Sad news cats

Our landlord hates life, apparently, including kitties and puppies and rainbows and sunbeams, so we cannot have pets without paying another $500 (on top of the security deposit) and an extra $50 a month on top of that.

So when I found a stray barn kitten at my mom's, I had to tearfully give it to my brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law to raise for me for a few months until we moved into our new house. After all, I'm pretty sure hiding a cat just isn't going to happen. Dave agrees. No pet 'til the holidays, he says. Maybe later.

Sigh. OK, OK.

But word came late Friday night, in the form of a picture message (of the kitten watching TV at my brother's apartment), and then in a follow-up text message. Word was not good. Word is, the kitten is never going to get to the Badger State. No. He's a Buckeye. Forever. That's right. My brother reneged on our deal. The little guy was too cute to give up.

What can I say? Well, OK, to be honest I thought of a few things. One, "remember that time in college when you ran over my cat in the driveway, and broke the news to me over a bowl of cereal --'Pass the milk, by the way, sorry I killed your cat'?" Two, "remember that time you said you'd just keep him for me for a little bit?" But that is not what polite people say. Besides, he is kinda cute. The cat, I mean.

Polite people say nothing -- or text nothing back -- and just go on with their lives, sans cat. Little Julius Sumner Miller, the cat in question, is now Julius Caesar (apparently, they have more respect for history than they do a good PBS physics guy). And I don't think I'll ever see him again. Again, I mean the cat.

I guess this means we can get a dog. And the humane society's filled with cats.

But, let's have a moment of silence for Julius Sumner Miller. The cat and the physicist (above, from cadbury.com/au).

And no, I do not want your cat's kittens right now. I am in mourning.

Can't wait 'til October so I can stop thinking about planning a wedding ...

This week in wedding news: "The Guest List: The Final Version." You'll find the straight-to-DVD program in the "Top things that give Erin a stomachache this week" section at your local video store. You'll find the program "'Stomacheache' Looks Funny Spelled Out," too.

Small families we do not have. We've managed to be really quite frugal (read: cheap) with our wedding plans, so the "we cannot invite them because we are on a budget" issue is not the problem.

The problem is remembering who we forgot, scratching people off the list, adding people to the list and going "Uncle Fred? I have an Uncle Fred? Whose list is this?" Oh, and that sitting down together and coming up with a list thing. That's a problem, too. But that's just details. I'm sure our thinking of doing the final guest list will lead to the guest list compiling itself, while we sleep, in alphabetical order, 11-point Times New Roman, 1-inch margins, with cross-references for easy searching and footnotes with descriptive text: "Jaimie, cousin of Erin, dark hair, just got married to that guy Matt" and "Sam, the uncle who's the mayor," etc.

It's funny how the non-relatives list changes -- someone doesn't "do" out-of-town weddings. Another hasn't spoken to us (or us to them, to be fair) since last September. A couple others are in the "Where are they now?" pile. VH1 is currently helping us seek them out; those invites are pending.

And then there are the "YES," says one of us, in all capital letters. "NO," the other says. Luckily, we only have a few of those people (all of whom I know don't read this blog, so I'm safe). We've been able to make our points, state our reasons and move on down the list in a civil fashion with all but one person:

"You realize my grandma is going to be in the same room," I say, thinking about said person standing next to my little old, sweet grandma in the same room, and envisioning the earth swallowing itself and calling it quits now that it's seen it all, and finds itself in an uncomfortable situation.

"Yeah. It'll be OK," he said. I am still picturing how it would look if the earth swallowed itself.

"Remember the last wedding we were at with him? He was loud, rude and people at other tables wanted to hurt him when he shouted out his favorite 'can't say that on television' words. He told dirty jokes too loudly while some man covered his kid's ears. He stole drink tickets and scared small animals and children," I said.

"Yeah. That was two years ago." I admire Dave's patience.

"Yes, and you haven't talked to him since then," I say. I am smiling, trying to be patient.

The man in question has a record. Two, actually. One of the "post-hardcore rock" type, one of the "I make people uncomfortable and cops know me" type. My grandma likes to bake and dance to polka music. I see a big difference here.

If the earth swallows itself in October, you know which of us made the stronger case. It's not a deal-breaker decision. It's not one that gets me particularly upset, or him either. But you know what would make this easier? Why, what else. This is why God gave us the Internet: Webcast weddings.

"We'll always have Oshkosh ..."

