'The Graduate' author says: "It's not fair to say she threw us out. There was just a difference of opinion on the nudism."

I can't even believe this.

OK, I can see there being a sequel to "The Graduate." If it were 1965.

We all WERE left hangin' ... But I know I don't lose sleep over it. It probably won't be any good, and I'd be most interested if Simon & Garfunkel were going to do the soundtrack to this one, too (probably not). But this guy, the author of the novel "The Graduate," is just plain weird.

He's glad he didn't get any money for the movie. He's glad he was poor. He lived in a VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER (I don't know if the river part is true, but I am laughing at the Chris Farley image in my head, and the guy did say he lived in a van).

I also struggle with this part: It's not coming out 'til June 2007. GREAT. Now what am I supposed to read this summer?!

These are my embarrassing but true Gin Blossom confessions

I just wanted everyone to know: The Gin Blossoms are coming. Repeat, Gin Blossoms are coming, tomorrow night. Erin will be there. Good times will be had. Flashbacks to fifth grade will be enjoyed by no one, experienced by all who are my age.

True Gin Blossoms story No. 1:
I like the band. I'm sorry. I cannot tell a lie.

True story No. 2:
You know those two-song cassette tapes, sold for 99 cents back in the day? Well, I was staying for a few days with my older, hipper cousin back in '93 or '94, and she had one of the Gin Blossoms' singles. I'd never heard it, but because I wanted to be just like her, I dubbed the song onto a tape from the top 8 at 8. Years later, her tape would turn up on a garage sale, and I'd wonder who'd pay 50 cents for a song they could dub from KISS FM. Now, I feel kind of bad about being that nerdy.

True story No. 3:
I've had "Follow You Down" in my head since late April.

True story No. 4:
When I interviewed Scott Johnson from the Gin Blossoms, he was uber nice. Uber is German for "very." That is also true.

True story No. 5:
Wednesday, I will post the whole interview online. But until then, you can be content to find out more here.

True story No. 6:
I was going to use "Last to Know" or "'Til I Hear It From You" in the title of this blog post, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.

Marriage is a special kind of union ...

When people want to get married in some religions, they have to take a marriage class. Yes, someone tells us how to be married. Wait, let me use the pamphlet's lingo: "tools" needed to "create a successful union."

I could crack jokes about "successful unionizing," but I won't. Instead, I'll just say holy cow, speaking of successful unions, this couple's been together 78 years. Seventy-eight. That's like, 70 years, plus eight. I can't even fathom it. Most people don't live to 78.

I only hope that our marriage class is going to give us those tools.

We go on Saturday, from 8:30 a.m. (when I am my best, let me tell you) to 4:30 p.m. (when I will be starving to death).

You can expect a full report here when we get back, probably complete with more photos like this blog classic, from the book "Teen Guide to Married Life," from which I posted back in February. Scroll to the bottom. There you go.

This blog autographed by David Lee Roth

Jump, jump, man.

Sigh.

When I was like, young enough to think that my life would be complete if my mom would juuuust let me stay up 'til 10, and Fun Dip was the highlight of my summer days, I remember watching the ridiculous video for "Jump" on VH1. And I didn't like it then.

But, because I realize that one cannot live on Billy Joel alone, I feel it is my duty to send you all to this link. David Lee Roth is coming to Waterfest at the Leach Amphitheater here.

Can you even handle it?

I can. But hey, I'm just the Fun Dip fan, what do I know? I am the geek who's excited about going to see the Gin Blossoms Thursday.

Hamster update

Oh, and no angry hamster ruined my life.

Not yet, anyhow. The sign is also gone. My luck, the building manager took it down because it was enciting panic. Or, it's been found. But I'm not that lucky.

I'll let you know if I wake up with rabid hamster bites on my arms or something. Stay tuned.

I'm baaaaaack

That's right. After a weekend full of (deep breath) long drives, time changes, 95-degree days, graduation parties, a meeting with the wedding decorator, picking out tuxedos for our wedding, shopping with Mom, shopping with my friend, hanging out with my family around the bonfire, sleeping in too late, chasing my parents' dog around the yard, going "awww" over the kittens in the barn, going on a bike ride, going to the bar, washing my car, getting thrown up on by a baby, going to the Dairy Whip, eating cheesy potatoes, getting sick of my CDs, driving the wrong way into a parade, getting cut off by some jerk in Indiana, narrowly escaping with my life, being bored to tears all the way to Wisconsin, and dragging myself back to work today ... inhale ... I am back.

And I'm tired.

And, I had all these exciting stories to tell you, and I was thinking of how I was going to phrase them in a blog, but then I just went ahead and gave away all the major points above, thus leaving my "exciting stories" seeming like, well, boring ones. But, there you have it. My holiday, where the streets have no names. Just letters. And numbers. And sometimes letters and numbers.

He's a mad, mad, mad, mad, mad hamster

I know we already said our tearful goodbyes, but this is one I couldn't resist blogging about. It's 7:30 a.m., so you know it's good.

We went to eat wings last night, got home at 1:15 a.m., planning on just going to bed, so tired, have to wake up early, etc. And what's attached to the door that leads to the floor our apartment's on?

A note. An 11-by-7 inch piece of nightmare, taped to the door.

"A fury [sic] brown hamster may have escaped from my apartment. If you find him, please see Apt #."

May have? What is that?? Did it, or didn't it? It has a cage, doesn't it? Is it in it? No? OK, then it's gone. Thank you, now that there is certainty, I can go on freaking out.


And why is it so furious? Is that why it left? Were you not changing his sawdust stuff often enough? That would make me furious. Any why did it "escape"? What are you doing in there, holding it hostage? It "escaped"?

For all we know, the fury brown hamster is on a warpath of destruction. Or, of crawling through my hair while I was asleep. I wasn't down with that, so I had Dave walk around with a flashlight, checking under the bed, under the chair, under the couch, behind the bookshelves, in the laundry basket, in the closet, in the bathroom.

Did we find the fury hamster? No. Not yet anyhow. But I'm getting the bleep outta Oshkosh if there's a hamster on the loose.

Well, I suppose it's better than a snake. I would have moved out, took all my belongings and hopped town, never to return, had it been "my fury brown snake may have escaped."

'Corporation sign with signs' ... deep, man.

Weird story: I was leaving work tonight, and THERE WERE PEOPLE EVERYWHERE. It was like some concert was going on at the Leach Amphitheater or something. Sweet tomatoes, I practically hit an old man wearing dark clothes who was jaywalking. It was crazy; he had the deer/headlight thing going on, I screamed "Good god." But, as I didn't hit him, my story pretty much ends here.

I am pretty much all packed, I'm ready to go, I'm standing here outside your door ... Dave's mom's the one coming in on the jetplane, though. And, as I will be out of this time zone and living one hour ahead of you suckers (which means I will experience life an hour earlier, and be a wiser person; and when I come back, I'll un-age, leaving me with visibly firmer skin ...), I won't be blogging so much. Or at all. But you never know. I have done crazier things. Insert "Living On the Edge." Just the chorus, please.

