Why you gotta be a hater?

People can be mean to strangers. Me included. You should see the way I bring gas station attendants to tears when they give me the wrong change. OK, so that's not true. At all.

But I know that people feel more free sometimes to chew out the check-out lady than they would close friends. I get it. I was a psych major for a hot minute. I get human nature.

But sometimes, I just don't know why people can be so cruel. A friend of mine has this anonymous commenter on her blog who, instead of leaving "I think you're full of it" comments (like he or she most likely thinks), leaves "I think you're chubby, you have droopy eyes, you are NOT cute," (etc.) comments. Why? Just click "next blog" at the top if you hate it so much.

Why all the drama? I know anyone who has a blog is putting themselves out there for people to criticize. If you have a blog, you have to deal with that sort of thing. I get it. I'm OK with it. My feelings and self-worth don't rest on the words of some anonymous poster. But I don't get these people, and I want to know where they're coming from, is all.

Let's take a step back. Let's say I stumble upon some random blog, written by someone I don't know, and I stay for a while and read it, and hate it. Am I going to leave a message, telling them how I think they stink at life? Um. No. My momma didn't raise no jerk. I'm gonna go read some other blog, or go fold laundry, or watch a movie. I say my mean words outloud, and then they're out there, gone, no one hears them, and I go on with my life.

Who are these posters? And why do they come back? I would guess it was to direct traffic to their blog, but this person posts anonymously. The comments are turning personal, too. To all of us. Yup, this person hit 80 percent of recent graduates below the belt -- Anonymous actually said my friend had nothing to show for her life because my friend had to get a second job, on top of her day job, to support herself. "You're a college graduate with a bartending job -- yeah, real cool."

(Sidebar: This person is either rich, or is still in college and believes everything he or she hears from his or her guidance counselor. "The job market is picking up! You're going to get a job right out of college that pays $75,000!" Um, unless you're an engineer or a pharmacist, you just don't make that kind of money. Some of us never will. Get over yourself.)

I like comments on my blog; I can take it. I'm a big girl. She is, too. Her and my questioning of this person's motivations is more out of a curiousity than it is a result of a life-ruining or morale-crushing moment.

I'd love to hear Anonymous' inner dialogue: "I, Mr/Ms Joe/Jane Smith of Nowhere, USA, find this girl annoying and ugly. I should probably endow some of my worldy wisdom on her: 'Dear Blogger, You are ugly and worthless. Your life has no meaning. Sincerely, Mr/Ms Joe/Jane Smith.'"

I just don't get it. I can be mean like everyone else. Whoa, can I be mean. But that mean? No. I don't get it. Oh well. I'm over it. I wish Anonymous would be, too.

Didn't they ever watch "Titanic"? It sank ...

OK, so maybe it's because I just saw the Titanic exhibition at the Oshkosh Public Museum, but I just don't think this Royal Caribbean Freedom of the Seas thing is a good idea.

When I saw the blurb that drew me to its Web site, it said "It's bigger than the Titanic." Didn't anyone learn anything? You aren't getting me on that ship. No way.

(Photo: titanictown.plus.com)

Welcome to Erin's blog: Your home for NO Olympics coverage

It begins tomorrow. Good Lord. Help me. So here's how I plan to spend part of the 418 hours of NBC coverage:

1. Sleeping.
2. Working.

And now the fun stuff: My to-do list for the other 300 hours of the Olympics I won't be watching on TV.

1. Reading "Everything is Illuminated".

2. Breaking in my new Morningwood CD.

3. Playing Dr. Mario -- yeah, the old school, early 1990s version for Super Nintendo. If you pass level 20 (the highest level shown on the menu options), you go into this secret super level thing. I've made it to level 23. It's very anticlimatic, but I feel like a better person each time I beat level 20.

4. Planning my next trip home. It's gonna revolve around Mom and perhaps a certain Toledo band.

5. Catching up on movies I haven't seen in at least three days: "Play It Again, Sam," "Torn Curtain," and "Lifeboat."

6. Taking suggestions for local bands to go see. Post below.

And that, my friends, is how I will survive. That, and a lot of the Internet.

Bobo the chicken

You've got to see this. Or, should I say, ya'll gotta come see this here video.

