WE WERE TALKING ABOUT GIRL STUFF and I can't even call her back.

So I was having one of the best Friday nights in a while tonight.

I have a list of people who've tried to call me over the last few weeks. Becky tried once, Dave's sister tried twice, and my cousin Kristen tried 35 times.

She didn't leave any voicemails, so I figured she wasn't dying or anything. I also knew that she's one of the people I will be on the phone with for like, an hour.

Or two and a half. It was awesome. We laughed, then we laughed til we cried, then we told stories, and all that stuff that makes boys get bored on the phone. I heard stories about my cousin, who's due any minute now (yeah, like a baby), and my grandpa's fiance's ... uh, well, her, and ha, you know, that time she threw peaches at that neighbor kid, ha. You remember. Good times.

Then, as we were approaching the third hour, my landline phone rang.*

Since her phone had died somewhere around hour No. 1, she'd called me from her boyfriend's phone. "I'll call you back," I said. Five minutes later, I pick up my cell phone, and WHAT IS THIS?! I screamed. I really did. And no one's home, which makes it even weirder. And I'm telling the world right now, which is totally odd.

But, back to the "WHAT IS THIS" moment. It says "unknown number." As in "Erin can't call back because her cell phone thinks it's all cool and stuff, blocking 'unknown numbers.'"

So, my friends, this is what it feels like to live in the 17th century. Only I get to blog about it. Not write on scrolls. Although they didn't even have phones. And chances are, as a woman, I wouldn't know how to write anyhow. But that's just details.

You know that running joke in "Play it Again, Sam," that Woody Allen movie, where the guy keeps calling his office to tell them where he can be reached ("For the next half hour, I'll be at (number). Then, you can reach me at (number).")? It's funny, but it couldn't even happen now because of cell phones.

Only it is happening now. AND IT'S NOT FUNNY.

Sigh. So I left a message on her dead cell phone, telling her I wasn't blowing her off. But I'm a 20something -- impatient -- with a major case of WE WERE IN THE MIDDLE OF A STORY, and now the moment is gone. How frustrating, because I know that if my cell phone weren't technologically idiotic, I could be entering hour three of our conversation. I don't know the difference between "call me later" and "I can call you whenever and where ever, because of this technology stuff."

Man. Technology-schmeckmology. Zach Morris would never have had this problem with his sweet phone.

(*landline: noun, means the phone that's attached by wires to the wall; not a cell phone. See also 20th century, long-distance calling and "E.T.")

I am so sure they did this. So sure.

I can't even believe this is real. The beautiful page you're seeing is from The (Toledo) Blade, Katie's hometown, where her mom and dad still live in a nice sized home in Sylvania. I didn't stalk her. I just happened to always use that street to go to the mall when I lived in Toledo.

Anyhow.

There's no reason we need to go over Katie's career. We get it. She just gave birth to the offspring of a crazy man. But come on. If I were Toledo, I'd be running stories on why she should leave Tom before it gets too deep, or why she's probably crazy, too. Or, I'd ask her old teachers at Notre Dame Academy if they knew she would be a Scientologist in training some day, or if this alien theory just came out of nowhere. Ha. Ugh.

I claimed I loved it too soon. Sigh.

I was wrong. I jumped the "I love this CD" gun too early.

I got the new Taking Back Sunday CD, and I put it on my "three things I'm liking right now" list ... and I regret it. It's OK. But I can't seem to listen to more than track three, "Makedamnsure." It's been in my head for exactly 32 1/2 hours now, including sleeping time, and that means the CD is on its way out.

Though, in all fairness, "Makedamnsure" is pretty awesome.

I tried listening to the rest of the CD on my five-minute drive to work the past few mornings, but I just don't have that "OH MY GOD THIS CD IS SO AWESOME" feeling when I'm scanning the tracks. Maybe I'm prematurely tossing the CD to the back of the pile, but ... What, what is it? Am I too old now to appreciate a little "post-hardcore" (like there was a big nuclear fall-out, and all that's left is post-hardcore), white-boy anger? I don't think so.

Put in their two other CDs, "Where You Want to Be" and "Tell All Your Friends," and I'm into it. Immediately. Not so much with this one. There are like, three songs in a row that start out slow, and that's no good for me. Especially at 7:50 in the morning.

And if they speed up, I'll never know. I skip them. Sadness. First I lose Head Automatica, now Taking Back Sunday. They sound like everyone else.

It's a good thing I was kind of embarrassed about my Sunday feelings. I don't feel quite so bad.

Pay attention, this is the ONE AND ONLY blog you'll read on this site that has a photo of Brett Favre in it.

OK, so it's not really "news" anymore, as it's 18 hours old already, but it's not technically the weekend yet, so you have to admit, it's still timely. Of course.

It's Weekend.

The cover story's cool, but I don't like food, so it doesn't really apply to me. But the "Suck/lame" vote of the week rocks. And, you have until noon tomorrow to vote on the Under 30 blog.

See, I'm not from Wisconsin. I don't understand Wisconsinite's love of the Packers, or Brett Favre. I mean, I lived in the Cincinnati area. I still go there, because my dad and stepmom live there; Dave's family's there. No one there takes loving the Bengals to the extreme that 97 percent of Wisconsinites take their Packers love.


And anyone who says "But it's like that no matter where you go" is wrong. Because it's not. Maybe it's because Wisconsin only has one real team. Ohio has two. (I didn't say they were good ones.) But I don't even think that's it. Even Detroit fans aren't as crazy. (Mainly because they're out starting riots and killing each other.)

But, in cooonclusion, Packers fans love their Packers more than I love anything on the planet. And I don't understand it. And I don't want to, either.

Why you haven't seen me around for a while ...

Rumors were flying. "She's lost a finger in a mining accident, and can't type anymore." "She's joined a rock band as a triangle-player and won't be back until the tour's over." "She grew tired of blogging."

No, none of that is true. The triangle-player thing would be sweet, though.