For all you stalkers out there, or bored link-clickers, I will be vacationing here. I don't know if I knew they had a Web site, but ... dang, there it is. I've posted the world famous photo called "Corporation Sign With Signs."

I have to drive a while tomorrow, and I am so tired I could die, which is my new favorite phrase, apparently, and yet I'm NOT going to bed early. No, you heard it here first: Erin will be moody until 9 a.m. because of this. Then she will quickly switch into grumpy. Actually, that's not true. But I am going out tonight -- 25-cent wings, loud, oddly compiled music; heck yes. Hanging out with the fiance, who may never be the same after this weekend alone with his mother. Kidding.

And, because exactly two have asked: No, I didn't clean. She told me not to. You're supposed to do it anyhow, I know. But I just ... didn't.

Weekend can't come too soon

It's Thursday, so if you've been paying attention, you know what that means: Weekend. This week, ours is a preview of all the big Oshkosh summer music events. Turned out pretty nice, if I may say so myself.

And if you're a Little River Band (or want to know who the heck they are, and why I'm asking), then you should check out this story. (P.S. They are the band who's playing at the first Waterfest, tonight.)

Earn crowd participation points!

The plans are set, my friends.

Ohio. I've got maximum hanging-out and maximum good food. I've got maximum plans to do some laundry so I'll look my, well, maximumness. I am excited to the max. No doubt.

But what would a long car trip be without the perfect CD mix? Boring, that's what.

And, no offense to my fiance, but I am undoubtedly going to totally rock out so much louder to better music now that he's not there to make fun of my music choices. I have about 1,847 burnt CDs (all legal, mind you, just back-up copies, of course); I've got a loud one ("Erin's happiness mix, 2006"), a melancholy one ("The Downers"), a dance mix ("Good Stuff, Vol. 54") and a rock one ("Rock on").

Memorial Day weekend, driving through Chicago .... I may want to burn a few dozen more CDs. Or go buy a car charger for my sweet iPod on my lunch break. Sigh. The latter isn't going to happen. Well, probably not. I guess I bought sweet shoes today during lunch ... Anyhow, back on task.

Because my CD mixes tend to be predictable and boring after the first few plays, I need your help. Yes, America, now that "Idol" is over, you can turn off the TV and answer my plea.

Top 5 best songs for driving in the car (no downers, I fall asleep in no time flat. Like, 0.003 seconds). Go. Talk among yourselves, and then post your answers here. And if you don't, you can never say you partook in creating any mixed CD for me. And someday I'll be famous, and you'll regret it when I start mailing $100 bills to those who replied.

Yeah. "Is she kidding?" Maybe. Maybe not. Wanna bet $100 on it, though? And nothing too obscure. I have to be able to find it on iTunes.

OK. Go, friends. Go. Create a musical masterpiece for me.

Living Well

I'm Living Well right now. You should be too. Yes, that's all the more creative I feel at 8 a.m.

But Living Well turned out ... well. You should check it out here.

Please excuse our dust

I've got a whole new predicament this weekend. We're getting a visitor ... but I won't be here.

Duhn, duhn, duhn. Where are "Unsolved Mysteries" and Robert Stack now??!

It's my soon-to-be mother-in-law. No mystery. She's cooooming. On a jet plane. Flying in and landing when I hope (fingers crossed, my friends) to be somewhere crossing the Illinois state line. (Fingers crossed meaning I hope I get to leave work, not I hope I miss her. I like her, guys.)

But still -- it's like when my mom came. The apartment can't be dirty. Oh, my god -- and my fiance has to keep the place clean all by himself? I cannot completely feel comfortable about him not burning the place down by leaving the oven on or something, let alone keep it clean. Oh, my.

Before my mom came, I was dusting, vacuuming, doing laundry, sweeping, cleaning the bathrooms ... I went pretty crazy. Can't let Mom think I don't take care of my own apartment. Now, I feel an obligation to have the place be even cleaner, but I can't really say I've got that kind of time this week. I've got a lot of work to do ... I want to sneak out of work early Friday. I want to sleep at night. I want to blog. Ha.

But I want the place to smell like lemons and Pine Sol ... And I don't even have Pine Sol ... Wait. There it is. Yes I do. Make that read "Apparently I've not used that bottle since college."

Cleaning, not cleaning, tusting him to clean ... What a conundrum. And I don't even think she'll mind. She's not like that. But I am like that. If I had time, I'd get an ulcer over it. But, let's face it, I'm just not going to get around to worrying like that. It'll be Monday, and I'll come home to a dirty apartment, and remember that I forgot to worry.

(Photo: Funkyfridge.com.)

Dancing like it's sophomore year of college

I'm going to let you in on a secret about me: I'm short, I've got a chubby face, and I've been told I look like I'm 14. This is going to be awesome when I'm 40, I used to think. Not so much now.

Only it is. It's very awesome. Now. This past weekend, my friends and I decided to do the "WE'RE IN COLLEGE" tour of Oshkosh. Basically, it involves going out to local bars, dancing in a mocking way, and saying "Woo hoo -- we're in college" 'til eavesdroppers want to punch us all. Or just me. The problem with our little charade is we're surrounded by people who are actually in college. And we look like we're in college, so we blend in. We're not those 25-year-olds who sit at the kitchen table at a high-school house party. But we don't want to be jerks.

We get our laughs from each other, not from making Frat Boy Joe angry for mocking his girlfriend's "dance" in her stilettos, capris and a tank top (dude, that's so last year).

So there we were, standing in the middle of a dance floor (mostly empty, school's out), half dancing, half stopping and laughing. And then there were all these college kids who looked like they wanted to hurt us. Or just ignoring us. There they were, dancing with reckless abandon.

"(BASS, BASS) Some song about hooking up (BASS, BASS)," giggling, spilling beer on the floor, holding a cell phone in one hand, a cigarette in the other, with multicolored bangs in her eyes. And you know what? I was a bit jealous. I'm glad I didn't look too old to be there, but I still felt it. I don't remember the last time I went to a bar and danced to some (BASS, BASS) song about hooking up (BASS, BASS) and danced like that.

Not that I want to start again. I'm just sayin'. It was fun. And now someone else is having fun. And I'm just standing with my friends mocking them quietly, saying "I'm in college!" And I'm thinking about the work I have to do the next day. And rent. And "Is that clock right? I need to get to bed." And laundry. And how out of shape my feet are in the shoes I have on. And "Don't I have the foresight to wear something other than a band T-shirt. Seriously."

And (BASS, BASS) Some song about hooking up (BASS, BASS) won't stop playing.

At least the college kids didn't point and laugh, "Hey, look at all the old people." Because, face it, when I was younger, I was saying that about people my age now. "I hope when I'm that old I don't still come HERE. I hope I have better stuff to do than go clubbing."

Oh, sweet, naive Erin and friends.

(Photo: pretty much how cool we all looked dancing. In our heads. Photo from ftw-designs.com. Incidentally, if anyone knows how to create such a thing in Illustrator, we should be friends.)

Who are those guys? Beach Boys what?

