwards on the sidewalk and the crowd drew back from him, uncertain of what to do next. Suddenly a police car appeared in the traffic on Lincoln. Bystanders yelled and waved their arms to get the cops' attention. "This man has a gun!" Two female officers got out of the car and ran over.

"It's okay," said the man who punched me, as he calmly walked to meet them. "I'm on the job."

He was a cop.

As soon as he identified himself as a police officer, the cops on the scene were laughing and joking with him. I called my neighbor, who is a Chicago police detective, hysterical because I was convinced they were going to let him go. He advised me to say that I wanted to file a complaint. They took us both to the station house.

I was there for nearly three hours. The captain told me this was a good cop with no prior history of bad behavior, and if I pressed charges his life would be over. He hinted darkly at the things that happen to cops in jail. He also knew that I lived in a building with two Chicago cops, and tried to press that to his advantage, going as far as calling my neighbor and telling him to ask me not to file charges. On the privacy of the phone line my neighbor told me he'd support me no matter what, but I didn't know what to do. Did I really want to put a cop in jail and then live with two of them right above me? My head throbbed. The captain claimed the officer wanted to apologize. I declined. The captain said would I at least go home and think about it, and call in the morning if I wanted to press charges. But by the next morning it was too late.

Incredibly, the police report had been written against me, for slapping his car. "Property damage," it claimed. There was little mention that I had been assaulted, which removed the option of pressing charges. Instead, the officer was listed as the victim. And he had no trouble pressing charges against me. I was forced to hire a lawyer and go to court three times before that bullshit was dismissed. In the meantime I lived in fear. He knew my name, where I lived, what I looked like. He had a gun. Clearly he was mentally unwell. The only recourse left to me was to file a complaint of brutality with internal police investigators.

The investigation took a year, and a lot of persistence. I tracked down witnesses myself at times, and some of them refused to talk for fear of police retaliation. I got anonymous phone calls at my house, urging me not to give up, offering nuggets of information that could potentially help. My neighbor went on the record with the things he had been asked to say. He and his roommate put the word out that I was under their roof and their protection. It was terrifying, but at the end of it I got a letter in the mail from the Office of Professional Standards saying that my brutality claim had been substantiated. The officer would be punished. He would not lose his badge as I had hoped, but he would be held accountable in some way for his behavior that night. The punishment was yet to be determined.

I was relieved and ready to put it all behind me, but the story wasn't over yet. A week after I got the letter, there was a knock at my door. One of the cops from upstairs was standing outside. "I didn't want you to hear this from someone else," he said. "But that officer didn't show up for work today, so someone was sent to his apartment to check on him. He was dead. He shot himself."

Now it was over.

I refuse to feel guilt for what happened to him; it was all a direct result of actions by his own hand. He was sworn to enforce the law but he thought he was above it. I heard that he told officers afterwards that he did handle the situation wrong because he should have just "grabbed me up" for something and said that I resisted arrest. As I see it, there's one less bad cop on the streets of Chicago.

But the bigger problem is this attitude of covering things up, this code of silence. Turning the victim into the bad guy. Protecting the bullies because they wear a badge. My neighbor said that he came forward and went on record about this because he believes the force is ultimately hurt by keeping on these rogue cops. It's a black eye for the entire department, and feeds into the existing perception of corruption.

There are plenty of good, honest Chicago cops out there. I personally know a few. But the CPD *must* stop covering for the ones who aren't. The cost of continuing to do so is nothing less than the public trust.

NOTE: This happened to me in 2003. I have referenced it on this blog once or twice but I don't think I ever told the full story in print. According to an article by Eric Zorn in Sunday's Chicago Tribune, more than 10,000 citizen complaints were made against Chicago police officers from 2002 to 2004. Only 124 were upheld. Mine was one of them.

Tequila at the movies

When you have Netflix, and you have friends who have Netflix, there are all kinds of burning questions that keep you up at night. Such as, Why has my sister had the same two movies at her house for over a month? Why is my friend fixated on something called Invader Zim? Why are all there so many Pauly Shore movies in my boyfriend's queue? I hope someone has noticed the large number of documentaries I want to see and thinks I am smart. How in the name of GaelGarciaBernal could my so-called friend give The Motorcycle Diaries one star?

Instead of dragging ourselves out tonight to the theater and paying $20 to watch some dumb movie about mutant cannibal desert people or Adam Sandler acting mildly retardit, Concert Josh and I are cooking up some mango shrimp and snuggling on the couch in front of Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett, some horny hipster kids, and a bunch of horny Romans. Now THAT'S a Friday night.