But, my friends, this here is the reason you haven't been getting your three-times-a-day Erin fix lately. Apparently, starting a new publication takes time, work, sweat and braun. You didn't know so much physical labor went into laying out a section, did you? Now you feel bad for making fun of me for running out of breath after climbing the stairs.

(What?)

OK, Living Well. At least click on this link, if only so you can say, "Hey, Erin, uh, neat." Because it is neat.

The stories are cool, if I can say so myself. Our health reporter, Krista Ledbetter, wrote this story on babies and parents communicating through sign language before the tots learn to talk. The boy on the cover is signing "milk." Genius. Pure genius. Couldn't have said it better myself.

And I'll return you to your regularly scheduled blogging momentarily. And by "momentarily," I mean not tonight, because I'm going to bed. But perhaps tomorrow.

I'd say "hit me baby, one more time," but after a Google search of that phrase, it's obvious it's been used once or twice before.

OK. I'm no one to judge.

Wait. That's why I have a blog. Let the judging begin.

Dear God, what is she thinking -- another baby?! Doesn't she know Kevin Federline -- oh, wait, I mean K-Fed -- isn't someone the rest of the world wants to procreate? Oh, God, I just used the word "procreate." I just threw up in my mouth.

OK. So he's not the one jumping on couches, eating placentas and belittling Matt Lauer on national TV, and she's not the one WITH the crazy guy who jumps on couches, eats placentas and belittles Matt Lauer on national TV ... but after listening to anything by K-Fed, I don't know which is worse. He's the one who thinks he's rap's rookie of the year.

Sickos and "art lovers" will be anxiously awaiting another statue of her naked body giving birth on a rug (I wish I made that up). I guess I'll have another blog topic in about six to eight months. Thanks, guys.

The bad news is, if this report is to be believed (and celebrity news is NEVER wrong), we've got ourselves another no-carseat-wearing, dropping-from-the-high-chair-and-brought-to-the-hospital-days-later, sheriff's investigation-causing situation on our hands. And I was so tired of it before. Maybe this time, as I'm sure she's hoping, too, this baby will save the marriage so they can all wear matching velour track suits again and live happily ever after as Britney and K-Fed in a double-wide somewhere in West Virginia.

Britney, I hope it works out for you. Wait, I typed that wrong. Britney, it's not going to work out for you.

Can't we just go back to hating her for her music? No! We can't! Because she had to go and ruin it by getting married! Exclamation points abound!

(Scary photo: static.flickr.com)

I know I'm in my 20s, but I'm retiring.

I got this ridiculous piece of junk mail today that promised I could retire this year, if I just sent in a $200 check to get involved in the program, etc. According to the program, thousands -- literally thousands (three exclamation points, italics, bold) -- of companies were looking for someone like me -- me (all caps, bold, italics, underlined) -- to do nothing but write letters all day. No, morning. Yes, because I am going to make $400,000 in my first year -- all without working past noon on any given day.

After mailing in my check and application, I sat back and planned out what I'd do with my retirement. I guess I'll keep my job for a while, but after the $10,000 checks start rolling in, I'm outta there for the sunny Florida skies.

Just kidding. You know I don't like being warm. I'm going to Alaska. Wisconsin's not cold enough.

But, I have to admit ... Retirement sounds awesome. Never mind that I'll be working 'til I'm 75. I'm planning now.

You know that paint in the other room? I'm going to finish what I started. I've got books to read. I've got TV to watch. I'll definitely have cable by then (because there will be something better, and I'll be one step behind).

Yup. Now all I have to do is wait for the program. I'm sure I'll hear back from them soon. I mean, it sounds totally legit. Right?

(Photo: Me, dancing on the beach because I retired.)

Mom!

This weekend was awesome. Mom flew up (yeah, flew!), and we had two-and-a-half days to spend doing nothing but girl things. We painted our toenails, we shopped, we laughed, we played Dr. Mario ... it was magical. But the best thing: We got her a mother-of-the-bride dress.

I realize that living eight hours away means I can't be there for everything. I can't be there when she remodels the kitchen. For parties. For Sunday suppers. But I was a little jealous at everyone else who was volunteering to go shopping with my mom for a dress to wear to my wedding. It's my wedding. Me, her only daughter.

But Mom's like me, in that she's picky about clothes, and when she has an idea of what she wants, she goes after that, and when she doesn't find it, she gets angry and frustrated. This usually leads to watery eyes and a few heavy sighs, and we leave the mall angry with the fashion world. But this time, we got lucky. There was no bad dressing-room experiences. Yesss.

And, since we got that out of the way early in the weekend, we had all day Saturday to shop. Being her only daughter, and she being one of three or four people I can stand to shop with all day, it was great. All that girl stuff ... if you're a girl, you know what that means. If you're a boy, you're bored right now.

And we made dinner (yeah, IN A CROCK POT -- NO MACARONI AND CHEESE), and hung out, and drank some wine. And then today my fiance and I had to drive her to the Milwaukee airport. Oh, my God. Talk about "Erin driving" being a bad idea. I was crying from Milwaukee to Fond du Lac (like, what? An hour or something, for those of you for which that holds no meaning).

And now it's so quiet. And I have to go to work tomorrow. Boo-urns. Boo. Urns.

(Photo: My standard Mom picture, from pbskids.org.)

Wait. What just happened?

One minute I'm enjoying some "Beating Heart Baby" from Head Automatica, the next moment, I'm thinking "Hey, new song," and I innocently click the link.

And it's terrible.

No, it's worse.

What happened? Where's my "make me dance, and I NEVER dance (unless it's Rediscover)" music? I went to iTunes, thinking it was just a fluke. This sappy, slow, nasally voiced man can't be my beloved Head Automatica. Nooo! Say it isn't so! I want angry-white-boy dance music, not white boy soul. Come on! We already have those singers.