I don't know if it was the champagne cocktails (no, I didn't really have them) or the awesome weather, but Friday night's Free Movies in the Park was a good time. I'd never been before -- not to Oshkosh's, and not to any city's -- so this was all new to me. I was a bit nervous it'd be a bunch of idiots talking and ruining my movie experience (yeah, experience), but it was actually just other people, laying on blankets. That made me happy.

And this week it was "Casablanca," which is only one of my most favorite movies of my 20-some years.

"Oh, Rick ..."

I may go again, but this next Friday would be the only one; "Hook" is playing then. I'm not a big "Zathura" fan, which rounds out this year's lineup.

Friday was pretty entertaining all around; Dave and I went to EAA AirVenture again, and this time actually stayed to watch the air show. I was impressed -- but even more so was I impressed that I didn't pass out from sun/heat exhaustion and near-life-threatening blisters. Visiting EAA: Good. Wearing new shoes to visit EAA: VERY BAD. In the spirit of those who'd gone before me, I cried out "Go on without me, I can't make it any further," offering up my water bottle and free NASA sticker to Dave as I struggled to walk on my tip-toes back to the car in my new shoes.

Needless to say I managed to keep on going. And, also needless to say, I think I've successfully broken in those shoes.

Weekend and Living Well. And you thought Christmas was in December.

You get a two-for-one blog post today.

That's right. It's Weekend time, but it's also Living Well time.

Weekend's got Lyle Lovett (obviously), as he's coming to Oshkosh on Saturday. It's also got some info on Lovaboy (you know them as Loverboy) and the Stones and other good stuff.

Living Well's about remodeling a kitchen. Check it out, dang it. I worked hard on that thing. Not that I didn't work hard on Weekend. Anyhow. Read it.

I got a NASA water bottle. What did you do today?

I went to EAA AirVenture today and experienced the "You gotta be there" excitement -- and OK, I was impressed.

Impressed like "free water bottle" impressed, "free Post-Its" impressed, "free mouse pad, stickers, candy, ruler" impressed, etc.

But no, not Harrison Ford impressed. (For those of you who don't know, Ford shows up at AirVenture every year for the Young Eagles program. I'm not just oddly bringing him up for no reason.) Later, however, my fiance caught him and took a photo, which I will share with you when I get it. He said something about giving Harrison (because we're on a first-name basis) my number, too. Best fiance ever. UPDATE: Yeah, here's the photo.

OK, back to AirVenture. Two of my friends and I went to AirVenture on our lunch break, rushed through the free-stuff booths, grabbed what we could, and walked back to the car, sweating like crazy because it gets hot in Wisconsin. Does it ever.

Bad news -- worse than the sweating, thought that just compounded what came next. Worse than having to wait until the trolley and 50 other cars drove by to cross the road to the car. Worse than the near-blisters my relatively new shoes gave me.

We are officially 10 minutes late to get back to work, and - gasp - there's a flat tire. I, being the stepdaugter of a mechanic and a daughter of a self-sufficient woman, have no idea how to change a tire, and not a really strong desire to learn.

Luckily, it wasn't my car, but I still felt kind of bad that the only help I was able to give was to tell him "Good job, man, yeah, keep up the good work," while standing there going "IT'S SO HOT," dreaming about air conditioning and fanning myself with a free hand (which never works, but I do it anyhow because my hand's there, and I may as well use it to pretend it drops the temperature of the entire outdoors by 15 to 20 degrees).

I'm sure that was a great help, and that he didn't feel like punching me (or at the very least, leaving me there, stranded) at all. What a gentleman.

See this box? It took me three months to unpack this thing.

I was calmly freaking out about my wedding, which is about 80 days away, when Dave saunters by and tells me he stopped by the landlord's today to ask the manager about our lease. Turns out, instead of moving out Oct. 31, we have to move out Sept. 30. By noon.

So there's that. Might as well pack up NOW, I'm thinking, as I have what seems like 10,000 things to do between now and the wedding, and oh yeah, let's move in 66 days.

I feel like I just finished moving. I've moved more than a dozen times in my life. I don't have the energy, the boxes, the newspaper (despite working for one, weird, huh), or the arm muscles to be ready to move again. And we lost all our moving friends when they volunteered to make the trip from Michigan to Wisconsin about 10 months ago.

I have a brilliant idea. How about Sept. 29, I go to bed, and wake up Sept. 30 in a new house, and I wouldn't have to pack or move anything. Everything would be all put away. All the mail would be switched over, and the electric company, too. The Internet'd be hooked up, and Julius Sumner Miller, our cat, would be there, too. Music would play softly in the background, and there would be no bugs or scary mold to deal with.

