Local News

• Uh-huh:

Via the Indianapolis Star: Hoosier Rocker John Mellencamp turned down former Rep. Baron Hill's campaign's request for to appear at a fundraiser last week alongside President Clinton. Mellencamp told the LA Times he refused because Hill voted for the war.

Do we need to defeat Sodrel? Sure. Should we ever forget that vote? Hell, no. Thank you, Mr. Cougar.

Incidentally, though a Hoosier by birth and by residence, I've never bought a John Mellencamp album. According to the 2000 census there are six of us.


• Fireworks Update: Another band of yahoos entered the fray on Thursday, with nowhere near the spectacular arsenal but a much later starting date: 12:30 AM.

They will be dispatched rather easily. On Thursday afternoon, after making three calls and getting shuffled three times I finally found a sympathetic ear in the sheriff's department, a woman, or female officer I guess, who explained to me what I already knew: that the 11PM limit on noise and fireworks had nothing to do with disturbing the peace, or using obnoxious sounds to harass; that the typical police dispatcher would try to convince me that it did because they don't want to make those sorts of runs; and I should make a nuisance of myself if necessary and call every damn time somebody shoots of a firecracker over at Casa del Assholes. Like I say, I already knew this, but it was encouraging to hear it, and to be able to tell the neighbors that a uniformed representative of Indiana law enforcement says so, not just me. So far I've gotten three people to agree to call in whenever they hear anything, and that ought to be enough to visit some real trouble on those people when they start up again--they've been silent over there for three days now, probably because they're flat broke from sending several hundred dollars into the sky just to see the purty colors.

It also seems possible that Indiana law is worded such that the fireworks must come down on the person's property or they have to have permission from other landowners. Anyway, I'm not resting until I see the loudmouth matriarch of that bunch on a road gang.

Oh, and the other yahoos: my wife told me that property (it's on the next block) is a rental, so I got the name of the owner and will be introducing myself tomorrow.

• Summer Fashion Hints: All of which reminds me of a lesson gleaned from grocery shopping yesterday morning: if you're a thirty-five year old woman beginning to lose the battle with gravity, you may want to consider whether your decision some time ago to get a large tattoo on your bicep shouldn't preclude the wearing of sundresses. I'm just sayin'; the "Who stole my Keystone Light?" look is played out, even in Indiana.

Speaking of tattoos, my Poor Wife had to go in to school the other AM for a student audition, a young lady who couldn't quite get along with her parochial school overlords ("I'm responsible for five new rules about student conduct," she said, which would have meant she passed the audition right there for me). And she works for a tattoo parlor, drawing designs, so my wife asks, "So where are your tattoos?" "Oh, I don't have any," she says, "I'm way too young to mark myself permanently."

Which means there is hope, but as usual it resides with people too creative to make much difference.

• And trust me on this: Juan Pablo Montoya jumping to NASCAR is the oddest sports story since Michael decided to play baseball, and may very well make NASCAR almost watchable in the very near future.