It's not bad music on its own, I guess. But it sounds like everything I've ever heard from guys like Fall-Out Boy and stuff. Not really my thing. I was warned. But I wasn't prepared. Someone could've told me; I would've gotten the duct tape and plastic sheets out.

Erin's Good Stuff, Vol. XXVI

I don't know what number that actually is ... 26? Maybe? Yes? But that's what I'm up to as far as making mixed CDs goes.

Tonight, I'm aiming for two new CDs tonight. Yes, two. I've gotten new music, three hours in a car tomorrow and one CD player that's tired of playing the saaaaame stuuuuff ooooover and ooooover (insert exaggerated hand gestures, etc.).

So, when driving to Milwaukee, what should one listen to? Keeping in mind it's 9 a.m., and your mom will be with you for half the trip.

Here's what I came up with. Think of it as "The Essential Erin's-Ride-To-Milwaukee Mix." I linked some. Others ... well, YOU Google it. SO THERE.

For when Mom's in the car:
1. "Semi-charmed Life," by Third Eye Blind. Remember when they were cool? Me too. I was in braces and hadn't even gotten a learner's permit yet.
2. "Ballad of Big Nothing," by The Thermals. Elliott Smith's sounds better, but he's also more depressing. I want to rock out, not cry.
3. "Lola Stars and Stripes," by The Stills.
4. "New York, New York," by Ryan Adams.
5. "Light & Day" by the Polyphonic Spree. If that's not happiness, I don't know what is.
6. "Committed," by Pete Yorn.
7. "Une Annee Sans Lumiere," by Arcade Fire.
8. "Spit it Out," by Brendan Benson.
9. "Take it Easy," Bright Eyes. Naturally.
10. "Get Over It," by OK Go. Saw them in concert, and ... um, tight pants. Nice pants. Red pants.
11. "'Cello Song," by Nick Drake. Sad man. Good music.
12. "The Model," by Belle and Sebastian. The girl has loose morals, but dang is that song upbeat or what?


The non-Mom portion of the drive:
1. "Wicked Gil," by Band of Horses.
2. "Buried Myself Alive," by The Used
3. "Lover I Don't Have to Love," Bright Eyes. Love him. So much.
4. "Ha Ha," by Mates of State.
5. "Romantic Death," by The Sun
6. "Hands Down," Dashboard Confessional. Ha. Just kidding.
7. "My Name is Jonas," by Weezer
8. "You're So Last Summer," by Taking Back Sunday, and I don't care if that makes me a bad person.
9. "Nth Degree," by Morningwood. And I KNOW this makes me a bad person. And wow, I can still live with myself.
10. "Expo '86," Death Cab.
11. "(Expletive) You Over," by Modest Mouse. Mom wouldn't like it.
12. "Leyna," Billy Joel. Heart.
13. "Expressing Views is Obviously Illegal," by Prefuse 73.
14. "Never Sleep Alone," by The Mars Volta. And, while I'm on a Cedric kick ...
15. "One Armed Scissors," by At the Drive-In.

Happiness is new mixed CDs.

Cooking, celebrities and what's wrong with NBC today, all in one neat little post.

You guys thought I worked late this week because I had a lot to do. Silly readers.

Give yourself a pat on the back if you remembered the only thing worse than being stuck with only one station is when that one station has to go and put crap on the air all week long.

You do realize that this whole "Celebrity Cooking Showdown" thing isn't really a weeklong event like NBC says. I can feel it already.

Remember back when "Deal or No Deal" started? Well, I do. The network said that was a weeklong event, too. Weeklong my ... goodness, it's been on like, what? 56 weeks or something, since January? It's not mathematically possible, but I'm certain that's right.

Someone is going to say "Hey, this show, with its 'celebrities,' it's not really a 'hit,' but if we can get maybe someone to set their hair on fire, or maybe someone who shows a little more cleavage than that one chick, I think we can stretch it out at least as long as Erin and Dave don't have cable."

See, it's not that I hate reality TV. "Hate" is a strong word. I prefer "can't tolerate" or "would rather poke myself in the eye with a stick than watch," but it's pretty long-winded. So, "pretty much hate" it is.

The problem is, it combines all the things I don't like into one show: silicone, cooking, "celebrities" and a crowd that obviously doesn't know how stupid it looks on TV. NBC should make another Law & Order series, or do a "Crossing Jordan" marathon or something. Then, maybe I wouldn't have to stay away from home. Because you know if you're home, you're going to watch. Watch it ironically, of course.

But NBC will continue on with this horrible show because it's cheap and easy ("celebrities" are a lot easier to come by than celebrities), and they hate me. Sigh. If it's any consolation to me, tonight's episode is an online-only viewing. Dang, my computer just couldn't handle it.

Oh, and in case cooking wasn't bad enough, check out what the nimrods have scheduled for Friday night. Please, don't get me started.

Dairy State hip hop -- no, really.

Don't miss Weekend today, folks.

Why Wisconsin? Why not do it in an area where it hasn't been done before?
OK. Good point.

Don't act like you're not interested.

We've been working on some stuff at work that's been keeping me a bit busy, but it's exciting. I'm still young enough to think it's exciting, anyhow. It's like working at the college newspaper, only cooler because you get paid more, you don't have to work until 4 a.m. and your stuff is neater looking. No offense, Independent Collegian. You're pretty neat, but ...

Anyhow. So, neat stuff. Specialty publications, Oshkosh Magazine ... It's cool, because I feel needed, and that means I like it, and that means I don't notice I miss Ohio. It's a win-win situation. For right now. But eventually, years from now, USA Today will beg me to move to McLean, Va., to take over Whitney's job. And when I take Whitney's job (for one, I'll get to meet cooler people than that Dashboard guy), that's when I'll feel really needed.