I could deal with that.

Or, I could just jump out this window here. But then who would feed Julius? OK, fine. I'll stay.

iPod, I love you.

Someone help me.

I've just spent the last half hour subscribing to free podcasts on NPR and PBS. (In case you don't heart technology, a podcast is a free radio-like program that you subscribe to on your computer, and you can put it on your iPod, and it updates for new episodes, etc.)

If I didn't have a blog to talk to about it, I'd still be clicking "Subscribe" as if they were free. OH WAIT, they are free.

I may be the last 20something embracing podcasting (or at least it'd seem that way). I'm like the Christopher Columbus to the Leif Ericson of discoveries here (Flashback to sixth grade history class: He's the Icelandic guy who found America in like, 1065 or something). This means I get all the credit, and you'll all get a day off work each year on a day named after me.

I don't know why I never subscribed to any podcasts before -- They're like listening to NPR's "All Songs Considered," without the hit-or-miss schedule I get annoyed by on the radio. All I want is to tune in for music talk only to hear Click and Clack, the car advice guys, instead. Like I could care less about an oil change. Please. There's even one on iTunes that gives you a song per program from a genre of your choice.

(I realize you most likely already knew this, but give me my five minutes of "Whoa," and nod and smile.)

So right now, I've got "All Songs Considered," "POV," "American Experience," "NPR Books," "NPR Pop Culture," and "PBS Now," all on my iPod. I know I'm supposed to be totally blase to this technology thing, but I am in awe over this. It updates ... by itself. It goes on my iPod, so I can take it anywhere. I can listen to it over my car stereo. I can listen to it while I'm folding laundry. Holy Toledo.

Then I found this link. That's it. I'm turning off the computer. I don't have time for my own surfing, even if it does come with a free show.

Reclaiming my lost youth, one CD at a time.

When I got my iBook, I was so cool. No, like, really cool. I was so cool, in fact, that when I was uploading my CDs onto my computer, I got a bit elitist: "No, Alanis, you get 'Hands Clean' and that's it. No, I will not put on 'Jagged Little Pill,' that was so 1995."

Now, I am scouring library shelves to regain the junior high memories I threw away when I sold my CDs at some crummy record store in Toledo, in exchange for money to do laundry and get gas. And they ripped me off. You can't tell me my entire Stone Temple Pilots collection was only worth $3. No, record store clerk, you look me in the eye and tell me you'll give me $3. Erin's got some towels to wash.

I'm not too proud to say, as I watch the "import" button on my iTunes work it magic, that I am sorry I sold all those second-rate CDs when I did. For a 13-year-old, I had a pretty decent CD collection, which I'd be embarrassed to share with you in person at this present time.

But, watching my mom hunt through the cassette tape racks 10 years ago lets me know that if I weren't reclaiming them now, I'd be doing it 20 years from now, holding the CD in my hand while some kids go "What the heck is that round thing?" Don't act like you're not hiding your own music at home. I went to the David Lee Roth Waterfest concert. I've seen the dancing and the singing along.

CDs Erin's loved, sold for gas money, and is now welcoming back into her life

• "Jagged Little Pill,"
Alanis Morissette.

• "The Stranger,"
Billy Joel -- technically I never sold this one. I just only had it on cassette. Oh, yeah.

• "Whatever and Ever Amen,"
Ben Folds Five.

• "First Band on the Moon,"
The Cardigans. You know them as "that one-hit wonder that sang 'Lovefool' in 'Romeo & Juliet.'

• "Automatic for the People,"
REM.

Hooray for local bands, part XIV

Sometimes I listen to local bands and I have to say "Yeah, neat," because they're OK, they've got enough talent for a roomful of college kids to appreciate, but yet I have to concede that they're just OK. I maybe have their songs in my head, if I know them personally I might go to their Myspace page and download the song, and I totally like seeing them live (see the awesome-to-see-live Toledo band Separation Tree, or the catchy Toledo band The Stylex). But, again, they're just OK.

I think I've found a local band that's more than just OK in my book, world. Meet The Obsolete Machines. They're from Oshkosh, and they consist of a 24-year-old guy and a 23-year-old woman who make electronic pop music.

I'm not saying they're on their way to Grammy fame or anything, but their songs have more than a fighting chance at making it to the "played more than once" pile in my iTunes. You can read more about them on Wednesday in The Northwestern, as they're our Artists of the Week this week.

First trip to EAA ...