Chicken mouth-to-mouth. (Click "Hometown TV" when you get to the sight -- it's called 'Fowl Mouth-to-Mouth.')

(Oh, and the picture's from CNN. So I don't get sued.)

Call me shallow, but ...

I'm not watching the Grammys. If you know me at all, you know it's because I don't have CBS. Would I be watching the Grammys? Are you kidding? Do I appear that shallow?

I do?

Well. Um. I wouldn't be watching. Nope. I'm a 21st century Grammy watcher. Make that awards-show watcher. I'm just watching the highlights on the Web (my favorite and yours, Pop Candy and her play-by-play updates. "Hello? USA Today? Hi, it's Erin from the Oshkosh Northwestern. Can I please have her job? I can start tomorrow. OK, thanks.").

I get to miss all the annoying "And I'd like to thank"s, and I don't have to listen to music I don't want to hear (my confession: I loathe Madonna, and thus, missing her is like a gift from the Internet). Thank you, Al Gore.

That said, the Grammys are my favorite awards show. Music is more interesting to me than movies (the last movie I saw in a theatre: The Incredibles. That's right, ladies and gents, a children's movie. In 2004. Oh, God. I just proved how uncool I am. But ... but wait! Come back! I watch Focus films! I watch movies from the Criterion collection! Hello? Anyone?

OK, fine, so I know music -- OK, not like my music snob fiance (I say that in the nicest way possible), or Steve (yeah, I mean it in a nice way for Steve, too). I take it personally when Kelly Clarkson wins or loses (for the record, "Since U Been Gone" just won). I took it personally. So what if this is a big deal to me. Call me shallow. I can take it.

Forgive me, while I scream like a little girl

Chris Carra-who? I don't even know who you're talking about.

Rediscover. My Toledo powerpop band. That's what I'm talking about. Last night, all my dreams came true. We all met in Madison for what I like to call the "Rediscover missed Erin" tour. I think it's technically called the February tour, but ... that's unoriginal.

Last night was the ultimate fan/I-have-a-job?-what?? night ever. My fiance and two friends from work went to Madison (which is sort of like Ann Arbor, Mich., from what I saw) (Ann Arbor is the only good thing about the state of Michigan, so that's a compliment). College-like, a bit artsy-hipster in parts, a bit more capital-like.

We ran into the band in their van (not as tragic as it sounds) and got the tour of the bus. Yeah. Go ahead, read that sentence again. The inside of a tour van is kinda cool, for a small space that holds four men on cross-country trips. It had a TV and a video game console, and smelled of men.

The band and their roadie/manager/friend with no job went to a restaurant across the street and ate with us. I have three other people who can verify this.

Then, we went to see them play at King Club. Well, technically, we hung out with them for another hour and a half while some Gwen Stefani-sounding, Garbage-looking band sang, but "hanging out" is really something too special to share And by "too special to share," I mean it was your typical hanging out -- talking, etc.

And then Rediscover played, and it was magic. Or powerpop. Whatever. It was glorious. We danced (and I can't really dance), we sang along, we took pictures like the paparazzi ... sigh. And I'd like to reiterate: We came as friends, not as those scary, obsessive groupies you normally see at small venues who follow the band around and talk as if they know them. We do know them. Clear? We are not scary.

The show was like Toledo, only in Madison. I was homesick, but I didn't want to be anywhere else at that moment. What an odd little feeling. When we said goodbye, I wanted to both go back to Oshkosh, and go back to Toledo with them. It just felt so good to go OUT, and to see good, live music, and to be with friends. I felt like myself.

And yes, we all had to work the next morning at 9 a.m., and yes, we got back to Oshkosh at 2:45. But it was worth every missed hour of sleep.

The only bad part is I don't really have anything to look forward to now, except getting my new Rediscover T-shirt out of the dryer, and seeing Rediscover's April tour stop in Chicago. I'm going to need a new band to scream like a little girl over. One a little more Fox Valley.

I'm so proud of me: I didn't mention Monday one time in this whole post.

I got home from work today at a normal-people time, which is always good. I had some mac 'n' cheese, even better -- and then I sat down to go through the mail.

Yeah. Bills. Yay. Junk mail. Etc. Then, a fabulous present.