Since I'm sure you already know The Beach Boys are coming to EAA's AirVenture this summer, I thought it was only appropriate to post this link, courtesy of Pop Candy, of like, 13 different versions of "God Only Knows" covers.

I'm sure the majority of my readers are Beach Boys fans. Closet Beach Boys fans? Vaguely remember a made-for-TV movie about them? Know of a Beach Boys fan? I think my dad is ... But I'm not sure. Ha. I am kidding, guys.

I so know who they are. They're the ones who did that song for NBC's "The '70s," right? Kidding again.

But, as an aside, if someone were to show me this photo of the Beach Boys, I would have guessed it to be a photo of a golf outing at a seniors home in Florida. Seriously. Look at those guys' tans. And could they have any more patterned shirts? I know you're the Beach Boys, but coooome ooon. It's like someone dug through the 50-cent bin at the thrift store for those shirts.

OK, enough knocking of the Beach Boys. Sorry, Beach Boys. I apologize. American music staple, classic pop, timeless oldies, etc. Sorry. No disrespect. Word.

This is getting out of hand.

Anyhow, Pop Candy likes the Mandi Moore/Michael Stipes version of the cover. I recommend David Bowie, as well, because he's so opposite of the "quintessential American band." Dude, Bowie, you're so British, and you don't look like the beach bum/surfer/totally groovy type. But I bet Bowie does have a few pattern shirts to wear. With matching orange hair ... Don't listen to Phantom Planet's version, unless you like crappy music. It's a minute and a half you'll never get back.

"WTC" (preview) hits (Erin's small) screen

"I'd comment on his mustache if it weren't a film about Sept. 11."

Admittedly, that was the first thought I had when I pressed play on the press release VHS tape I got of "World Trade Center," Oliver Stone's movie that comes out Aug. 9 about, you guessed it, two policemen on Sept. 11. (I don't usually get movie previews, so I rushed home to watch it ... disappointing.

He tries to be poignant by not mentioning anything (no credits, no "Starring Nicholas Cage, Directed by Oliver Stone," etc., lines), and putting it to this orchestra soundtrack. I was kind of disappointed, though.

Nicholas Cage (who, in my opinion, is pretty much the go-to guy for movies that go right to the end of my brain's "must-see" line, and stay there) stars as one of the two policemen featured in the movie. He lives. Sorry to give away the ending, but that news story pretty much gives it away.

I don't know if I'm ready to see a film about Sept. 11, but if it's like the 2 1/2-minute preview I just got, I think I'll be OK. It's pretty sappy, not as gritty as I'd expect a Sept. 11 film to be. It just seems so fake -- his voice, his lines. If you're on your way to the World Trade Center, you're not saying words of camaraderie, pensively looking at your partner, speaking slowly. "I never was prepared for something this size," he says. No, I think in real life you were probably saying "Oh, s***, this does not look good." But, what do I know. I wasn't there.

The thing that bothers me is it looks like a movie. Like it didn't happen in real life. You're thinking, "Whoa, I wonder how they you order all that dust. Is there a dust company? 'Hello, dust company, I need dust?'", which is precisely what people should NOT be thinking during such a serious movie.

Remember Robert DeNiro's TV special, "9/11"? Now that's kind of how I thought this would be. But it kind of looks like every other disaster movie ... which it's not.

I suppose you can't judge a movie by a 2 1/2-minute preview, but that's why they sent it to me, is it not?

Long story short, will I go see it? Yeah, probably. I think I'm just being a little hard on it because I don't think people want to watch a sappy Hollywood "World Trade Center." We want it to be more real. I don't think anyone could have made this movie without some criticism. How do you document one of the worst tragedies in my lifetime? Well ... I don't know. But I don't think Nicholas Cage would be in it. Just my two cents.

Short story long ... Erin hates drive thrus.

Mama I'm comin' home. Maaaybe. I can't think of a single thing I'd rather do than drive eight hours by myself at night on a holiday weekend, but I'm fairly sure I'm gonna do it. Yup. I'm going home. Probably.

I'm going to make a confession, though. The trip, which may take a bit longer anyhow because it's Memorial Day weekend, is going to take longer than that because I'm not exactly what you'd call lucky. "No, I didn't see one cop." I'll see 15. "No, traffic wasn't bad." I'll sit in Chicago for four hours. Sigh.

And Mom didn't raise no fool. I still get goose bumps every time I hear Robert Stack's voice and that creepy "Unsolved Mysteries" music. I still hear it whenever I'm home alone, it's storming, and the aliens stop by. Kidding.

But I've watched enough "Law & Order" and "Cold Case Files" to know creepy people like to hang out around gas stations and McDonalds. (That's why I'm going to Wendy's.) I'm aware of the danger. I'm careful; I lock my doors and wear pointy-toed shoes and practice my screaming. I'm not really worried about that. It's the stuff you can't really protect yourself from that I'm really afraid of. You know what I'm talking about.

Drive thrus. Good god, that's got to be the worst part of traveling. There are so many opportunities to mess up, on both sides:


You pull up, struggle to get the window down (if it's sunny) or, later, to roll it back up (if it's raining).

"MMmwhaaammffff--shhhhhhh, (scratchm, bing!)."

You sit there, wondering whether you should speak. "Uh, I'll take a chicken sandwich, but --"

"Mmgghgsifsssshhhhtttt, one minute, shffhhhttttppp ma'am." (Yeah, "ma'am," which makes you want to throw up all over the place.)

Seven-and-a-half minutes later, you cough. "I said go ahead, ma'am."

"Oh, sorry. I'll take a chicken sandwich, but I only want ketchup on that, and--"

"What? Speak up, ma'am."

"I'll take a chicken sandwich, but I only want ketchup on that, and--"

"We don't put ketchup on that, ma'am," the drive-thru attendant has to argue. In that snobby, drive-thru manner. That "I have a visor that matches my shirt and loafers" kind of way.

"Well then I don't want anything on it; and I want fries," you yell.

"You want tomatoes on that?"

You stare at the screen. "Uh, no."

"No tomatoes? How about onions? Lettuce? Mayo? GGGhmmmmsfff."

"No, nothing. Please. Nothing. Just the plain sandwich. And fries."

"You want a drink with that?"

"Apple juice."

"Do you want the meal?"

"No. Just the sandwich and the fries and the juice. Can you read that back to me?"

"(Unintelligible) Sandwich-two-fries-and-a-drink-that'll-be-$4.47-at-the-first-window-please-pull-up."

"No, I only want one french fry," You stammer. People behind you honk and yell. Some scary, drunk looking guy peers in your passenger side window.

"You said two." Snobby. Loafers. Matching visor.

"FINE."

You pull up, try to dig around for change, and don't have it. She's standing there at the window, taking someone else's order with her hand out. You hand her the money, dropping some. She looks at you like "I ain't gonna get it, ma'am." So you have to get out of the car, and of course you pulled too close to the building because you're only 5'1" and can't reach out of the window otherwise, so you hit the door against the brick, leaving a good couple layers of paint behind. And the stupid dime's under the car, anyhow. So you get back in and pay with a $20, and of course she'll only have ones and nickels, so you end up weighing down your purse with nickels.