Because as much as people love their local news ... who didn't read about Tom and Katie's baby and the placenta and the shhhh birth? I know I did. Many times. There was an "urgent" bulletin on the wire: AP: Tom Cruise's manager has reported blah blah blah.", then updates all night last night, and all day today. It was crazy. I mean, sure, they're an odd couple, sure Scientology's weird, and sure it seems like Katie's been pregnant for at least two years, but 18 stories on the placenta-eating Tom and his (ew) kitten? Oh, wait, he didn't mean that. Right.

And who else could bring you such news as the Bird Flu movie, unsexy men and photos like this.

That's what I'm talkin' 'bout.

(Photo: Bird flu, from etm.freshegg.com)

Dashboard? What is this Dashboard thing you speak of?

Sorry to have kept you waiting, wondering, worrying or at the very least hitting "refresh." I haven't really posted this week because I'm conducting a science experiment on how many hours it takes for someone to get sick of work. It's going swimmingly. Actually, that's only partially true. Mom's coming, remember? Not working Friday ... It's all coming back to you now.

(Who's singing that Celine Dion song? I know I am ... "It's all coming back to me nooooow." Barf.)

But, because of my self-imposed blogger silence, I've got a lot on my mind.

For one, this: Chris Carrabba, the king of emo and thereby also the king of lameness, stood me up. After four months of interview requests, long nights spent pining away for an interview, it never happened. Why? Well, his people say it's because he's hard to track down. Sources close to my investigation tell me that he's actually not that hard to track down, as he's pretty well "Chris who?" right now. I've also heard he's shy. Ha. That stopped being an acceptable excuse for him when he decided to step onstage and hit the radio waves. Yeah. Take that.

Get over yourself, buddy. You need some publicity here. You've not had a hit since 2004. You've not put out an album since 2003's "A Mark, A Mission, A Brand, A Scar." I'm no rocket scientist (despite my previously mentioned experiment), but ... I think that speaks for itself.

But, I'm over it. Really. I'm also over him, whose music is about to be deleted from my iPod. It may not help the situation and I realize it doesn't make any difference to him, as he'll never know, but it makes me feel better. This is how Erin gets even. She deletes you from her iPod.



I kind of hope Death Cab for Cutie never comes to Oshkosh. We'd cover them, and I'd interview them and find out they're all jerks, and then I'd be out a REAL band that time.

But, because I know some of you may be Carrabba fans, check out The Northwestern for our LifeStyle reporter, Sarah Owen's coverage of the concert. After midnight, yo. Central time. It's emo-tastic. I just wanted to use that word again.

(Yeah, that's our Weekend cover from last week that I did. Its preview story: here. Support the arts. Read it.) (What?)

BREAKING NEWS

Tom and Katie have had what that dang media is calling a Tomkitten.

I threw up in my mouth when I typed Tomkitten, so I'll be calling it "the baby," or Suri, the kid's name.

I'm at work, so I can't go into the placenta eating or the quiet birth. But I thought everyone should know.

(Photo: What you get when you type in kitten in Google. I also typed in "tomkitten," but apparently it's some Beatrix Potter-esque character, and thus not funny at all.)

"Do you have any coupons? Do you have a Kroger Plus card? Please select your method of payment." WHAT IS ALL THIS? I JUST WANTED SOME GRAPES.

This could make you hate your job.

OK, hate's a strong word. But you're going to be jealous that you can't sit at home and get paid to repeat phrases for some commercial or recording.

These are the people who get exhausted after reading off things such as "16th floor" -- the calm, female voice that speaks when you reach the 16th floor via the elevator. They're the ones who get paid to say "Please hold." The ones who get paid to say that disclaimer at the end of Ohio lottery commercials ("AllLotteryWinnersAreSubjectToCommissionRulesAndRegulations. ThisIsAMessageFromTheOhioLotteryDepartment. PleasePlayResponsibly")

And to think. I sit and work with words and designs and people all day. I obviously went into the wrong field. I should've known by the way the broadcast journalists at UT stole our stories word for word that I wasn't going to have the easy part of this whole journalism job.

But now, I have a new goal: I'm going to be the next elevator speaker lady.

Kidding.

See, you can't be too jealous of them. They're hated by everyone at some point or another.

Everyone has their least favorite voice: mine's the one at the grocery store.

The stupid, stupid, stupid automatic check-out stations in stores. I don't know if too many places have them in Wisconsin, because I don't go looking for them. But you couldn't swing a cart-full of groceries without knocking into one of those dang kiosks in your local Kroger or Meijers.

Will I stoop to trying to communicate with that machine? NO. Easier? No, I don't think so. "Please scan your first item and place it in the bag. Please place the item in the bag. Place the item in the bag. Place the item -- thank you. Please scan your second item." UGH. STOP TALKING TO ME. YOU ARE A MACHINE.

(Photo: See that woman? She looks OK, but under her breath she's telling the stupid friendly voice to SHUT UP ALREADY AND TAKE THE FREAKIN' COUPON.)

The year Michael Jackson saves Christmas at the prom

I've never seen a white guy dance like that.

I've never seen a white guy from Iowa dance like that.

I've never seen a white guy from Iowa who plays the banjo in a "psychobilly" band (The Mayflies) dance like that.

See the guy in photo, the short one on the left? Last night, he and his band played at Cranky Pat's (good food, live music = Erin loves it). I've blogged about the band before, and they're still OK.Talented, but not really my thing, but our friends were there doing sound, so we stayed. After the band stopped playing, though, our friend Tim put in The Essential Michael Jackson, and it was on.

On like the leather (pleather?) pants the short guy had on. On like the fuzzy slippers he had on. On like ... well, it was on. He was down on the ground, spinning on his shoulders, then up doing the moonwalk, then down again, to Michael's '80s golden era.

The whole thing was exactly like that scene in every teen movie that has a prom in it, where everyone's standing around, clapping while the underdog or the nerd dances in the middle of the circle, watching in awe that some (in this case, banjo-playing) guy can move like that, and suddenly your whole perception of life just changes, and you're like, "Aw, maybe that nerd isn't so nerdy, and there really is a Santa Claus!" and then you start dancing and a voiceover finishes the boring plotline and then zooms out and the credits roll.