This AirVenture convention that starts Monday has got me all excited. To tell you the truth, I wanted to be an astronaut for a hot minute. Then, my mom broke it to me that I'd have to take science and math classes, and that pretty much solidified my future as a journalist. But still.

EAA's AirVenture is something that everyone else knew about but me (until I started investigating Oshkosh last summer, before moving here). Here I thought Neil Armstrong's museum in Wapakoneta, Ohio, was the end-all to flight-related stuff.


But more on that in my column tomorrow ...

Most importantly, I went with some others from the newsroom to check out EAA's grounds so we wouldn't be lost come Monday, and it looked pretty exciting, and nothing was even there yet, really. No Harrison Ford yet, no Beach Boys ... Not many airplanes. Still exciting. This is gonna be awesome. I hope it's not like, 100 degrees, though. Or else I'll be observing from The Northwestern's photo galleries or something. Ha. Yeah, at least Armstrong's museum is air conditioned ...

"What? Tegan and Sara are being replaced? "

Thom Yorke's got me in the mood for some more new music. So, here's what I've found in my Internet travels this week:

1. Dance, Jenny. It's electronic goodness, and it's grammatically correct. Gotta love that. Their rock-oriented songs are better than the straight-up electronic stuff, but none of it's bad. You can check out their Web site at that link, or you can ask them to be your friend at Myspace. They also have three free downloads available on that page.

2. Tapes 'n Tapes. Oh, my god. On their Myspace page, it says they're influenced by "Wire, beach boys, pavement, replacements, pixies, flaming lips, talking heads, television, morris day, and lars eric mattsson (aka. the exciter)," and if all those bands had a baby (impossible, but go with it), it'd totally be Tapes 'n Tapes. They're from Minneapolis, so I thought I'd be able to see them ('tis not too far away from the ol' Oshkosh), but alas, they're going touring in Great Britain. Boo-urns.

3. The Like. I was not looking for another guilty-pleasure Tegan and Sara, but alas, it looks like I've found one. Not a replacement, mind you. The Like is more rock, less pop; more "Walking With A Ghost," less "Take Me Anywhere," if you're familiar with Tegan and Sara.

And for my next trade ... a Phil Vassar promo CD!

I'm well on my way to paper clip bliss. Only mine will start from matches.

I opened the bid officially on Sunday in my column, and by Monday I was told I had a trade coming my way: A used promo copy of Phil Vassar's Greatest Hits (think country music), straight from Tennessee. So, I've started a Paper Clip Experiment list (look to your left), to keep track of where we are in this game to get something fabulous.

Here's how it's gonna work: I have the stuff, you e-mail me with something to trade it for (which I have the right to refuse, by the way), and then you send me yours and I send you mine, and we both go on our merry way. No cost, except postage. Just good old fashioned bartering.

Have something you want to trade? Email me.

Did you see "Birds"? Did you hate it? Then don't read this post.

Gather 'round, children. Erin has a frightening story to tell.

Today was awesome: The sun is shining, it's my last day of work for the week, I got a lot done today, I even (on accident) got to sleep an extra half hour this morning. Oops. I drank a Red Bull, I was feeling caffeinated and wonderful by 5:30 when I left work.

No stress. You see that whole paragraph? Not a single thing to be stressed about.

So I pull my car and my not-stressed out self into the parking lot of our apartment, dreaming about tacos and maybe the PBS show we've got from the library on DVD that I'm going to watch, and I'm pretty dang happy that I get to sleep in (not on accident) tomorrow. See, me -- Not stressed out. Happy.

I walk to the door, swinging my purse like I'm not stressed out, because I'm not. I get to the door, which is locked, like it's supposed to be, thus, no cause for stressing out, and I reach into my purse for my apartment keys. Reach, reach, looking around, checking out the dead bugs on the wall (those lake flies), observing how dang hot it still is, reaching in the purse, looking up at the ceiling when -- OH MY GOD -- I AM STRESSED OUT. THERE ARE TWO -- COUNT THEM -- TWO LIVE, HANGING BATS NO MORE THAN MERE FEET ABOVE MY HEAD AND MY KEYS, WHERE ARE THEY?? Dear God, get me inside, please, before I wake these vultures and they attack me a la Hitchcock, I'm screaming inside.

One bat's wing flutters in the wind and I'm hopping around, shaking my purse to hear where my keys can be, and then I remember that "Reading Rainbow" where I learned bats can't see me, but they can use sound waves to know where I am. And I'm shaking my purse for my keys -- OH GOD I AM GOING TO DIE AND MY KEYS ARE AT THE BOTTOM OF MY BAG.