You too can be my Netflix friend, and have me silently judging your tastes in film! Invite me at tequilared@bust.com.

* * * * *
Filed under "I AM DYING TO SEE THIS": go here and watch the 18+ trailer for the summer movie Knocked Up. I could shoot myself for not writing this screenplay. I've already watched the preview three times, it is hilarious and adorable. Katherine Heigl, you are cuter than a box of golden retriever puppies.

Not the feel-good movie of the year: the Chicago cop caught on tape beating the hell out of a tiny chick bartender who cut him off. What a fucking cock. And of course, the Chicago PD did everything they could to cover it up and turn the victim into the bad guy. Gee, that sounds familiar. ASSHOLES.

A scientific survey of all the women and one dude in the office concluded that, even without his nerdy Napolean get-up, Jon Heder is not hot.



I respectfully suggest that this poll is BULLSHIT. Even though I conducted it myself. Leah, COME ON.

sorry but that's hot

Lent-a-licious

This is the best (& easiest) fish recipe you will ever make. Because I love you.

Broiled Tilapia Parmesan
Prep Time: 5 Minutes
Cook Time: 10 Minutes
Yields: 8 servings

INGREDIENTS:
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese
1/4 cup butter, softened
3 Tbsp mayonnaise
2 Tbsp fresh lemon juice
1/4 tsp dried basil
1/4 tsp ground black pepper
1/8 tsp onion powder
1/8 tsp celery salt
2 lbs tilapia fillets

DIRECTIONS:
1. Preheat your oven's broiler. Grease a broiling pan or line pan with aluminum foil. [ED. NOTE: Go foil.]
2. In a small bowl, mix together the Parmesan cheese, butter, mayonnaise and lemon juice. Season with dried basil, pepper, onion powder and celery salt. Mix well and set aside.
3. Arrange fillets in a single layer on the prepared pan. Broil a few inches from the heat for 2 to 3 minutes. Flip the fillets over and broil for a couple more minutes. Remove the fillets from the oven and cover them with the Parmesan cheese mixture on the top side. Broil for 2 more minutes or until the topping is browned and fish flakes easily with a fork. Be careful not to overcook the fish.

Click here for printer version

We eat this once a week at least. I'll tell you right now, the 8 servings part is not right. More like 4, BECAUSE YOU WILL NOT BE ABLE TO STOP SHOVELING IN THIS DELICIOUSNESS.

You're welcome.

9 to 5

Yesterday I wrote a radio script that combined breast implants, fake orgasms, and frozen pizza.

It was magnificent.

Party Like It's 1957

I drank a little too much wine, the flowers were a little too My Budget Wedding, and the restaurant "accidentally" charged me $1200 too much, but all in all I would call Mom's 50th Birthday Bonanza a wild success, by Elkhart standards. Everyone sure looked pretty.







* * * * *
In other news, the new "Anything you can do I can do better" Gap commercial makes me think you should really reconsider your boyfriend if he wears those sissy pants.

Dylan has a new hobby called Hiding In Dark Corners And Scaring The Living Shit Out Of Mommy.

The new TV armoire I'm buying used to be in a House of Blues Hotel room. I bet it's been present when more than one D-list celebrity had sloppy sex with someone whose name they couldn't remember just before barfing on the floor. Corey Haim, maybe.

I love Stephen Colbert to the point where he should start being concerned.

This picture will be even funnier tomorrow.

Pinot Gringo

Sorry for the not so frequent posting this week. I am very bussy with planning a party for my mom on saturday adn today I was inc harge of everyone at work. Wow! Also, I have had some bottles of wine tonight with my frineds. If you are coming to the party Ihope you like rod Stewart.

Stomp

Last night I got into a fight with my upstairs neighbor/landlord/resident PITA. I asked him - rather nicely, I might add - if they wouldn't mind trying not to wear their shoes so much around the house. His response? Indignance, disbelief, and a whole lot of assery.

LANDLORD: I don't understand why this is suddenly a problem.
TEQUILA RED: It's not sudden, trust me.
LL: What, I'm supposed to take my shoes off the minute I get home?
TR: That would be wonderful, thanks.
LL: YOU ARE SO UNREASONABLE.
TR: I haven't complained about the dog barking all the time, or the nursery being right over my bedroom, or the baby who plays in the nursery right over my bedroom by banging wooden objects directly on the floor at 6AM, or the fact that I haven't done laundry since November, or that the back gate is broken and I have to CLIMB OVER IT TO TAKE OUT THE TRASH. I pay my rent on time, don't throw parties anymore, and take better care of the place than you do. So, seriously, you might want to give me this one.
LL: But my shoes? Off my feet? I don't think this can be done.
TR: Try.
LL: [mentally calculating rent increase]
TR: [stabbing him with eyes]
LL: Fine, but I'm not making any promises.
TR: You're a peach.