It was exactly like that, without the tuxes and tacky decorations.

And it was all because of Michael, pre-creepy stage. Awesome. Only in Wisconsin (or Ohio, or the Midwest in general, I suppose) can you be so surprised by a moonwalking banjo player.

My friends can dance, too. I had no idea. Did I dance? Uh, I may be acclimated to Wisconsin, but it's going to be a while before anyone catches me dancing without having something to drink first.



(Photo: Band photo from The Mayflies' myspace.com page)
(MJ Photo: From some Web site where everything was written in Japanese. I'm sure it's totally legal.)

UPDATE

You guys should feel lucky that I'm on top of such breaking news. As TV journalists would say, YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST (unless you too went to Yahoo! before coming here).

Fugitive feline caught! I also think Iran is still a done deal, but ... I don't want to be a Debbie Downer.

You should be ashamed of yourselves. And I can't wait til they make a movie out of this.

You guys need to get your priorities straight.

I mean, the pretty much guaranteed Iran war, or Molly, the trapped cat. Which is more important? Kidding. You guys honestly think I'd make you choose between the two? No way.

The weird thing is Molly, our dear trapped cat in New York City, is more famous than whoever it is in Iran we're supposed to be mad at. It's like Baby Jessica, with catnip. I can't wait 'til CBS, ABC and Lifetime start planning dramatic two-part movies on this. I don't think I'm alone in saying that movie'd be a hit, if it were lined up against, say, some boring show like "Dateline" or "60 Minutes." I mean, who watches those shows anyhow?

But mark my words, I will be the first to say on my blog that Molly could be a hoax, pronounced "ho axe" in honor of my former journalism professor. Someone threw a stuffed animal from Build-A-Bear in there with a sound card. Somewhere, a second-grader is laughing.

(Photo: What Molly may look like, as it too has hair, whiskers and two eyes. We assume.)

Ode to the library

So someone brought up a good question last week, and I've been pondering it, debating it on both sides, and I still don't know the answer.

It's illegal to download music off the Internet. It's illegal to copy CDs. It's illegal to have illegal music illegally on your legal iPod. So if the library, the fine, upstanding establishment that it is, lets you check out CDs, what do they expect you're going to do with them? Listen to them legally? Return them uncopied? Un-uploaded? I think not.

I think that answer's easy. Pirate away, my friend. Oh, but don't tell them I told you to. I'm too busy to go to jail. Besides, I didn't do anything. All legal here, yessirie.

The real crime, I believe, is the library's CD selection. It's not bad (as a matter of fact, I was very impressed. And did some big jazz guru die and leave all his CDs to the Oshkosh Public Library? Because I'm pretty sure that I've not seen that many jazz CDs all in one place. Except my spare bedroom. But that's another story for another day).

Back to the scene of the attempted crime: You can't go in there and browse, unless you have like, all day. I have a hard enough time picking out a DVD or VHS tape. Imagine that many shelves, only filled with CDs. Whoa. You can fit way more CDs on there, if my calculations are correct. They're separated by "jazz" and "not jazz." Unfortunately for me, they assume that if you like The Strokes, then you must also like George Strait (Strait, George, in library-speak). Not so, mes amis. Not so.

(For the record, I didn't just know George Strait's Web site off the top of my head, OK? Gosh.)

And, if the lumping of the genres doesn't bother you, the alphabetical disorder will. Now, I worked in a library back in the day. Way back in the day. I know people aren't smart, and that they'll stick any CD or book anywhere. But dang. There are like, 6 "S" shelves. I just want one CD. Oh, the humanity!

But, all that said, for that to be my only two complaints about the library, then I think they're doing swimmingly.

And, to quote the guy who sent me to the library to check this out, "NERD ALERT." The library is awesome.

IN CONCLUSION, I don't know what the library really thinks about what you're doing with the CDs. But don't ruin a good thing. Oh, and there is a certain feeling of guilt associated with this all. You copy a CD from a friend, it's OK. But from the library? It'd be like eating the whole box of shells and cheese. You know it's bad, you do it anyhow, but you'd at least feel sorry for it later.

(Photo: It's a pirate. Get it, pirating software? Pirate? Come on, it's funny.)

OK, so band shirts are so last summer. Who cares, these shirts rock.

I know it's totally predictable and lame, and even slightly emo of me (shudder), but a pretty dull Wednesday was instantly made into the best Wednesday ever when Dave brought me these gems from the Exclusive Company.

A Postal Service and Death Cab for Cutie.

Now all I need is for the Postal Service to put out another album, and it'd be the best life ever for a while. Cooooome on.

Oh, and speaking of emo (shudder), check out (at midnight central time, yo) how I resolved that whole "Chris Carrabba is too cool for school" thing. Ha. In your face, Carrabba. Actually, it's not harsh; I just like saying "In your face": Voila.

According to his people, he couldn't be pinned down. So, somewhere out west, Carrabba is walking around, lost. I picture him as this little boy in an emo outfit, a guitar slung on his back, walking around, trying to find his way home, crying and singing songs about being lost all the way. I think there are even signs up in LA with his photo on it: "MISSING: EMO ROCKER. NEEDS TO SHOW UP IN WISCONSIN WEDNESDAY. IF SEEN, PLEASE CALL (some number that they're too good to give out)."

Sigh. And to think I loved him once. Sigh again.

"It's so damn hot ... Milk was a bad choice."

I love snow, until March. I love spring weather, until it's about 70, maybe 75. And humidity? Forget it.

So imagine my surprise when the weathercaster said it was going to be 75 today in some parts of the state. Uh, I moved to Wisconsin because I saw the average temperature in July was like, 70. If it's 75 here now, what's August going to be like? I shudder at the thought.

