Upon receiving my new Canon camera for Christmas, I’ve hurled myself on the Flickr bandwagon.

Indulge me and my amateur love of the frozen image, won’t you?

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He’s coming to Omaha!

Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band will play at the Qwest Center Omaha, 455 N. 10th St., March 6 at 7:30 p.m. Tickets go on sale Jan. 20 at 10 a.m. at the arena’s box office, www.livenation.com, www.ticketmaster.com, at all Ticketmaster outlets and by calling 422-1212. Ticket prices have not been announced. {courtesy of Omaha.com}

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I think I may have been mistaken for a lesbian Saturday night.

There’s no one to blame but myself, really. I was in a lesbian bar. I have short hair, as my photo will indicate. And I was sipping a Budweiser straight from the bottle.

Here’s how it happened.

I knew I was headed for a lesbian bar that night. The reason was to hear some great live music.

So I called the only person I knew who could quell my fears, answer my questions and, most importantly, tell me what to wear.

A dear female friend from college who dated a woman.

But damnit, she wasn’t near her cell phone. I left a voicemail.

After showering, I stood in front of my open closet, wracking my brain while trying to determine what I should wear. What doesn’t look lesbian? What makes me retain every ounce of my precious femininity to the point of surplus?

Anticipating the evening, I painted my fingernails a sweet-as-sugar pink color earlier in the day. I also decided on pearl stud earrings, regardless of my wardrobe choice.

Before my gal pal returned my frantic phone call, I selected my new red shoes, my skinny jeans and a red chiffon blouse with white polka dots.

When she called — mind you, she was laughing when I answered the phone upon retrieving the voicemail I left her — I described my clothing choice.

“Girl,” she said (a noun she loves to use and one I love to hear) “anything described as a blouse will totally signal you’re not gay.”

In my idiotic state, I also asked what I should do if a fellow female offered to buy me a drink.

“Just tell her thanks, but that you’re straight,” she replied without skipping a beat. “Lesbians are some of the most honest people you’ll ever meet. They won’t think twice of it.”

I arrived at the bar, located in the seedy perimeter of downtown Omaha, where I was looked over by the woman collecting cash at the front door. I forked over my $3, pulled quickly from my shiny red clutch while consciously flashing my pink fingernails, and bellied up to the bar.

The whole evening, while mulling about the bar, I felt everyone’s eyes were on me. I can’t say for certain, but methinks I was the only straight women inside the place that night.

A few lesbians approached me, two of whom were inebriated beyond belief, to make small talk.

Then, the he/she walked in the door.

It was clearly a man, baby, but with long, curly hair, some type of cosmetics plastered about his/her face, a lime green tank top and matching shrug. The ensemble was complete with too-tight jeans that rode below his/her expanding gut and showed much too much of his/her ass crack.

I was pretty paranoid that he/she would approach me, as I stood by myself part of the evening.

My paranoia transformed into cold, hard reality when he/she approached.

Dizzy from too much booze paired with the inability to walk in heels, he/she yelled in my face, “Come dance with me. Come dance with me!”

It was all I could do not to assume the fetal position on the floor, but something told me that carpet had seen better days … and fewer stains.

“Oh, you should dance with your boyfriend,” I shouted back, assuming the portly gentleman who held her in all the right places earlier that night was, in fact, her betrothed.

“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend! He’s not my boyfriend!”

It was as if my suggestion had offended him/her and increased volume would most certainly guarantee an affirmative response.

“I WANT TO DANCE WITH YOU!”

It was at that point that said gentleman ushered to his sweetheart’s side and whisked him/her away, leaving no time for me to answer his/her question.

Thanks God for that.

Driving home that night, I realized how silly the whole evening would sound when recounted in the harsh light of daybreak. But when you’re at a lesbian bar for the first time, stories take on different (and often more colorful) shadows and angles.

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The email arrived this afternoon, notifying me that My Drink has triumphantly returned to Starbucks.

May I introduce you to the Cinnamon Dolce Latte.

Two words: Thank God.

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On Big Day, ‘WSJ’ Employees Hit Company — in ‘NY Times’ Ad

By Jennifer Saba

Published: January 02, 2007 12:15 PM ET

NEW YORK — While Dow Jones is touting the debut of a skinnier Wall Street Journal today, many employees at the paper want to see more heft. The union representing staffers at the Journal took out an ad today in a rival, The New York Times, calling into question Dow Jones’ commitment to quality journalism.

“This size of the paper isn’t the only thing shrinking at the Wall Street Journal,” reads the headline of the ad accompanied by a hand dangling a miniature version of the paper. “Today the publishers are unveiling a smaller paper in a bid to save money,” the ad continues. “Unfortunately, if the newspaper’s owner, Dow Jones & Co., has its way, the quality of the paper is also in danger of shrinking.”

The ad, roughly three quarters of a page, runs in section A and cost the IAPE $115,000. Originally, the ad was quoted at $85,000 but to ensure placement in today’s paper, the union paid extra.

