Where am I?

Just after my last post, I began my new job as literacy director for Open Books. I love this job like I love chips and salsa (but with the added satisfaction of making the world a better place instead of just making my stomach ache). I am not giving up on this site -- stay tuned for guest blogs from writers around Chicago and beyond! But for now, I just wanted to let my readers know that I haven't forgotten you, I wish you a wonderful holiday season with your families and friends, and until I write more original content again, I hope you will keep up with me in the following places:

Open Books

Open Books blog

The Hidden Mitten

All things Erin

LOVE & ADVENTURES,
Erin

AUSTIN: The most adorable, rewarding half hour of your life!

Other potential subject lines for this post: "Won't someone think of the children?" and "This post is not about a rock show." ;)

Anyway, friends, have I got some fun for you! School has been in session now for three weeks, and teachers know enough about their students now to utilize volunteers. At Travis Heights Elementary, where I was a first grade teacher before I moved, they have a wonderful program called HOTS (Helping One Thunderbird Soar). It pairs an adult (YOU!) with a kid (GUARANTEED TO BE CUTE AND HILARIOUS AS HELL!*) who needs practice reading. All you do is show up for half an hour each week to sit and listen to your "reading buddy" in the colorfully cheerful yet suitably peaceful school library. (Remember how nice it was to be read to as a kid? It's still awesome as an adult.)

I was a HOTS mentor the year before I got my teaching certification and it was the best half hour of my week, every week. And you will be a highlight of your reading buddy's week -- giving a young child something extra to look forward to at school and, in some cases, the only grown-up who will give them undivided attention all week long. Think about that.

You don't have to be a teacher or anything remotely related -- you just have to be there for a kid. And in the end, I swear, you will feel like they're the ones helping you as much as vice versa. It's a truly crazy world we live in -- a world where Britney Spears somehow gets more attention than nuclear warheads accidentally flown over our country -- and this is a small but vital way to put your time into something that truly matters.

FYI, Travis Heights is located just south of downtown (between 35 and Congress, around Woodland/Annie) -- easy to get to and from on a lunch hour or before work. Oh, and the librarian who runs the program is a badass member of the Texas Rollergirls, so any friends of mine will probably love her. :)

If you're remotedly interested, you can message to ask me questions or just call the school at 414-4495 and ask for librarian Julie Underwood (AKA rollergirl Vendetta Von Dutch!). You can also go to my Myspace top friends and message Amber or Sarah -- both of them are going into their 3rd year as HOTS mentors and I know they love it!

The kids need y'all, and at the risk of sounding like a Texas car salesman (I can hear the voice in my head), you'll be glad you made the call! I gay-ron-tee!

LOVE & LITERACY,
Erin

P.S. -- CHICAGO folks, don't feel left out! I'll be back next week with info on how you can do your heart good by volunteering at Open Books. :) EVERYONE ELSE, call the school nearest you and ask how you can help. I'm sure they need you, too!

* Seriously, ask Amber about all the hysterical stuff her reading buddy told her this week during "getting to know you" time.

Aug. 22, 2007: One of those perfect days.

Friends and readers, I am so excited I can scarcely sit still. My husband Patrick is almost done with his tour-de-force video game, John Woo Presents Stranglehold, the plumber has almost repaired the gaping black hole and corresponding rubble pile that has been my shower this week -- AND I JUST GOT A DREAM JOB!!!!!!!

I have known about the job possibility for months (and mentioned it around but didn't want to jinx it too much by writing about it). I wish I could tell all my friends about this face-to-face, but if I did, I'd pass out from the adreniline. So now that it's official, I can spill my guts! . . . (drum roll) . . . Yours truly is now the Literacy Director for Open Books! Excuse me for a second while I woo.

[WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!].

You may recall I wrote about my love of Open Books in a column for Chicago6Corners.com back in the spring, and I also worked with them on the recent blogathon raising money for Blue Gargoyle literacy center in Hyde Park. Quite simply, I love this organization. I am so thrilled to be joining the team as a full-time director. The mission -- fun with literacy -- is as close to my heart as it gets, and while I love writing peacefully in my lovely apartment, I'd rather do that as a side thing like I do my band. I'm happier that way, creatively. Less pressure (on my brain and my bank account). In the 8 years since I graduated from college, I have been (in order) a newspaper reporter, a day camp counselor in the Rocky Mts., a legal editor for the Texas Legislature, a 1st grade teacher, and a freelance writer slash uber volunteer all over Chicago. I had actually been crying to Patrick that, while it's been a huge blessing to have a year to work from home on my book and bands, I wished I could get paid to do the work I do as a volunteer. And then BOOM! I found this job a few days later.