Things I Will Try Not To Do, But I Can't Make Any Promises:
• Lose their mail
• Steal their mail
• Steal their car
• Rub their clean laundry on basement floor, then put back in dryer
• Blast Fannypack all day while at work, claim cat enjoys it
• Nails in front of garage door
• Sauerkraut cook-off
• Throw mad birthday party
• Move

Any other suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

Free Hugs

I was having a crap day, and this is just what I needed.



[found in the Chicago Tribune]

It reminds me a little of Scotty and his paper hats. Minus the part about the cops with cold black holes where their hearts should be.

* * * * * *
Stalker Alert Level: RED

Peeve

I can't stand when writers use the phrase "made my way." As in, "I made my way to the elevator." Or, "He made his way to the copy machine." It's lazy and stupid and sloppy. Just say WALKED if you can't think of anything better, hack.

Eat THIS

You've seen the latest batch of Subway commercials, right? The ones where Jared is having a riveting "More meat, less fat" argument with various celebrities? They're horrible and stupid and far too cutesy. You know who I'd like to see in one of those commercials? Ann Coulter.

JARED: Less fat!
ANN COULTER: More meat, you insipid cretin.
JARED: Less fat.
ANN COULTER: [homosexual slur]

Courtney Love would also be good, don't you think?

JARED: More meat!
COURTNEY: Morphine?
JARED: No. You're supposed to say "Less fat."
COURTNEY: [tries to lick own belly button]
JARED: Let's try it again. More meat!
COURTNEY: Yesterday I ate a slice of cheese, two french fries, and an 8-ball.
JARED: More meat?
COURTNEY: Pigeon hockey Saturn socks.
JARED: [Sigh.]

Henry Rollins? Shannon Doherty? Bill O'Reilly?

JARED: Less fat!
BILL: So, Jared, have you always been a four-eyed pansy ass?
JARED: Um.
BILL: You parents must be siblings. Are you from Virginia?
JARED: Eat shit and die, please.

Note to Subway's ad agency: I am available for freelance.

Just for fun, here's another look at me wearing Jared's fat pants.



* * * * * *

Book It
Last night (this morning?) I woke up at three o'clock and couldn't get back to sleep. It occurred to me that buying balloons for my mom's party was a terrible idea, I have to call the florist and cancel that right away, pink and peach, what the hell was I thinking. Then, I had the best idea I've ever had. I flipped on the light, grabbed the notepad and pen I keep next to the bed, and wrote the first chapter of my first book. What book? The book I've been thinking about writing for the last 13 years. Only, with a totally different and way better story. It's so good I can't believe no one's writtten it yet. Oprah will love this shit.

Horny Talk
[Editor's Note:The item in question was the deerhead below. Apparently someone (Steve#2) bought it.]
COWORKER: Please get this for the office.
TR: Can we name him Mr. Pickles?
COWORKER: No. His name is Buck. Buck Nasty.
TR: Ew. Then no.
COWORKER: How about Bambi Ramenheiser then.
TR: Why do I have the feeling you have a million of these?
COWORKER: Because I do.
TR: Ah.


Meet Stag Dickinson

Status Report

South Beach Diet: Day 5. I don't own a scale so I don't know if I've gone down in the poundage department, but I feel less likely to gnaw off my own toes. Goal: fit into cute Oilily dress for madre's St. Patrick's Day birthday party.

BritBrit: possibly discovered 666 birthmark on skull, crazy as rat in shithouse

Stranger Than Fiction: SO SO GOOD. Made me despise W. Ferrell a tiny bit less. Rent this.

Work: eh.

Casimir Pulaski: not doing much for me today. He has a good song though. And a nice 'stache.

Bed: made

Craigslist: 1 thing I want, 46 things I don't

Personality Disorder I Am:

You May Be a Bit Histrionic...

Dramatic and over the top, you crave attention. And you'll do anything it takes to get noticed. You love to be seductive, even when it's inappropriate. If you're ignored, you're easily hurt ... and act out even more!

Things spotted on rooftops from the train this morning: high chair, Kong, orange, frisbees, sneaker, tampon?

Blog: tedious

So, what's up with you?

South Beach Diet: Day 2

I would shave my head right now for a McDonald's Filet-O-Fish sandwich.