I don't do well being warm. At all. There will be no handshakes, hugs or even sitting next to me on the couch from May to September. It's too hot. Sweating with the oldies at an apartment in Michigan last summer was bad. Not having air conditioning for 11 years before that didn't prepare me for the roasting by the rays of the horrid Michigan sun in our apartment. I cried inside all summer long. No pool. No relief. Michigan. Etc.

Not this year. We don't have to pay for air conditioning. And I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about turning it on tonight when I got home from work today (I didn't, but only because I didn't feel like explaining why it was on). Please, let me put a sweatshirt back on. I want to not feel my toes because it's so cold.

What is this, Wisconsin? Heat? What?! This isn't what I came here for! I hope you don't get as hot and humid for months like Ohio. Please?

Is there a place in the world that stays 60 or 70 all year round, no humidity, and rains, like, every third day? And snows on Christmas? With no bugs or snakes? If so, I would move there. I tried to Google all that stuff, but all I got was this. If you live in a place like that now, you should tell me.

(Photo: Will Ferrell in "Anchorman.")

Sigh.

It's been suggested to me that the neighbors might have Internet access. Therefore, I'm changing my previous comments to reflect this sentiment: I don't like getting punched in the face. That, and I'm mainly all crap, anyhow. Let your dog bark, see if I care. And there are no bodies. Fine.

Worst Sunday ever.

I've been a bit busy at work lately, what with all the staring off into space and Internet games I play (not to mention the naps in the break room, or reading magazines, or pondering life), that lately, when I come home, I have zero energy to do anything.

Except play Nintendo. Super Mario Brothers. Lame? Yes. But nothing in the world* can make me feel so in control, or take my mind off work for so long. When I'm jumping on duck/turtle things and trying to rescue the princess (which I've never done), I can't be disturbed. It's intense.

And so all day long, instead of wishing I were home sleeping, or watching TV, I wish I were playing Nintendo. What a sad, pathetic little life I have. But it's fun; it's 2-D, and its songs -- cowabunga. All I need is a side ponytail or a banana hairclip and I'd be rockin' it early '90s style. Maybe that's why I like it. It reminds me of a time when I didn't have to think about work by getting my mind off work and "stuff."

Yeah, maybe.

Or maybe it's because I want to conquer the stupid game.

I was close. Once. 1992. I found one of the warp levels. My brother and I took turns being Mario, because we'd killed Luigi off in Level 2 (that dang water world). We were on Level 9. Big stuff. But there was this ginormous hole to jump over. And we just. Couldn't. Do it. We cried. We jumped around, looking for hidden blocks. We tried to go down tubes. We tried running really fast and pushing A and B at the same time, steering with the controller, as if that would help.

But nothing we did helped. We had about 10 lives, and when we got down to five, we started to really sweat. I mean, we're talking the old system; no Internet to look at cheat sheets, no "save" option. Nothing. We were doomed. So we did what any nine and seven year old would do. We got angry. I'm not talking German kid angry, but it was pretty close. And you know what happened next?

"You called a friend to help?" No.

"You figured it out? Teamwork, blah blah." No.

MOM TURNED IT OFF. Gone. That whole Sunday, just gone. Clouds came and ... uh, clouded up the previously sunny sky. My brother and I just stared at the black screen. Gone. Just gone. If we hadn't moved since, my brother and I might still be staring at that TV screen.

So it's not just me trying to beat the game. It's me, trying to get that terrible memory out of my mind. Shudder. I've forgiven her. But I just. Want to. Know. How. It. Ends. So I can stop typing in staccato.

(*That may not be true.)

Teaching Wisconsin to speak

Or, rather, teaching TV newscasters in Wisconsin to speak.

Or should I say "Wisgonsin."

NBC 26, one of the least exciting newscasts I've ever seen (and keep in mind, I'm from Northwest Ohio, where we watched Indiana news. It's BAD), can't seem to get it right. Do you eat "gake"? Do you have pipes made of "gopper"? Do you eat "garrots"?

NO. SO STOP SAYING "WISGONSIN." It doesn't sound educated. It sounds like you have a stuffy nose.

TV news = bad times. Having one channel = grazy bad newsgasters.

Erin's life just got a lot creepier

Ah, yes, it's Monday.

You can tell because I'm A.) tired, B.) desperately seeking Friday, as in a Friday in 2050, when I should be able to retire, C.) wishing Chris Carrabba would stop being a celebrity.

See, my friends, in the world of journalism, sometimes having your own blog doesn't quite make you as famous as Leno or Letterman. Of course, if Leno or Letterman were interested in Carrabba, well ... OK. Never mind. I'll play nice.

But he's going to force me to write a story based on what I would ask him, and what I think his answers would be, if he doesn't respond to the exactly 372 interview requests. I'm getting a little stressed here. Ugh. Just because you put out a few albums and girls everywhere would be willing to be Mrs. Carrabba (including me, eons ago ... I'm embarrassed by it now) ...

Sigh.

But that's neither here nor there. What's new in my world? Well, we apparently live next to a mediocre trumpet player. He or she only knows one song, so it's not like I can even appreciate the musical talent of the phantom band member. Sigh. It's window-opening time, and he or she is making me wish it were 30 degrees. Why, Oshkosh? Why.

But, in better news, the dog across the hall only barks when its owners leave or return home. And, it turns out, I may be on the dog's side. It appears we're neighbors to the Klopeks. Remember "The Burbs," that '80s movie with Tom Hanks? The neighbors are creepy ... our neighbors are creepy. Their neighbors hate people, our neighbors hate people.

We were walking down the hall of our apartment floor, and just as we got to our door, theirs (which is right across the hall) opened, and the light turned off. Clearly they were on their way out. Charlie, the yipper in this situation, was yipping. And what do they do? The woman looks at me and then backs up into the apartment, and the door closes until there was only about an inch. We looked away and hurried in our apartment, and then heard them leave and slam the door.