And I reach for them, and the wing is still fluttering in the wind, and I put the key in the door and it won't open. Sweet molasses, it won't open, and by now, it is in my hair, help me, someone I swear I can feel it fluttering in my ponytail, and I turn the key and try, oh god, how I'm trying to get it to open, and it just won't, and of course by now I have rabies.

But, alas, my friends. I do not have rabies. It was just the loose hairs from my ponytail on my neck, and I made it inside OK, and the bats (as they are nocturnal, silly) are still hanging outside the door. Waiting to get in. I am never leaving my apartment.

And of course when I walk in, the lady from the first floor is taking her Doberman outside, and it runs to smell me, and I scream.

It is a scary place, this Wisconsin.

Viva la Weekend

Weekend! has come. It's Viva La Rock Day this Saturday, which is the first Oshkosh skate-punk-"Viva La Bam" guys all-day show.

I am not really looking forward to that, since I'm not going, but I am looking forward to a night not filled with wedding registry-updating, thank-you card writing and house-hunting. Wait, that's in October ... Shoot.

Anyhow. I'll go back to work, you go read Weekend.

Honor does not have a "u" in it.

This is how petty my life decisions have become: I just spent the last hour trying to fight the world on "honor" versus "honour" on our wedding invitations. I Googled "wording on invitations," "non-formal wedding invites," and "WHY IS THERE A 'U' IN HONOUR." I came up empty-handed and frustrated.

"Honour" is more formal, and therefore appropriate for invitations, every Web site in the world says. It's gotta be spelled with a "u" and, for good measure, it should also be written in a really scripted typeface on thick pink cardstock with roses. And don't forget the tissue paper in between the invites. And if you can spray a rosy scent on the cards, you get 67 extra bonus points.

BUT NO. The word "etiquette" makes me shiver. I don't like following much etiquette. Thank you cards and RSVPs I can handle. But "do the right thing" means nothing to me, especially when I know that there is no "u" in honor in the United States. I know I'm right on this. And you can't tell me it's RIGHT to spell it incorrectly.

There will be no honour in my marriage. Honor, yeah. Sure. But no honour. Take that, England. Take that, Ms. Manners.

And "protective" tissue paper? NO. What is it for? What's it need to protect? What kind of hell and high water conditions are my invitations going to suffer that TISSUE PAPER, thin, see-through tissue paper will be able to save? I could write a million crude things here about the lunacy of tissue paper, but if you passed the third grade you already know them all.

And script fonts? NO. And don't get me started on roses and hearts and petals and heavy cardstock.

That's it.

I said "Dang the man." And sorry, Mom. We're doing seal and send invitations, light and fall-like, and you're going to like it, World. Because let's face it. If you don't get a sheet of tissue paper in between my invitations and the enclosed envelope, you will not remember this faux pas in 2008. Or 2020. It does not matter. Unless you collect invitation tissue paper. In which case, I'm sorry.

And don't get me started on wording ... We have six parents. Six. And I don't think the typeface allows us to list them all. Can't we just announce ourselves? What's the etiquette stuff? I asked my mom, feeling out her response for signs of toe-stepping. She just dodged the question with "Isn't there someone who knows wedding etiquette?"

Uh, Dear Abby. But I have a feeling it's too late for that kind of help now. Now, my letter will read more like "Dear Abby, I was going to get married, but the thought of all the stuff I had to do and all the work I'd have on my desk when I got back and all the stress, I just went and eloped. How do I get my mom to talk to me again?"

Sigh. But, see, you're reading this after I've calmed down on my Google searches. It's out of my hands now. It's done. They're written. Thank god.

Moving on!

(Photo: Simplyinvitations.co.uk; These look nothing like the ones I picked out.)

Best weekend of July, but it's only half-way over ...

Hello, Blog. It's been a while. I've got some bad news.

Your cuteness factor just dropped three whole points.

Reason No. 1: Jack.
Jack's our nephew. Well, my soon-to-be nephew. Yeah, we're old now. Aunt Erin. Doesn't roll off the tongue yet, but hey. Sorry, Blog, your html code just doesn't compare to babies.

Reason No. 2: Julius.
Julius, aka Caesar, is our kitten. Well, it's our kitten who's living with my brother and his fiance, which they'll be giving us after the wedding. T minus 2 months and three and a half weeks from now, we'll have a cat.