Can you imagine my excitement when I first read the following online?! . . . Open Books, Chicago's first nonprofit literacy bookstore, is looking for the ideal person to create and direct our brand-new slate of unique literacy programs. Open Books is a two-storied vision: a funky, fun, colorful, and eccentric treasure trove of 50,000+ used books on the first floor, the sale of which fund a range of adult, family, and computer literacy programs upstairs. Our 8,000 sqft facility in the heart of the South Loop, including two state-of-the-art classrooms and a 15-seat computer lab, will open to the public in spring 2008. This is a dream way for me to combine my obsessions and experience with writing, reading, volunteerism, teaching, and community organizing!

The founders are two totally kickass women: smart, funny, creative, awesome co-workers-to-be. I could go on and on about what they've accomplished in a short time and what our dreams are for Open Books, but you'll just have to come see it for yourself as a volunteer! (Oh, the fun we will have in the name of a good cause! For example, inspired one afternoon by a whistling window on a U-Haul we'd just filled with donated books out, the executive director Stacy and I did nothing but sing songs with whistling in them -- or whose lyrics mention whistling, such as "Whistling in the Dark" by They Might Be Giants, which doesn't actually have any whistling, surprisingly. Thus I am going to have a boss with whom I've already harmonized on the chorus to G-n-R's "Patience." Yep. Rad.)

On top of everything, after I got the official job offer today, Stacy, Becca (the PR director), and I went over to see our new office at Chicago and Franklin. It's so cool! Hardwood floors, TONS of windows, a shower in the restroom (so I won't smell so bad after riding my bike to work every day), walls painted lots of gorgeous bright colors, and MY VERY OWN OFFICE (with its own window, too) for the first time in my life (since reporters just get desks in the middle of the bustling newsroom and teachers share their "offices" with a couple dozen kiddos, both of which have their charms, but still). I even got to pick out paint colors for each wall today (shades of sunshine yellow, tropical reddish-pink, and periwinkle blue, of course), and on Wednesday the three of us are going to IKEA in the bookmobile to buy whatever furniture we want! It's our choice because the place is new. AHHHHHH!!!!!! What is the word for being so completely beyond stoked that you could explode? (We'll also be stopping to pick up a giant, old-fashioned card catalogue that a library is donating. We'll keep our pens and post-it-notes in it, but mainly we want it around as a reminder of how much we love libraries and gloriously nerdy stuff like the Dewey Decimal System.)

My first project will be to work with a group of autistic teenagers who want to volunteer with us. We will teach them how to sort and categorize the boxes of donated books -- a task they chose because it's well-suited to their particular needs and skills. They'll get the satisfaction of contributing to their community and we'll get help with one of our biggest tasks (organizing the slew of storage units full of donated books that will eventually become the Open Books store). I'll also be helping Blue Gargoyle revamp their computer lab and, most importantly, creating a kickass slate of literacy programs for Open Books itself. I want our facility to be as beloved and beneficial on the south side as 826CHI is in Wicker Park.

Anyway, sorry this blog is so long. I just had to share my excitement about this next phase of my professional life. Plus I want a thorough record of this spectacular feeling -- that if you dedicate yourself to your passions and give your time and energy to your community, there is that wonderful chance that it can become your life's work.