She takes your money and doesn't say anything, until she looks at you a few seconds later. "PLEASE PULL UP MA'AM."

Then you ease forward, and notice the drunk guy's staring in someone else's window behind you, and you think "Ah ha! I'm just about done!" and you reach for your drink as the second-window man hands it to you, and the lid comes off, and you look like you wet yourself. And the cup won't fit in the holder. And she hands you stuff too fast so you get all discombobulated and don't know whether to mop up your messy lap with the single napkin he gave you or grab the straw and bag he's practically jabbing you in the eye with.

You ask for ketchup, and he gives you one. And it's sticky. And you ask for napkins. And he gives you one. And it's sticky.

You sigh and pull away, and have to make a left turn, and after five minutes of waiting you finally get out, and pull on the interstate, and reach in the bag, and of course it's not chicken at all. It's a Whopper. And it's got mayo and pickles. And the fries are cold.

And that, my friends, is what I'm truly afraid of. And that's why I'll be packing PB&J sandwiches.


(Insert "Unsolved Mysteries" theme here.) ROBERT STACK: "And that's how, somewhere in Indiana, Erin lost it. If YOU know ANYthing about the story you just saw, please, call our hotlines at ..."

Maine splits in two, everyone else copies, and suddenly we have 178 states.

Civics pop quiz:

How many states are there? If you answered 50, you are right. If you answered "51," you live in Maine.

Those nuts, I mean, concerned citizens, want to split into two states. Maine, the conservative, rural half (whose symbol is a moose); and North Massachusetts, the liberal city-dwellers of the south (the lobsters). (I don't really think you need me to make fun of the moose versus the lobster.)

OK, Maine, just because you want to "keep your heritage" and "maintain your conservative front," you really shouldn't go messing around with trying to quit your statehood.

And besides, "North Massachusetts" won't fit on a license plate. And where would we put that odd star on the flag? And there are a lot of tiny states over there that no one can remember which is which. One more is just going to ruin the lives of every fourth grader.

Seriously, Maine. I don't think this is going to fly.

However, if it does fly, I think we should take a look copying off them. Ohio, you should make southeastern Ohio break off to become ... East Ohio. Michigan, I don't know why you maintain your "one state" thing if you're really two. If I were the UP, I'd so start calling myself North Wisconsin.

And, besides, I'd be angry if Maine Junior called itself "North Massachusetts." How do you think that makes Massachusetts feel?

"Get your own name, GOSH."

Sigh. Oh, Britney.

Baby, learn to read, then take my advice: Get up late at night and start practicing walking in your crib. Pace back and forth, develop those motor skills while your mom is sleeping and your dad is nowhere to be found. Sean Preston, if I were you, I'd get up and walk out of that house.

Britney has waited six days to report a head injury, she's driven with the baby in her lap, she's put the baby in the carseat facing backwards, and now she's almost dropped him in front of the whole world.

Sean Preston, call Grandma.

That joke I was telling you about

Let me tell you about how awesome today is.

It's not raining at this exact moment (though my living room just got disturbingly dark, so I may have to retract that statement by the end of this post), it's kind of warm, so I got to wear my new skirt, and I don't have to work today. I cannot think of anything grander. Except ... everyone else is working. Dang.

Seriously, guys. Dave's working his other job. My friends are all working. My dryer is working. You guys are bunch of downers, man.

But, as promised, that hilarious joke about the fire alarm. Ha. This is a good one.

We stayed up late on Wednesday night to watch "Match Point" (and it is the best movie I've seen in a long time), because, hey, who needs more than six hours of sleep if they only have one work day left of the week, right? But just as I was getting to REM, EEEERRRR EERRR woke me up (I don't really know how to spell out the sound, but remember elementary school? Remember those fire alarms with the lights and the mechanical duck sounding alarm? It was like that, lights included, only no teachers going "single file, single file!").

And so I did exactly what firemen everywhere tell us not to do ... I got dressed, I grabbed some stuff just in case the apartment burnt down, and we calmly ran downstairs, at 2:30 a.m.

I don't think I should endorse the grabbing of stuff, but ... Mom didn't raise an idiot. I like my stuff, ergo, I'm taking it with me. Plus, after the last run-in with the fire department, I already had all my favorite stuff moved into the bedroom-to-front-door path, for easy grab-and-go. I can tell you this now, because it's no longer true, but I was pretty much convinced that our building was going to burn down after the first alarm thing in January, so I had a suitcase packed under the bed for a while with my favorite things in it. But it turns out that's not really practical, as your favorite things soon become "things inside that embarrassing suitcase that you forget about."

And we waited outside for an hour. Coincidentally, we got to meet the new neighbors (who smartly decided to leave the yipping dog, Charlie Barkley, upstairs). Turns out they're pretty normal after all. They have a cute 2 1/2-year old kid, too. Maybe I'll get a babysitting gig outta this. That'd be sweet.

Anyhow. Turns out something in the equipment room was sparking, according to the alarm company's remarks. That was great, except no one -- building manager included -- knew we had an equipment room, so the fire department wandered around for a while before finding it in the basement. We live in an old hospital, so we assumed basement = morgue. So if you do believe in ghosts, this may add fuel to your fire. No pun intended. Myself? I live in an old hospital, so in order to sleep at night, I do not believe in ghosts.

(Photo: From gallery.jgdm.com.)

GASP -- Is Oshkosh ... cool?

You know when you're from a small town (or maybe even a medium-sized town, or perhaps, a large town, borderline city, etc. -- you get the point), and you're 17, and you're constantly slamming doors and screaming (or at least thinking) "I HATE THIS RURAL ROUTE/SMALL TOWN/MEDIUM-SIZED CITY/LARGE METROPOLIS! I CAN'T WAIT 'TIL I'M 18 AND I CAN LEAVE."

Well, suckers. I did leave.

But, I came to Oshkosh, which raises a few eyebrows now and then.

"Man, I can't wait to get outta Wisconsin." "Man, Oshkosh is so lame." And other such phrases that begin with "man."

But, my friends, having lived this exotic life (in Toledo, Ohio), I can tell you ... I was saying it in Columbus Grove, Ohio, population 2,000, back when I was a wee one. Six years ago. Then I moved to Toledo, this mecca of awesome local bands (Rediscover, We Are the Fury, etc.), awesome small-show venues, awesome mom-and-pop places to get breakfast at 4 a.m., awesome dirty, industrial, blue-collar, university, dead-but-coming-back-to-life-ever-so-slowly Midwestern city.

But you know what? I had friends there. No, that wasn't supposed to be the unbelievable part. These friends were saying the same thing as I was in Columbus Grove, Ohio, population 2,000, where there are (by my last count) two tractors for every five people.

So what gives? Well, obviously, we all just think where ever we are right now is horrible, and that we have no power to change that, and man, if we were only in ... New York, or L.A., or Florida, or Chicago, or Cincinnati, that it'd all be better. But I bet you 47 cents people in Chicago wish they were in London or something.