Reason No. 3: Goodies.
We had a wedding shower. Technically, I got a wedding shower. And it was AWE-some. We have a coffee maker that tells time, makes the bed, feeds the goldfish and tells us where ships are in the Pacific. It's neat. We also have real pans, real dishes, real cups, real towels and real lamps. And a bunch more real stuff. Getting it home was the tough part. Eek.

But, there's nothing cute about getting home. You know in "Cops" when they arrest those women on crack who freak out when they get handcuffed and brace themselves against the car door frame and it takes three cops to get her in the backseat? I was pretty much like that, without the cops, drugs and handcuffs. It's so hard to leave, especially after such a short trip; we left Thursday night, got to my mom's Friday at 7 a.m., slept three hours, bonded with my family, drove three hours to Cincinnati, slept seven hours, did the baptism thing, the party thing, the boating on the lake thing, the sleep thing, the shower thing, and then the 11-hour drive thing.

Sigh. Not a lot of time to sit around on the couch.

When we got back to Wisconsin, I thought I saw a huge cloud hanging over the city. No. It was just the humidity. Seriously. It's like, 156 degrees. This is WISCONSIN. Where's the snow. Where is it.

And, in better news: The paper clip idea that I wrote about on Sunday in The Northwestern is working out nicely. I got an e-mail today from a man who said he's mailing me a used CD for my half-used box of matches. Yesss. I'll keep you posted about the CD.

(That photo: So me and Julius. Yessss.)

Trapt and Shinedown are coming to the Leach. Everyone say "yeah" in a loud, low, bass voice.

It's Thursday, it's Weekend time, and I'm tired, so you're going to have to read about Trapt and Shinedown without much witty banter. Except, ooh, don't they look so bad (bad as in good)? "Yeah, we're out chillin' at some metal dump, 'cuz people think we're a NU METAL band. YEAAAAAHhhhhhh! But don't label us."

Cough. Anyhow, you can read the story (which, despite my comments is really entertaining) here

Skyrockets in flight

At work, we've been doing this contest about the best EAA AirVenture-inspired songs. The rules, in a nutshell, were that songs had to include flight, flying, the sky, space, planes, etc., in the song, and no, we couldn't use "Leavin' on a Jetplane" or any song from David Bowie. Then we burnt copies for everyone and passed them out. I think we're supposed to be judging them, but I haven't heard them all yet.

The winner of the best compilation gets the pride in knowing they know more obscure songs about flying than anyone. Oooh, aahh.

But, I figured that since we're all going to be getting in the mood for EAA sooner or later, why not post a few of the best here. I should have posted this a long time ago, and you guys could have helped me out, and I COULD HAVE WON. Kidding.

My favorites (meaning the best picks of all CDs I've gotten thus far, not my own), in no particular order (and really, as the contest is over, only cheaters would steal or remove these songs from their CDs before handing them in late, right, RIGHT??):

1. "505," the Rolling Stones.
2. "At the Bottom of Everything," Bright Eyes (OK, yeah, that was mine. It's a creepy song about a plane crash.)
3. "Afternoon Delight," Starland Vocal Band. Who just thought of Will Ferrell and Steve Carell? I know I did.
4. A few sound clips from "Airplane!"
5. "Take Me to the Pilot," Elton John.
6. "Recycled Air," Postal Service.
7. "Silver Rocket," Sonic Youth.
8. "Teenagers From Mars," The Misfits.
9. "Helicopter," M. Ward.
10. "If the Plane Goes Down"* Jason Mraz (*Honorary entry, as it was on a mixed CD that never got officially turned in)
11. "Airline to Heaven," Wilco.
12. "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea," Neutral Milk Hotel.
13. "Close to You," the Carpenters.
14. "I'm a Little Airplane," Jonathan Richman.
15. "Little Trip to Heaven," Tom Waits.

Think you can come up with better ones? Go ahead, post 'em here.

Starting bid: One half-empty box of matches

I'm starting the bidding right now, with a box of matches. End result will be, mark my words, a front-row ticket to see Billy Joel. See this photo? My matches look pretty much just like that. Only half gone.

This guy went from trading a paperclip to getting a house, all by bartering on Craigslist. It went from paperclip to pen, to ceramic knob to camp grill to generator to blah blah blah, til he got a house.

Dude. Why didn't I think of that? (I'm thinking of asking myself that question in a column this weekend.) Surely, anything's possible on the Internet, right? I mean, if I can watch videos of Parrot beatbox, I can surely get tickets to see Billy Joel. (Bill, if you're reading, you could just go ahead and trade me right now, and save me the hassle.)