The ad encourages readers to send an e-mail (union@iape1096.org) to the union asking Dow Jones to preserve the quality of the Journal by “preserving its quality workforce.”

Steven Yount, president of the Independent Association of Publisher’s Employees (IAPE), told E&P the ad had been in the works since December 2005. The union is currently negotiating with Dow Jones executives over new contracts — a slow-going process that has coincided with the launch of the new Journal.

Yount said the two sides are still at loggerheads regarding major issues, including a proposed increase — 400% according to the IAPE — of health care costs.

“The only way we would not have done this [ad] is if we had made progress at the bargaining table,” Yount said.

In an e-mail statement to E&P from Dow Jones, the company said that IAPE “simply has its facts wrong” citing that readership and advertising revenue are growing.

“The redesigned Journal that debuted today is aimed at better serving readers and advertisers. It is the collective work of hundreds of very talented people all across Dow Jones, many of whom are union members. It is simply unfair of IAPE to doubt their commitment to readers and customers and to the quality of the products they create,” the e-mail said.

The IAPE and The Newspaper Guild-Communications Workers of America, which helped with the media buy, didn’t even consider placing the ad in the Journal. “In years past, the Journal has not been anxious to run ads from the IAPE. Instead of going in that direction, we went to the New York Times,” Yount explained, adding they wanted to reach executives at Dow Jones and the Times would be the best place.

The IAPE ran an ad in the Times three years ago when the group negotiated for a new contract — a bitter process that resulted in a byline strike by Journal reporters.

Yount said management and the union are set to meet four times this month to hash out a new contract. “We are concerned about the future of this company and we want a quality product and for Dow Jones to be successful,” he said.

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Happy new year!

As we usher in another 365 days to “get it right” and make our lives the best they can be, I wish for you the following.

• May peace break into your house and may thieves come to steal your debts.

• May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet for $100 bills.

• May love stick to your face like Vaseline and may laughter assault your lips.

• May your clothes smell of success like smoking tires.

• May happiness slap you across the face and may your tears be that of joy.

• May the problems you had forget your home address.

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I paid Omaha’s Henry Doorly Zoo a visit Wednesday afternoon with my sister, her boyfriend and my mom.

Part of our time was spent inside the zoo’s aquarium. While taking in the sights of the fish (both dangerous and harmful alike) floating by, I heard a child ask his mother: “Mom, is that the same fish that killed Steve Irwin?”

We were inside an aquarium. An alligator was no where in site.

My, how kids say the darndest things.

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After dinner with my family last night, we ventured downstairs to Harrah’s Council Bluffs for a little gambling.

My dad was gracious enough to give me, my sister and her boyfriend each $50 to gamble away as we please.

My sister and I went directly to the slot machines and tested our luck. Within 15 minutes, Katie had won $90. I had won $10.

I was ready to go home.

But then Katie took me to the slot machine that paid her gold earlier this year.

We said a prayer to my late grandma, who loved casinos and who, we’re convinced, helped Katie win the $400 this past June.

I won $160 last night after that prayer. And moments later, Matt won $150 on the same slot machine.

At the night’s end, I walked away with $184.

Thanks, Maw!

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If Santa adopted Dr. Phil’s “tell it like it is” philosophy, children everywhere might receive correspondence like this. Merry Christmas.

Dear Santa,
I have been a good girl all year, and the only thing I ask for is peace and joy in the world for everybody!
Love,
Sarah

Dear Sarah,
Your parents smoked pot when they had you, didn’t they?
Santa

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Dear Santa,
I want a new bike, a Playstation, a train, some G.I. Joes, a dog, a drum kit, a pony and a tuba.
Love,
Francis

Dear Francis,
Who names their kid “Francis” nowadays? I bet you’re gay.
Santa

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Dear Santa,
Do you see us when we’re sleeping? Do you really know when we’re awake, like in the song?
Love,
Jessica

Dear Jessica,
Are you really that gullible? Good luck in whatever you do. I’m skipping your house.
Santa

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Dear Santa,
We don’t have a chimney in our house. How do you get into our home?
Love,
Marky

Mark,
First, stop calling yourself “Marky.” That’s why you’re getting your ass kicked at school. Second, you don’t live in a house; you live in a low-rent, ghetto apartment complex. Third, I get inside your pad just like all the burglars do: through your bedroom window.
Sweet dreams,
Santa

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Dear Santa,
I really, really want a puppy this year. Please, please, please PLEASE, PLEASE could I have one?
Timmy

Timmy,
That whiney begging shit may work with your folks, but that crap doesn’t work with me. You’re getting an ugly sweater again.
Santa

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What better way to celebrate the holiday season than with soundbites by Borat?

http://www.fartsteam.com/soundboards/tv/borat_soundboard_3.swf

The page takes a bit to load but is most certainly worth the wait.

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