I'm feeling a bit long-winded, so I'll wind this up before it gets out of hand.

A friend at work today suggested I do a story later (after all the crazy events of the summer) about how Oshkosh is suddenly cool again.

But is it? I don't mind Oshkosh. I really don't. To me, it's that Midwestern town where I met some cool people and had my first full-time job and lived in an apartment with quarterly fire drills. I didn't go to high school here. I didn't go to University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh. I'm just enjoying making a new life. (Hallmark is now asking me to buy the rights to the sentiment expressed in that last sentence to put on a greeting card.)

But, to me, Oshkosh is pretty darn close to as cool as a small city can get. I have a few reservations about things: I don't understand this liquor ordinance (Ohio people, did you know you cannot buy alcohol in Oshkosh after 9 p.m. except in a bar? Isn't that the weirdest thing you've ever heard?) and I loathe certain aspects of the town. But it's your standard small-city thing, and it'd be boring to anyone.

But, said friend at work pointed this out:
We've got:
1. Gallery Walks (old news, we agreed, but cool nonetheless -- there are really a lot of artsy people here, per capita).
2. That whole Leach Amphitheater thing (waterfest, other concerts, that Viva La Rock thing, etc.)
3. Weekend. I mean, come on, like I wasn't going to throw that one in there.
4. The Grand Opera House getting Jeff Daniels (that guy from "Dumb and Dumber," a guilty pleasure of mine).
5. The lake (I always wanted to live by water ...).
6. Shops coming in downtown ...
7. (Add your own thoughts here)

We're also close to Madison and Milwaukee and even Chicago ... But I don't know if it counts that a city's redeeming qualities is its proximity to other cooler places.

We thought of more, but I don't want to give it away before I turn it into a Weekend cover story for later.

The reason for this long and rambling blog is to ask ... what do you think? Cool? Lame? Oshkosh? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?

Are we cool? Or are we sitting in the same high school cafeteria, carving our names in the lunch table while casting hateful glances at Milwaukee and Madison's cool kids' tables?

(Photo: I don't know who this guy is, but when you Google "Oshkosh," this is what comes up on the first page of results. HE sure looks happy to be here. That's not the population, anymore, either ...)

Weekend!

Remind me sometime to tell you the story of the equipment room sparking in our apartment. It's pretty funny. It involves a fire alarm going off at 2:30 a.m., and an EMS and two firetrucks, and standing outside for an hour. Ha, ha. Silly equipment room, which the building manager didn't even know we had. Ha, ha.

I'm not laughing at all.

But, not even a little sleep deprivation can keep me from this: Weekend. Because tonight, my weekend starts. Amen. And, here's our Weekend; it's about dancin'.

If you're more of a "summer rocks, except for ..." person, you should check this out. It's Steven Hyden's list of summer bummers. Funny. more funny than an equipment room sparking, I can tell you that much.

Erin's favorite novel is ... not "The Da Vinci Code"

Let's talk "The Da Vinci Code" for a moment, shall we?

The movie comes out Friday, the books are still selling faster than hotcakes (who calls them hotcakes in real life, anyhow), and I've still not read it.

Why? Because I've not gotten around to it, I suppose. Maybe. I read a lot, the library is my best friend. But I just never got around to it ... Now, I feel like if I were to pick it off a bookshelf, I'd just be part of the 27 slackers who haven't read it.

That, and in true nerd fashion, I want to wait 'til it's not cool anymore until I start liking it. Ha. I'm half kidding.
Consider this:

May 16, 8:44 PM EDT
'The Da Vinci Code' Just Keeps on Selling

NEW YORK (AP) -- If the pace of book sales predicts a movie's success, then "The Da Vinci Code" is a certain smash.

In less than two months, Dan Brown's blockbuster thriller has sold nearly 3 million copies in paperback as anticipation grows for the film, starring Tom Hanks and coming out Friday. An original printing of 5 million, the highest in recent memory for a paperback, has been raised to 6.3 million.

Since the hardcover was released in March 2003 the novel has sold 60 million copies worldwide. All of those books form a bulk great enough, according to the publisher, to cover all of Chicago in paper or outweigh 90 Boeing 747 jumbo jets.

Holy crap.

Will I go see the movie? Maybe. When it comes out on DVD, most likely. Not only am I a reading slacker, I'm also cheap. Though I love Audrey Tautou -- she was in "Amelie," one of my favorite movies. And Tom Hanks ... can't complain about him.

I've got a few more thoughts on the matter, but I think I'm gonna save it for my Sunday column. I've got questions bigger than a blog can answer.

(Photo: deseretnews.com)

Hey, Jealousy, hey jealous-yyyyyyyyy

I don't quite know how to put this so I have the maximum amount of "whoa" and "what?" ... but I have an interview with the Gin Blossoms the day after tomorrow. Yeah, you are so saying "Hey, Jealousy" right now (I've been waiting seven hours to use that line. I thought of it at work today).

(Mom, "Hey, Jealousy" is one of their songs. I wasn't even wearing my braces yet when it came out. Oh, man.)

This is step two on my three-step plan to interview Billy Joel. The first step was ... well, I don't remember. But it's going to happen. All he has to do is come to Oshkosh, which I'm sure is next on his list. I mean, Lyle Lovett is coming to the Leach Amphitheater. Billy is the logical next step. And I'm obviously expecting a phone call from Billy Joel himself. Any minute now. So don't call me. I don't want the line to ring busy when he phones.

(Photo: Google'd it, man.)

Howie wins, Erin loses

NBC executives read Erin's blog, decide they hate her, and release the following information to USA Today:

By GARY LEVIN
USA TODAY
NEW YORK - NBC, struggling to pull itself out of fourth place, has ordered 10 new series to be sprinkled throughout next season. Highest hopes in a schedule to be unveiled to advertisers May 15 rest on "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip," marking the TV return of "West Wing" creator Aaron Sorkin and "Friends" star Matthew Perry.
Among returning shows, "Law & Order: Criminal Intent" or "Crossing Jordan" will be benched until January for NBC’s new "Sunday Night Football," which begins Sept. 10.
"Deal or No Deal," now NBC’s top-rated series, returns on two nights after a summer break along with "The Biggest Loser," but "The Apprentice" will take a breather.

An insider told me this is the conversation had in the meeting at NBC headquarters:

"Take out everything she likes, and put in something she hates ... Any suggestions?"

"We could do another 'Fear Factor.'"

"No, she'll see that coming."

"How about more 'Deal or No Deal'?"

"Yeah, let's do that, but more ..."

"I know! She hates football. Let's schedule a boatload of that."

"DEAL."

"Bottle of red, bottle of white"*

Talk about a sweet weekend.

My brother and his fiancee came up. Chicken wings. Check. Shopping, check. Movies, games, good wine, check check check. Yeah, you read that right. Good wine. We're all grown up now. Ha.

Wine was always something really warm and nasty that came in a brass goblet in church and made me want to gag because I had to drink out of it after old slobbery guys. Sorry if you just lost your Cheerios thinking about that. If I had Cheerios, I'd be losing them right now.