A DVD from my Grandpa. Made by Grandpa. Edited by Grandpa. He's going to be 80, and yet he can do more with DVD editing than I can. Talk about making me feel like a slacker.

It was called "For Roger," my missionary-priest uncle, and it basically was pictures of all like, 56 of us grandkids standing beside Roger at various stages of our lives. The babies got the best: they're still cute, they're in the video like, eight times each. The older kids who live near home or who made it to the Christmas party also got it good. They look like they do now, which won't be embarrassing until 2010. Ha. (All 10 of my teenaged boy cousins in 2010: "Remember when long-sleeved polo shirts with white T-shirts underneath were cool? Man, look at that gelled hair. We were so AWESOME.")

Me? I gotta go home more often. The only picture he must have had of me was this terrible one of me pouting on a bench in Chicago, because I'd just gotten in a fight with my then-5-year-old brother, in Chicago circa 1995. Man. Lessons learned: 1. Keep in touch with Grandpa, sending pictures often, 2. Be grateful your brother isn't 5 anymore (man, he was embarrassing -- me? Oh, no, never), 3. Rolled socks AND rolled shorts = not cool 10 years later. (Probably wasn't so hot then, either, come to think of it.)

But, nonetheless, it made me all warm and happy inside. Or maybe that was the macaroni. Either way, I was impressed with the video, and kinda proud my grandpa did it. (Insert the song "I Love Technology" from the wedding at the end of the "Napoleon Dynamite" credits.)

With my choice of clothes 11 years ago, not so much.

Pedro offers you his protection.

I gotta credit this one to Pop Candy, but I just thought everyone should know. "Napoleon Dynamite" director Jarod Hess has a new movie coming out this summer. Any chance I get to see Jack Black with his shirt off ....

Wait. What I meant to say was, any movie that's going to have Pedro in it again (well, the guy who plays Pedro) has to be good.

Can't. Stop. Watching.

I'm into train wrecks. No, not like, people-dying, derailment train wrecks. I mean this.

Paris Hilton and I don't get along. She's asked me to be her BFF, but I told her I just can't. I have enough friends as it is, and besides, I'd only ask her to pay my student loans and perhaps rent. She'd get tired of supporting me, so I just don't think it'd work out.

Plus, on top of monetary reasons for disliking her, I also find her mildly vomit-inducing. I get enjoyment from picking out her every flaw, or supposed flaw, or anything I'm jealous of. Too skinny. Too rich. Too blonde. Too tan. Too dumb. Too rich. Too raunchy-tape. Too rich. Too closed-mouthed about what happened between her and Nicole Richie. Whatever.

But still, I think she's a guilty pleasure. I admit, when I see her name on the Yahoo homepage news blurbs, I click. When I read about her latest night out, I read to the end, disliking her the whole time. But I think we're supposed to feel sorry for her now. (In case you didn't click the link above, I mean she's had her possessions stolen.)

Possessions include diaries, clothes, computers (yes, I meant to put an "s" at the end of that), furniture, videos (uh-oh), pictures, etc. All "stolen" because she allegedly didn't pay her dues at the storage facility where she kept everything.

I don't know why I care. I mean, she's Paris. Hilton. Ugh. I hated (and hate's a strong word) "The Simple Life." I don't think she's all that glamorous, and I don't really get why she's famous in the first place. Oh, wait. Her role in "House of Wax." Never mind.

But anyhow. Among these scandalous possessions are -- and I copy and paste -- (Her lawyer) told the Los Angeles Times the diaries contain "everything that would be dear to a woman's heart: relationships, personal feelings, sex, love, breakups, sexual experiences, all those little things that make up a little girl's life. Her deepest, darkest secrets.

He used the words "a little girl's life" to describe all that, did you catch that? Ridiculous. And yet, I can't stop reading. Someone help.

Best five days ever, minus Monday.

Tonight is round two of four for the fantastic extended weekend. Extended meaning Monday will still be horrible, but it's Tuesday Eve, which is Wesley night.

So far this weekend, I've seen Titanic stuff, a crappy, horrible, awful jam band (I've gotten yelled at enough this week, so I won't reveal who they are, short of saying there's only one way my seeing live music in Wisconsin can go -- up), and am about to see "Play it Again, Sam," a Woody Allen movie.

This has been the best weekend so far of my entire Wisconsin life.