I can be described in many ways. Scary, smelly, ominous, intimidating and fear-inducing are not words I think I've ever been called. I'm 5'1''. I'm out of shape. If I were some scary person, I'd be able to chase them like, 3 1/2 feet before I pulled a muscle. Ergo, I think it's them. Not me.

Either the people across the hall have bodies hidden in their apartment, or they're being robbed by burglars with entrance keys to the building. Creepy. I go with the bodies theory.

And somewhere, the Unicorn Lady cries

I was feeling a little bored with my own ideas (hey, admitting it is the first step), so I pulled a book off the shelf by my desk and borrowed it to flip through this weekend. It's a book that anyone who's worked with page design has seen: the Society for News Design's annual book of design winners.

It usually makes you feel like you should bow out gracefully and start looking into a field more on your level of design expertise, like being a sandwich artist at Subway. Though, to be fair, I had the most beautiful chicken sandwich there the other day. And, to be fair to myself, I was inspired, too, not by the sub, but by the book. That's the point, I think. Not to quit your job, but to learn from it. OK. I can do that.

Anyhow, the book was the 19th edition, from 1997 (or, the papers are from 1997), the year Princess Diana died. Now, if a member of the U.S. Congress got killed (the FBI is now monitoring this blog, because of that phrase), I'm sure we wouldn't go all out like we did for Princess Di. Elton John would not rewrite a song for him. There would be no mention of it in the Celebrity Insider column of the Oshkosh Northwestern almost 10 years later. The Unicorn Lady wouldn't do a tribute page on him.

But, alas. It was a big deal. Strangers were crying. The Unicorn Lady is still crying. It's funny how these "huge" events seem so ... small. Would Seattle do a full-page portrait of Princess Diana if she had died in 2006 instead of 1997? I don't know.

I wasn't alive for the Kennedy assassination. I wasn't of age to remember anything when the Challenger catastrophe happened. Heck, I don't even remember the the Baby Jessica incident (though I do remember watching that made-for-TV movie about it a few years later with my grandma).

So this Princess Diana thing, and a little later, the Mother Teresa thing, are probably the first two events in my life chronologically speaking where someone will ask me "Where were you when ..." (For the record, I was with my mom at the Glandorf Park Festival; someone told us and we thought they were joking, but I got goosebumps. Not bad enough to stop eating my fries. Later, we watched CNN and Mom cried.)

But now, it doesn't seem to have shaped any nation or shattered any feeling of unity, as some had feared in 1997. Whose death would we do all that 400-point headlining for today? (OK, Wisconsin, besides Brett Favre. GOSH.) I'm thinking Britney. If she dies, who will we have to talk about? Who will our children look up to? No one. The nation would be shaped. The unity would be shattered. Tragedy would be felt by all.

Except K-Fed, who's on his way out.

SOMEONE ALERT HOLLYWOOD ASAP

TWO BLACK HOLES ARE GOING TO CRASH INTO EACH OTHER!!! (Yes, three exclamation points.) SOMEONE CALL BRUCE WILLIS!!! GATHER THE GANG OF UNQUALIFIED MEN!!! SAVE US ALL!!!

It's amazing. All this interstellar activity, and I still have laundry to do, I still have to go to work tomorrow, and there's still nothing to eat here. The dog across the hall is still barking, and the kid is still crying.

And I suspect it's going to stay like that regardless of any two black holes crashing into each other. However, if these are the last few nights we have on earth, then I'm going to be angry that I spent it doing nothing (but blogging). Dang.

Watch a German kid go crazy

You need to click on this.

It's scary. It's loud. It lasts like four minutes (watch til the end, though, it's worth it). Plus, it's in German, so it sounds a lot more angrier (and phlegm-covered) than it probably is. I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding.

But watch it anyhow.

But, warning, it's got words in it (albeit in German, subtitled in English) that I wouldn't want my grandma to hear/read. I'm justifying sharing it with you because the kid is like, half my age. If he can say it, you can read it. It's not that bad. Plus, we're all swearing, anyhow.

Where. Are. His. Mom. And. Or. Dad.

Where.

Oh, I found it via a link from someone who apparently feels an unhealthy rage when reading Steven Hyden's blog. People are weird.

I may have had a bout of ADD for this post. Just warning you.

They have nothing to do with My Little Pony. That's a good thing, because my cruel, insensitive mother gave those all away for 5 cents a pop or something ridiculous like that at a garage sale in 1991. Not that I hold any negative feelings toward her, or even think about her uncaring act of giving the Care Bears away with the same disregard for their obvious worth years later.

But I digress.

Before this gets out of hand, click on this and tell me, do you not love it? Band of Horses, recommended to me by a guy I work with -- thanks, Alex -- just may be my new favorite band of the week. And, if their indie vibe isn't cool enough for you, then the free download on their Myspace page should be. If you're like me, you see "free song download" and immediately click "yes." Download now, discriminate later when the song comes up on shuffle and you don't know how it got there. Like that one song that's just labeled "00045.jrt." I don't know where it came from.

But I digress.

And, if the free download isn't cool enough for you, maybe this will change your mind: Band of Horses, I found out, is on Sub Pop Records, which also gave us such modern day classics as The Postal Service, The Shins, and The Helio Sequence. Good stuff. On a side note, Dave and I may even be dancing to a Postal Service song at our wedding. Well, sung by Iron and Wine ... Sigh.

(Photo: From Band of Horses' Myspace page. Link above.)

While you were concentrating on real news ...

Entertainment news happened. As LifeStyle editor, I feel it's my duty to post the following bad news.

Sure, everyone's watching the unpleasant scene at Pleasant Street, more bad news was unfolding in Michigan (gee, I didn't know anything bad ever happened in such a glorious state).

Anyhow.

Moment of silence, please. (Count to 30.)

OK. Everyone, the unthinkable happened: Eminem and Kim have called it quits. Again. They're getting divorced. Again. It's true.