But now, we went and picked out a wine based on having seen it before (the bottle we chose on Friday was one I'd had a few weeks ago at dinner with some friends, and only stuck out because it had a burgundy label with a rabbit on it; Saturday's was chosen because Dad had it on his shelf once). And it was good. Whoa. Whoa. Yeah. I'll say it again. Whoa. A few short years ago, we were playing beer pong. Now that just seems kinda ridiculous. Not to mention the ping-pong table's been gone since I've stopped paying to skip classes.

Not that I'm aspiring to be a connoisseur. I don't have the attention span for that. Don't start asking me questions about the wine; I'll just embarrass myself. I just know it's in the second aisle in the grocery store, and it has a rabbit on it. And it's red. And it's good. And I feel older for not choosing the Pabst because it's cheap. Ha. Sigh. Erin grows up.

*Give yourself three points if you knew that was a Billy Joel line.

(Photo: I only chose this photo because it looks like there's a Christmas tree in the background. It's from Fodors.)

Silly Paris.

Everyone's favorite heiress* made a fool of herself this weekend, again. Only this time, she let down all the geeks at a video game conference.

Note to self: When you're out promoting your new video game, learn the name of the video game before showing up at the conference.

Note to self, version 2: If you make a video game, immediately stop and ask yourself, "What did I just do?"

Here's the true story (note how awesome her quote is; I bet the AP reporter had to struggle to write words that wouldn't look so boring next to her flamboyant and memorable speech):

LOS ANGELES (AP) - Paris Hilton unveiled her new video game on Thursday, but inexplicably called it by the wrong name as she greeted throngs of fans and photographers.
Wearing a green minidress and red platform pumps, Hilton made a brief appearance at the Electronic Entertainment Expo to promote "Paris Hilton’s Jewel Jam."
"Sorry I’m late," the heiress said. "I’m really excited to have my new video game, ’Diamondquest.’ Thank you all for coming, and you can download the game," she said.
After Hilton arrived, men in business suits jockeyed for space with reporters and computer geeks as she sat at a table posing for photographers while signing autographs.
Her game, which can be played on a cell phone, will be available this summer. Video game maker Gameloft will produce a series of video games with Hilton.
The expo at the Los Angeles Convention Center showcases the latest innovations in the video game industry.

(Photo: AP.)
*Not really

Erin embarrasses herself, and then tells everyone, Part 37

This is how tired I am:

I was reading Yahoo.com, and saw "Round-the-clock TV channel for babies to debut," and thought "OH MY GOD. I AM SO SURE THE FCC WILL LET THERE BE LIVE BIRTHS ON TV ALL THE TIME. WHAT IS THIS, SOME SORT OF SICK BIRTH CONTROL??!!"

And then I read the story, which is controversial to another crowd, though for reasons that make my misunderstanding look even more ridiculous. You can read it here, but I'm tellin' ya, it's really quite lame.

And that, my friends, is when I knew it was a good idea to quietly turn off my computer and call it a week.

Which I can do, because I now work Sunday to Thursday.

Suckers.

Also, my brother and his Beyonce are coming up in a few minutes. I hope I'm more with it by the time they get here ...

(Photo: Punch yourself if you thought I'd publish a photo of someone giving birth. I'll punch myself for saying "giving birth.")

Just when you thought living in the Fox Valley was perfect ...

Along comes Steven Hyden with his own opinion. Check out his wish list in this week's Weekend

"Don't pick Erin, I think she gets out on purpose."

I was the one in gym class who got picked last. I was the slowest. The smallest. The one counting the minutes 'til the bell rang. Yes, I did get out on purpose in dodgeball. Then, I'd stand at the end of the line and let everyone in front of me, feigning a broken leg, dehydration, smallpox, etc. Those balls hurt. And I was sooo not breaking a sweat.

And you know what? I turned out OK. But then I went to the doctor this week. (I'm just fine, don't send cards, unless they're filled with $50s, which I'll use to buy cute clothes or something.) She suggested maaaaybe I should get some exercise. Uh, you mean like, running and stuff? Yeah. Apparently it's good for you or something.

Oh, boy. Suddenly, I'm back in gym class, hiding behind the water fountain to avoid getting picked. "Teams of 15? Oh, crap. I'd make 16. I'll sit this one out. No, no, let the kid with the broken arm play. I'll just be over here, reading or waiting for technology to catch up to me, waiting for blogging to be invented. It's going to be the new exercise."

(Photo: Toothpastefordinner.com)

Yeah, right. Beauty.

What is this?

A beauty contest, the cutline says. A beauty contest -- you read that right.

I'm kinda scared. If that thing crawled into your apartment, don't tell me you wouldn't be reaching for a broom to hit it (from your perch on the chair).

Four bad commericals. One good one.

I appreciate commercials less than the average person. I have a low tolerance for jingles (you do NOT need a song to sell me something, guys, so stop it). I loathe local, grainy video. I have a problem with the misuse of grammar and punctuation.

Some of the worst:
1. A car dealer in Michigan, who dressed up in cowboy gear and rode a horse. Never did you see a car. Not once. As a matter of fact, the only mobile objects were the horses.

2. A car stereo installer, Scuba Steve. Seriously. Click that link, turn up your speakers, and tell me you don't feel like punching Steve in the face. Now picture him in scuba gear (to sell stereos), floating across your screen. Now picture him saying "Turtle" at the end of every commercial, with no explanation. Ugh.

3. Kate Logan, Victory Honda of Monroe, Mich., who I loated so much that I included her in my goodbye column in college.

4. Stein's. Please. The singing. No more. Please? No more.

But, then there are good ones. Albeit not local, but nonetheless commercials I like watching. OK, only two of them. Any commercial with monkeys in suits in an office setting. I cannot help but laugh.

And, now, the new Apple commercials. They've got the cool guy (Mac) and the nerdy square guy, PC. And, unlike the previously mentioned commercials, I actually want to buy something. Like these. Holy crap. I just fell for a marketing ploy. Ugh. I feel so used.

The ex factor, and the last Tom reference for at least seven days

Maybe once you've been with Tom, you can't ever let go.

Or, maybe Nicole Kidman doesn't understand the term "career suicide."

But how does that work?

I mean, we've all dated mistakes. We've all hung on tooooooo loooooong. We all can admit that it's not cool to have a boyfriend who freaks out over nothing, or one that uses all his 800 minutes leaving two-minute voicemails on your cell phone.

You know what I'm talking about. Yet we defend them when someone makes fun of us for them. Or of them in front of us. Or whatever.

But, I think we all can say with a sharp degree of confidence that if our ex were Tom Cruise, we'd abandon any loyalties we had. Nicole, take note. He's gone off the deep end. He's gone too far. Let 'im go.

Also, on a positive note, I'm making this a Tom and Katie-free zone for the next seven days. Starting right now. I'm too bored with them to say any more.

(Photo: lvrj.com)

If you Google "make it stop," this is what comes up.

Any time you can get two crazies into one show, you know it's either a story about Tom Cruise, or a story about Tom Cruise.