But no, I still don't like "jam bands." They bring out the type of people who take off their shoes in a bar and let down their 6-feet-long hair to dance like they're Janis Joplin wannabes, they get mullet-haired guys to dance like they did when it really was Jimi singing "Watch tower," and they play for-ev-er. (Shudder.) As a friend said, jam bands remind us that "oh, yeah, the '90s did suck."

The good part? We were hanging out with new friends. And friends of friends. I'm talking big stuff. Inside jokes, good music in between sets of the jam band, and conversations that aren't your usual "Uh, so what do you do?" type. Yesss. Outside of the music, it was awesome. And, despite what it sounded like, it felt like Ohio to go see live music. Yesss again.

And Titanic -- go see it. Now. This version is the smaller version of the one that the Cincinnati Museum had a few years ago (for all of you who heard me talk about going to see that one with my dad and stepmom), and yet it still packs a punch, and you still get boarding passes of real passengers, whose name you check at the end of the tour to see if you lived or died.

Mine was Mrs. Elin Hakkarainen, who was 24 and traveling with her -- er, uh, I mean my -- husband from Helsinki, Finland to find economic and political freedom in Pennsylvania. Third class. Eek. He died. I must have been good lookin' or lucky, 'cuz I made it.

The only thing I wish they had had at the museum (which was included among the museum's photos, but wasn't anywhere that I saw) was the replica ice berg. In Cincinnati, it took up a whole wall, and you got to stand there and see how long you could stand touching it. It was the exact same temperature as the water the night the Titanic sank. Creepy.

So, yes. Go see it.

And tonight, it gets better. We're going to Appleton for my friend's birthday with our new friends (believe it, man). Tomorrow, chicken wings and some lame football game. Monday will be Monday. Tuesday, Wesley. Wisconsin, you may be cold and windy, but you rock right now.

Blast from the past with a meth problem.

I always wondered what happened to her.

Soon, I'll be Mrs. Carrabba. Just don't tell my fiance. I think he'd be jealous.

I feel sorry for boys. I really do. Well, straight boys. Non-emo-loving boys.

See, one of my boyfriends is coming to the University of Wisconsin-Oshkosh to do an acoustic show. (By boyfriend, I mean "musician who doesn't know I'm alive.") Chris Carrabba. Mrs. Erin Carrabba .... Sigh.

Anyhow, as soon as I heard, I was already thinking about what I was going to wear. Was I going to go? Phhssfft. Not even a question in my mind. Of course I'm going. I have the press release hanging at my desk, as a "reasons to live" incentive.

On the other hand, as soon as one of the guys I hang out with heard, he was already snickering, casting nervous glances back and forth (over e-mail) and saying "I had no idea that you were one of those mopey, sensitive, emo-loving, self-mutilating, coffee-drinking, live-journal-writing, ironic-T-shirt-wearing, air-quote-abusing people."

Well, obviously he doesn't know me very well.

Kidding.

Boys just don't get how we, women, can love someone as -- yes, OK, I'll say it -- emo as Chris Carrabba. Um, hello? He's cute. He's singing about the best night ever, measuring minutes by a clock that's blinking 8s, and screaming infidelities. It doesn't get much more emo than that.

And he's coming to Oshkosh, to sing to me. Just me. Well, that's what everyone who goes will be thinking when they go.

Boys don't get that. Who do they have like that? Christina Aguilera? Hilary Duff? Yeah. They can't go to any of their shows without losing their precious street cred. Girls can like so-called crappy music and go to shows and feel "like, so on the same wavelength" when Chris Carrabba sheds tears during "Hands Down," and not lose any face.

They're so jealous, those boys. They've got Dashboard Confessional T-shirts in their closets, and they're sad they can only wear them under sweaters. Ha.

Chris Carrabba made up my entire junior year of college. I can't separate him from that psychology class I liked, or the linguistics class I went to that one time. He (and The Strokes, and The Killers, etc.) is the Independent Collegian. He was on "constant repeat" when I went to bed. He was my first date with my fiance (ha -- look where that took us), and he was the first 10 minutes on my drive to Wisconsin.

I don't wear a "emo girl" button on my shirt. But if push shoves Chris Carrabba, I'm pushin' back. What's up now, boys?