After the second marriage, I truly, madly, deeply thought they had what it would take to get them through the long haul. I mean, what woman wouldn't love a guy who put out a CD filled with songs about how much he hated her? Who wouldn't love domestic disputes and public displays of hatred? I know I would.

In the words of Kim's lawyer, this is nothing short of a surprise. Word.

(Photo: http://www.rps.psu.edu.)

Mom!

I'm not going to sugarcoat this: I'm homesick. I may be 20-something, but hey. It happens.

But see, I'm one of those busy kind of people; if I'm watching TV, I'm also on the Internet or reading a book. If I'm playing Nintendo, I'm also listening to music. A movie's on when I'm sleeping. I'm watching blogging now while I'm eating and doing laundry and watching "The Apprentice." If I'm not at work, my mind's at work. And when I'm doing these things, I'm perfectly happy. It's when I stop and do nothing that I get homesick. Needless to say, I only feel homesick at night, or on a Sunday, when I don't do anything but sit and relax.

And I lurve Wisconsin; I really do. It's not like I've moved around the world. It's the Midwest. I get it. Ohio and Wisconsin aren't far away physically or in characteristics. But it's not the same, sometimes.

Buuuut ... drum roll, please ... Mom's coming. She's coming into town in a few weeks. Two-and-a-half to be exact. I just found out about 10 minutes ago. She called to surprise me. Well, it's a surprise that comes with a two-week notice. But I was still surprised. Heck yes -- Girl time. Shopping. Mom!

Now these next two weeks are going to go really, really slowly. Oh, man.

(Photo: When you Google "Mom," that's the first image that comes up; it's only a coincidence that I'm incredibly short and she's the mom from "George Shrinks." PBSkids.org.)

Puppy photo, you are the only happy thing about this post.

One day, I will die. Hopefully, it's like, 70 years from now. But when I do, and my friends are sitting there thinking A.) "Man, we are almost 100," and B.) "How can we remember Erin?", I want them to never, ever, ever think it's a good idea to put me up on this.

Mere days after I wrote about the creepiness of networking sites, I come across this one. Mydeathspace.com. Come on. Seriously. No one needs this. It makes finding random childhood neighborhood kids you knew in the '80s seem completely normal.

It's a compilation of Myspace.com pages of people who've died. You have a Myspace page, you die, your last blog, or someone else's blog about you, gets put up on Mydeathspace.com.

What sicko sat around and thought this up? "Hey, some kid in Baltimore just died of an asthma attack. I wonder what the last thing he blogged about was?" No. That has never entered my mind.

In case you're wondering, the site also includes links to the person's Myspace page. I clicked on one just to see if it worked, and had to close the window before it was finished loading. I don't want to know what some dead guy in California had up as his profile song before he died.

"Oooh, 'Stairway to Heaven,' man -- do you think it meeeans anything?" wonders some stoner in Boise, Idaho.

Yeah. It means he liked that song. Now stop being creepy.

Ugh!

(Photo: I put up a photo of a puppy because I needed something happy and cute to look at so I didn't feel like throwing up. Death is not happy and cute. Unless it's Death Cab for Cutie. But that's a whole 'nother blog entirely.)

What. Is. This.

What the gel?

Seriously. What. Is. This.

Go to the site. Listen to "Go Go Gadget Gospel." I get the "Inspector Gadget" reference. That's where the understanding ends. I don't know whether to love it or hate it. So if you need me, I'll be here for the next 15 minutes listening to it. Make that 20. Buffering. Buffering.

(Sidebar: WHAT IS BUFFERING AND WHY DO YOU DO IT, Computer?)

(Photo: http://profile.myspace.com/gnarlsbarkley.)

Erin's back, with happy news (cue music)

Dear Blogosphere,

It's been days since my last post -- four to be exact. By now, you've deleted me from your bookmarks and have moved on with your lives. Well, you're going to regret it, because I have a lot of interesting (read: AWESOME) news:

1. Everyone's favorite Toledo band, Rediscover (who else), is rumored to have gotten signed sometime between when I last talked about him and Sunday, when a friend of ours called to give me the good news. Getting signed is like the musical equivalent of getting called back for a second date, though, so let's not be planning any album release parties yet. Yet.

According to our source, who is just two people removed from Rediscover, they're on the same label (or satellite label of the same label) as everyone's second Toledo band, We Are the Fury, which just had its "You heard it here first" (lies -- I heard it in Toledo first, in 2004) on MTV last week or the week before. Phffst.

MTV, you're so last summer.

2. An Oshkosh band also got the second-date phone call: Verona Grove. Word on the street is they're keeping it DL (I think that's what the kids are calling it these days) because they don't like to make a big deal out of it. But ... I went and opened my mouth anyhow. It's reportedly by the same dude who's managing Green Day. Ooh.

And, because being a pop-culture reporter only works for the lucky few, and there are bills to pay, I also have been doing this "working" thing. And that brings us to point 3, my friends.

3. I got the big desk now, boys. I'm big stuff. Or, more accurately, I have more room to bring in big stuff. Like my fish bowl with the plastic fish. Photo frames. And I have a view overlooking the picturesque photo department's desk (ha, get it?). Two bedrooms, one bath, ample closet space. Just kidding. But it is pretty big.

Which leads us to 4. The classic Russian epic "Doctor Zhivago." (It actually doesn't lead us to four, but I was desperate for a segue.) Talk about a looong movie. But good. Oh, so good. And, you automatically feel smarter just by having watched it. It's mine; I've seen it before, but Dave hadn't. So we watched the 27-hour long film (it's like, 3 1/2 or something). Oh so good. But that's probably about the most exciting thing I did this weekend. You can't blog about rock stars AND live like one. Come on, guys. I'm only human.

(This week's Random Photo from Erin's Computer is brought to you by Erin's computer (GENIUS). It's a buffalo. At least I think. See it for yourself at some flea market in Ohio.) (Watch for more random photos in blogs to come. There will be a quiz on them someday, so keep notes.*)

(*Not actually true.)