Or ... Since I don't have the dedication (or even a full box of matches), I guess this'll just go in the "whoa" pile. Whoa.

What does Aladdin have to do with my marriage?

As we get closer to October (read: that wedding thing), I get suspiciously busier.

I blog less. I haven't watched TV (except this weekend's movie marathon) in weeks. Vacuuming? That's for suckers. There's just ... so much to doooo. However, throwing a wedding doesn't come easily, I've learned, and it's nothing you can just make a to-do list and then take a day and conquer it all. It's a waiting game. No, a hurry-up-and-wait game. The worst kind ...

Invitations stress me out ... But we have to wait to see the samples this weekend in Cincinnati. We have to adjust our registry. Which we will after the shower, this weekend. And more. But I won't bore you further. You get it.

But the worst part ... the picking of the music. I believe I've mentioned this before. But it's a problem -- I mean, a fun item we have to discuss -- that's yet to be decided. "Problem" is pretty harsh. We're not arguing over a song. We just can't narrow the list down to one. And Web sites like theknot.com aren't helping, either: "A Whole New World" (Peabo Bryson & Regina Belle) (from "Aladdin"); "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" (Elton John) ("The Lion King"); "A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes" (from Disney's Cinderella) ... Is The Knot owned by Disney? Why do I want to be thinking of "Aladdin"?

We don't have a song that's really, uh, slow-dance approved. More like jump-up-and-down or yell-scream-sing to in the car. Not cute. Eek. Whatever. I'm sure we'll pick one, the world will continue on just like always ...

But what bothers me is it takes us, like, no time, really, to throw together a CD for a friendly competition at work (an EAA tribute CD, with songs about flight, flying, space, planes, etc.) with really cool songs (and not so cool songs). But picking one song to dance to, which no one will remember but us, is proving to be difficult. Sigh ... And it continues ...

Move over Computer, Thom's here and he rocks

Gotta love AOL's streaming of entire CDs for your listening pleasure. Gotta love it even more that this week's selection includes Thom Yorke of Radiohead fame's solo album, "The Eraser."

I admit, I don't know much about Radiohead's music beyond "OK Computer," so I'm not going to judge based on that. Perhaps it means more then that I can say, without much background, that it's a kickin' electronic album. And I want it. If you only have a few minutes, check out "Black Swan" and "Atoms for Peace."

(Photo: http://www.smh.com.au)

First accordions, now Wesley

Rediscover has a new EP out. And it's free. Just thought the world should know.

It's no Those Darn Accordions, but perhaps that's why we love it.

"If you feel discouraged by the lack of spandex here ..."

It may be Friday, but I felt the need to blog. World, I saw David Lee Roth, of Van Halen fame, last night. Couldn't see the pants, as I'm too short to see more than a flash of his head if the crowd moves just right. But the hair was short. Unfortunately.

He was crazy. He sounded pretty much exactly like he does on his albums; and it was pretty good. He caused a crowd full of middle-aged men to take their shirts off and jam (not the prettiest sight, but funny nonetheless). I'm not a Roth fan, but I had a pass to get in, and when life hands you free passes, you make ... free entrances. Basically, when Roth was in his heyday, my mom was sitting through high school geometry classes. When he split from Van Halen, I was just beginning to appreciate life after diapers. So forgive me, please, if I seemed to be humming along with the verses and lipsynching the choruses.

Don't get me wrong, it was fun. Get a huge crowd together to sing to "California Girls" is entertaining enough. So is watching parents forget for a second that they had 8 year old kids standing beside them while they cheered when Roth said the F word. Yes. The F word. For shame.

But the real, unpredictable entertainment was Those Darn Accordions. No, it's not a joke. Right after we walked in, we spotted the group on stage in short, tie-dyed shorts over fishnet stockings, wearing hats and tank tops. Oh, and accordions. Singing "Back in Black." With accordions.

Since you don't have to stay at Waterfest after you get in, we were free to go when they did a cover of Grand Funk Railroad's "We're An American Band."

Only it wasn't an American band. No, my friends. They were singing "WE'RE AN ACCORDION BAND."

We couldn't leave fast enough. Sigh.

And, if you're worried that this post is deteriorating quickly into cringe-worthy music, allow me to redeem myself by reminding you about the existence of Under the Influence of Giants, whose EP I just bought off iTunes. Can't get enough of the '80s-meets-2006 vibe. And it strays from my alt-country sound I've been preoccupied with over the last few months.