For all you Cruise fans, I apologize for lumping him in with Carty Finkbeiner. Carty's friends, I'm sorry I had to lump him in with Tom. But the two came together, kind of, on NBC tonight.

What's up now with Tom and Katie? Nothing new, I guess. But the show had some interesting points to it: like Carty Finkbeiner and Jamie Farr (another Toledoan, like Katie) walking along the river, talking about Katie giving birth.

And the part about Carty calling Katie's grandpa to congratulate him.

And the part about Katie insiders saying she's hypnotized and only talking to Tom, Scientologists, and her mom and dad (who must be cursing every dollar they spent to put her through Notre Dame Academy).

I don't think many Toledoans' labors are summed up by Carty and Jamie and a TV news crew.

Seriously. What the random ..? Jamie, do you even know Katie. Were you a big "Dawson's Creek" fan, too?

Sigh.

We all know why Tom's crazy. We're all grappling with sweet Katie turning into what-is-she-thinking Katie, but to add Carty in there, too? This is the guy who was mayor of Toledo once, was so controversial he landed himself in national news (and on a Trivial Pursuit card), and then was the knight in slightly tarnished armor because Mayor Jack Ford was so horrible.

(By the way, the Trivial Pursuit question reads something like this: "This metro mayor caused controversy when he suggested the best way to reduce complaints about air traffic noise pollution was to move all the deaf people in the city to live near the airport.)

Ha. Oh, Carty. I don't think you're qualified to talk about crazy.

But oh well.

But, in unrelated news, seeing Toledo made me miss it. And I felt slightly nerdy when I heard myself say "Hey! I've been there! Look!"

Just a little update, because I know you lost sleep over it.

Bring it on, summer.

I have a swimming suit. And I felt so strongly about my good fortune that I'm not only sharing it on my blog, I'm sharing it in next Sunday's column. My good fortune. Not the swimming suit. No, I'm not sharing that. But it's pretty. It's green and black. It's not scandalous. It's not too nunnish. It's ... it's ... the perfect suit.

And, at the very least, it means I don't have to go swimming suit shopping for at least two years. THANK GOD.

(Photo: time.com)

Great. Now you've done it.

I once wrote a column for the school newspaper about my extreme phobia of crickets. I know "extreme phobia" is a bit redundant, but it's the only way to describe my paralyzing fear of them, and of the sound (and feeling) made when stepping on them. Oh, god. My blood just went 30 degrees cooler. I may be dead. I don't know.

See, every summer, my mom and stepdad's house (which is on a farm) is infiltrated with a whole mob of crickets. Big ones. Everywhere. I'm not talking "Erin, you're so silly, there are 10 or 11 in the basement." No. I'm talking you open the silverware drawer and they're in there. Yes, they, as in more than one.

They're in the bathtub. In the dryer. In the toothpaste drawer. Under the computer desk. In the cereal bowl I set on the table. Under the couch where I sleep. Outside, in my car.

Mom's house isn't dirty; it's just when it's July through September, it's cricket season in the country, and Mom's house happens to be in the country. (Ha, like I how I planned my wedding to be AFTER cricket season? So I won't be crying about bugs on my wedding, or losing sleep the nights before the wedding because I'd be sitting up with a flashlight and a shotgun, just daring one to crawl out of its hiding place -- and, no, I've never shot a shotgun).

It's so bad that for a while, I avoided going home when I'd either, A.) have to spend the night, or B.) have to spend long periods of time inside. Outside you can run. Inside, they can pin you between a wall and, well, another wall. Some may call it a corner. I told Mom it was because I LOVED paying to do my laundry in the machines in my apartment's basement, with all the creepy people and the abusive parents and snotty-nosed kids. Love, love it. I told her I didn't need to be fed. Nothing wrong with eating a little PB & J every day. I think she saw right through it.

So, extreme phobia. Got it? OK. Are you prepared for this? I'm not sure I am. But it's time to bring up the purpose of this dreadful blog: They've found more. As in, crickets that -- how wonderful is this!? -- hadn't even been discovered by scientists. Sure, right now, they're in Arizona. But someone just ticked 'em off, and now they're going to come out of the cave and hop eastward. WAY TO GO, GUYS. WAY TO GO. YOU'RE THE REASON WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS.

Just what you've been asking for: More Madonna, more horses

There really is no excuse for this. Not when uh, paper prices are so high, and she's so 20 years ago ... Make it stop. Are they kidding -- 58 pages?? That's longer than, well, ... my attention span. How many different horse/Madonna poses could there be?

Crap. Forget I asked.

Madonna stars in 58-page photo spread for W magazine

NEW YORK (AP) - Madonna is back in the saddle again.
The Material Girl/Mom, who broke nine bones in a horse riding accident last year, stars with six Andalusian stallions in a 58-page photo spread in W magazine’s June issue, on newsstands May 19.
On the magazine’s cover, she wears equestrian-inspired garb, complete with a riding crop and fishnet stockings.
Madonna, 47, suffered three cracked ribs, a broken collarbone and a broken hand after falling off a horse on Aug. 16.
Her "Confessions Tour" kicks off in Los Angeles on May 21. She will be supporting her 2005 album, "Confessions on a Dance Floor."---

(Photo: AP)

Ugh. Gross.

This weekend is the weekend of broken hearts.

Who's doing the breaking? Me. To me.

It's time to try to find a swimsuit. Oh, god. I haven't had one in three years. Haven't had a use for one, really. And something about trying on bathing suits in a store under fluorescent lighting with the ink tags and the people waiting to use the dressing room and the tall, tan girls modeling in front of the mirror ... Uh, no thanks.

I'm not the girl who hates what she looks like, or pinches at her stomach in front of the mirror. Nah. I'm OK. It's just that no one -- not even (insert your favorite model or actress here) -- looks good under fluorescent lights. Ugh.

That, and I have unreasonable expectations. It must look cool. Be comfortable. Make me look tanner and taller than I am. Etc. Oh, and be inexpensive, too. Is that too much to ask? I don't want to end up coming home, saying "what's another year" and eating an entire pizza or something. Ha, ha.

Well, at least I have a sense of humor about it.

He does the blues? What?

You thought Oshkosh had it nice when we said Lyle Lovett was coming to town this summer. But it gets better: Jeff Daniels is coming, too.

Yeah, as in the "Dumb and Dumber" star. Only he's not going to get up on stage and re-enact scenes from America's favorite movie (too bad, because I honestly do like it ...). He's going to get up on stage and sing the blues (and do a bit of comedy).

What? Where did this come from? According to his Web site and the news release we got, he's been writing the blues for years. What?? Iiinteresting.

Weekend time

It's that time of week: Almost the weekend, so it's time for Weekend. This week, we've picked out the best music picks in the state for the summer. Not too shabby.

Also, speaking of music in the state, can you say "Julia Roberts' ex-husband"? We can, cuz he's coming to Oshkosh. No, for real.

Now that's a sexy man. Uh, kidding, guys.

Erin's nerdy confession

I have a confession that makes me seem like a big nerd.