This Weekend brought to you by God and David Lee Roth

It's Thursday -- and this week's Weekend is out. Of course.

Sarah Owen interviewed three artists from the five-day Christian music festival here in Oshkosh called Lifest: Rebecca St. James, Superchick and Katie Nelson. You can read them all here.

Not a big Christian music fan? Check out what else is going on, like David Lee Roth's Waterfest concert tonight. I kid you not. Get your spandex out, man. We're mere hours away from (insert your favorite Roth line here).

"Eether wae, the consept has yet to capcher th publix imajinaeshun."

The last two nights have been really exciting -- the Fourth of July was awesome. Monday, I watched Oshkosh's fireworks (impressive, though someone got stabbed ...), and yesterday, I went to see Menasha's and Neenah's fireworks. Yes, three fireworks shows in two days. My life really is that crazy.

I'm pretty sure my fireworks looked just like your fireworks, though, so ... moving along.

An important issue has come up. Well, important if your blog's address is "You spelled that wrong." People are petitioning to throw out the spelling of English words, and just have everyone rite feneticlee* (write phonetically). Will it catch on? I don't think so. Apparently, this has been going on since Roosevelt or something.

I know when I text message, I write in shortned versions, using "rite," "nite," and "lol." But I don't see how throwing out "right," "night," and "laugh out loud" will make us better readers when we're not typing with the numerical keys on a cell phone.

Plus, think of all the marketing people who'd be out of jobs. They make entire careers out of coming up with shortened words -- think donut, drive-thrus, and other "-ough"-less words. What would they have to do then? Probably come up with more complicated ways to spell things. "Hey, remember when we used to spell 'moovey' like 'movie'? Let's call it 'MOO-vie,' get a cow spokesanimal, and hyphenate at odd parts of sentences. Come on, we'll sell MILLIONS. Make that MIL-LIONS."

It's also worth noting that if you read that story at the above link, you will want to punch the writer about six paragraphs into it: "Eether wae, the consept has yet to capcher th publix imajinaeshun." Stop it. It's not cute, reporter. It's just hard to read. And she does it throughout the entire story.

See? If we throw away old spelling rules, we'll see crime increase, most notably punching-of-reporters-in-the-face crimes. Hardly logical.

Observation, looking out my window toward Sawdust Days

I do not know where all these people live. Surely they can't all be from Oshkosh. Or Wisconsin. Because there are a million.

OK, a few hundred, in my sight.

But where are these people the other 364 days of the year? It's crazy. It's loud. It smells weird. It crowds the streets and makes people bad drivers: "Oooh, honey! Look! A parking space!" a man will say to his wife, pointing at a slab of concrete others like to call a "sidewalk." Luckily, I do not have to drive, so it's all good to me. So if the rain holds out 'til after the fireworks, I'll be a happy camper.

Now, if only that man outside would put a shirt on. Please, sir? Or at least move from the sidewalk, out of my field of vision.

If you hate the term "throw up," you may want to not read this.

It doesn't matter where you live. There's a Sawdust Days festival everywhere. Sure, it may be called "Kalida Pioneer Days" or something like that, but it's all the same.

It's all AWESOME. Kind of.

See, the awesomeness (it's a word, I added it to my dictionary today) comes from going, eating greasy food and not feeling guilty about it until the next day, seeing friends, listening to crappy karaoke and watching people throw up on rides. It's seeing friends from high school, it's eating food on a stick -- any food, dessert, pizza, cheese, whatever. If it's on a stick, it must be festival time. It's the lights, the sounds, the booth-keepers yelling about guessing your weight or your birthday.

It's Americana. It's summer. It's small-town, even in a medium-sized city.

The kind of? It made me so homesick I could hardly finish my funnel cake the first time I went. Hardly finish, I said. I managed, don't you worry. But even as I walked around Sawdust Days with my friends here, I kept wishing I were at the Putnam County Fair, or the Pioneer. It's funnier watching someone throw up on the Zipper if you know that person, after all.

I went back after work tonight to walk around, and watch people scream on the rides; I was reminded of being 5, stuck up on the top of the Ferris wheel when the power went out at the fair. Then of the time I spent all my ride money trying to get a fish, only to come up empty-handed, while my cousin got the largest goldfish I'd ever seen. And it lived like, five years. I'm not even kidding. I got cheated. That fish could've been mine ...

But, dangit, I'm going back. And the fireworks are tomorrow, and I'm not going to miss that. Heck no.