I worked late tonight, but that's because I took an hour break for supper. Usually it's not so long. I go the break room, eat some Easy Mac, flip through some channels, go back to work so I can go home earlier. But tonight, I just had to take a longer break.

To watch "Jeopardy!"

Because I can't watch it at home.

I turned on the TV in the break room, and instead of just watching whatever channel someone else was watching earlier that day, I found the menu button. Oh, sweet caroline, it had a menu button. And it had that graphic thingy that lets you watch part of a show in the corner, while scanning other channels. Whoa. I mean, I'm talking tech-no-lo-gee. I vaguely remembered what it was like when I had cable, so I knew how it worked. But man. It was like I died and went to TV heaven. And then I chose a network TV show.

Ha.

I chose to make myself feel stupider and stay late to satisfy my TV needs. But, see, there's a real couch at work. And a sweet, huge TV. And cable. And I just had to watch TV.

Sigh.

Yeah, I just became that girl. I just hung out at work to watch a game show. Oh, god. I think I need a vacation. Or cable.

Come on, who doesn't like babies?

A few of my cousins have had babies before. Well, just two, I guess, on one side.

But this ... this, my friends, was the first Niese cousin baby born. This was the first cousin who I was fairly close to, because on that side of the family, there are only 10 of us, instead of 30-plus on the other side. We're all close, in a weird, would-make-a-good-Lifetime-movie kind of way.

This morning, my cousin Jennie gave birth to a baby with three first names. Whoa. That's a lot of first names (only the last one is actually his last name, it just so happens to be a first name to 99 percent of the English-speaking world). A lot of first names for a lot of baby: that sucker was 9 pounds. Eek. I sat and cried about that and then swore I'd just adopt or something. My god. Also, I hope to never use the phrase "gave birth" in another blog, unless I'm making fun of someone: "So and So gave birth to the spawn of (Satan, etc.)," for example.

Anyhow, all unpleasantries aside, this is weird. I mean, I've seen the kid, so it's kind of "real" to me. He's cute. He's a newborn. He may have been 9 pounds, but he's still tiny to me. He was about .75 inches tall when I saw him on my cell phone in a picture message, actually. The unreal part is that my cousin is about a year older than I am.

She was always the one my other cousin, Kristin, and I would look up to, to ask questions. Now she's got a baby. Now she's a mom. I don't quite know how to handle this. But I do believe I've exceeded my self-imposed once-a-day limit of using the phrase "awww," so I should probably leave well enough alone now and just move on to talking about insignificant things, like celebrity break-ups, or that dull article in Elle this month on Robert Kennedy Jr., which I read just because I think he's hot. Awww.

OK. That's it. ENOUGH.

(Photo: Not really the three-named child. He's just some random baby from -- and I'm not making this address up -- www.pregnancy-leads-to-new-babies.com.)

Pearl Jam just won't go away.

Really, I don't remember when Dave came home last night. He worked at the midnight sale at the record store to bring the people the new Pearl Jam CD they needed about 10 hours before the rest of those in the Central time zone got it (unless they purchased it from iTunes or something).

Wow. What noble work.

Apparently, it went incredibly well. I can't imagine why. But, then again, I'm more of a sleeper than a midnight shopper; I haven't actually been shopping after midnight since my roommate and I did it every Tuesday in college at our beloved Meijer. This regular-hours-at-work thing really messes with my post-midnight grocery shopping.

But, I digress.

This afternoon, I asked him how the sale went. Apparently, it was successful, as I said, but he was especially upset that so many people bought Tool albums. Now, I'm not going to waste my time trying to Google "Tool, new CD" or "Tool, discography," just so I can act like I know when their latest album came out. Was it today? I don't know. That's how much I don't care. I don't even want to know. It will have no effect on my life whatsoever.

But Dave was seriously offended. As if people could actually go to a record store at midnight and NOT buy the new Pearl Jam, even though -- and I paraphrase nearly perfectly -- he "had it blaring on the speakers both inside and outside." I suppose it is kind of odd. It'd be like a bookstore having a Harry Potter midnight sale, and selling like, Goosebump books or something.

(I wonder if people came all dressed up like Harry Potter fans. Guys would wear wigs and their favorite flannels, and stand around looking like they have gout or something painful like that. Man, how cool.)

Well, Dave, I guess you can't just sell the Pearl Jam CD if the people want their Tool. But the people who want their Tool should have stayed home until 10 a.m., as I'm sure it's not really worth losing sleep over. Or, better yet, just set $14.99 on fire instead of actually buying it. I'd rather do that.

I'm sorry, was that mean? Sorry. Sorry. Tool has sold more albums than I ever will. Blah, blah.

And, perhaps because of some odd twist of karma, I now have a large cardboard Pearl Jam poster of the CD cover in my living room, taunting me for ever saying I was bored with Eddie.

Wait (15 seconds elapse). OK, I HAD a Pearl Jam poster in my living room.

I hid it. Who's got karma problems now?

(Photo: From howstuffworks.com; Sleeping: Notice how nowhere in there does it say "this stage is often interrupted for Pearl Jam CD purchases.")

There's no excuse for this. But, please, tell me the windmill spins for real.

I've been sitting here for a good half hour, trying to come up with something witty to say, but I think the windmill kind of speaks for itself.

So, here you go. The beard championships in Germany.

I think it's time I stopped surfing the Internet. Sigh.

(Photo: AFP)

If you believe there's nothing out there to see ...

OK, I found this link on Pop Candy, but it's awesome enough to repeat.

This made my Monday night.

Who loves R.E.M.? Erin. Who loves Bruce Springsteen? Erin. Who loves R.E.M. and Bruce -- together, singing "Man on the Moon"? Uh, duh.

Although, I'm perpetually surprised at Michael Stipes' energy. He looks as if he should be laying around in a hospital gown, complaining about a tapeworm or something. My god that man is grossly skinny. Especially next to Bruce Springsteen, who looks like he could benchpress Stipes. Huh.

(Photo: athensmusic.com. Stipes is in the middle of doing the Elvis bit from "Man on the Moon." I think. Or else he's collapsing from hunger. Whichever.)

Oh, Eddie. Wash your hair.

Things I would not do, unless given $50 in cold, hard cash, under the table:
1. Buy the new Pearl Jam album.
2. Enjoy the new Pearl Jam album.
3. Volunteer to work at midnight to sell the Pearl Jam album on the day it's released.

Things my fiance will do, and would probably pay $50 to do:
1. Buy it.
2. Enjoy it.
3. Volunteer to be the kind guy to hand your tired soul a brand new, sealed, fresh outta the box Pearl Jam album. At midnight. In Wisconsin.

Seriously.

It's not like I don't respect Pearl Jam. I do. Way to go, guys. You did that whole grunge/Seattle/flannel shirt/greasy hair thing. You're not bad musicians. You've got a legacy. Your music isn't bad. As a matter of fact, most of it rocks.

I'm just bored with you. I'm sorry.

If it makes you feel any better, Eddie, Dave still loves you. As a matter of fact, he's not bought coffee, fast food or CDs since he heard you're coming to Summerfest. He's savin' all his couch change, just to see you.