LOVE & LITERACY,
Erin

P.S. -- CHICAGO FRIENDS, please come celebrate all this with me when I'm back from Seattle. Advance tickets for the Hidden Mitten shows in the first week of September -- marking mine and Garrett's birthdays, and the imminent birth of Melanie's son -- will be at doubledoor.com and Ticketweb for the show at the Note with Arks. Get your tix and put 9/4 and/or 9/7 on your calendar! AUSTIN FRIENDS, I hope to see you at Club DeVille and Elysium on Sunday, Sept. 9 for more revelry. Did I mention I will be STOKED and CELEBRATING? XOXOXO :)

Eric and Angel, pt. 3

(Continued from previous post . . . )

I suppose there were things I could've told Eric and Angel about myself that would have explained, at least a little, why I was hanging out with strangers at the grocery store on a Saturday morning. Like how I must've subconsciously missed being a Girl Scout in the South, helping folks cross the street and carry their groceries. Or how I worshipped my parents, who were always involved with stuff like Meals on Wheels and the Vaughn House, an organization in Austin that helps people with multiple disabilities. Maybe I could have talked about how when I was a little kid, Mom, Dad, and I adopted a fluffy stray cat from an alley behind a club and named it Hearne, after our friends Bill and Bonnie Hearne, a couple of folk singers who had been playing there and who were both legally blind and physically challenged. And I definitely could have talked for hours about Joe B. Friedel, the great-grandfather who was larger than life to me until he died when I was 16 and whose eyes I never got to see.

I had always known Grandpa Friedel to be completely blind, since he was shot by a friend in a hunting accident in his 20s. Some of my fondest childhood memories include him: going for walks in the tiny town of Graham, Texas, when my family visited every summer, him using a cane like Eric and me holding on like Angel; playing dominoes together at the kitchen table (the black pieces dotted by white indentions Joe. B. could feel); buying hair metal magazines from the Woolworth's and reading them in the living room while Grandpa sat in his easy chair; listening to his famous stories of running a soda stand at the county courthouse downtown; laughing hysterically when he returned from the town square one day with my tiny sister Meg, boasting of how he had asked the clerk for a marriage license for the two of them (who were not only related but about 80 years apart in age). Once, the town newspaper, the Graham Leader, published a photo (near Meg's and my favorite section, the police blotter) announcing with joy that my sister, my cousin, and I were coming for a visit.

I could have told Eric and Angel all that. (I also could've told them that sometimes I wonder if I'll ever fit in anywhere like I used to in Texas and that helping people makes me feel like at least I'm doing what I can to be a good neighbor.) But I really just wanted to hear their stories and bask in such a beautiful friendship, so I kept myself to myself. I didn't even really think about all of the above until I finally made it home from the gym.

My time with Eric and Angel today wasn't some epic event. I doubt I changed their lives at all -- they were doing just fine together without me and I'm sure they still will. But meeting them was special to me, more than words can say. A beloved family member is nearing the end of his life right now -- this post is already too long, so I'll save that for another day -- but suffice it to say that lately I've been thinking a lot of about disability, illness, and how we handle life's challenges. I've also been thinking, as I tend to do, about how to make sure this life is lived to the fullest. Eric and Angel were a ray of sunshine in my day, an example of what's really important in this too-short life. I hope they made it to the park today. I hope Eric feels at home in Texas. And I hope Angel gets to visit him there.

Eric and Angel, pt. 2

(Continued from previous post . . .)

After hustling to catch up with the two friends at the intersection, I said hi, and we exchanged the usual neighborly pleasantries. The tall man was named Eric and he had one clear, dark eye and one cloudy, white eye with bloodshot veins like red lightning cross-crossing the blue iris. The smaller man, Angel, had two eyes that looked like his friend's stormy one. They could have been about 30 like me, but lacking all the usual Wicker Park trappings -- Art+Science hairdos, skinny jeans, "vintage" tees, and too-cool-for-school expressions -- it was truly hard for me to tell.

When I remarked about what a beautiful day it was, I was half talking about the breeze and half talking about these two people, holding onto each other in such an unselfconscious, public display of friendship. As we crossed Milwaukee Avenue to the store, Eric grinned and said, with no self-pity or sadness in his voice, "If I had the fare, I'd take Angel on the bus to the beach." It was so sweet, my heart could barely take it.

I didn't need anything from the store and I didn't want to be a (bigger) weirdo, so we said our goodbyes and again I started walking away. Again I made it only half a block. Our minute just didn't feel like enough. What if I was supposed to meet Eric and Angel for a reason? I raced back across the street to the Aldi, said an awkward "hi, I'm back and I'm procrastinating on going to the gym," and offered to take over for the security guard who was going to help them shop. Of course, I'm really glad I did.

It's not like anything superspecial happened. They didn't whisper the meaning of life to me while we picked out flavors of chips (original Pringles for Eric, sour cream and onion for Angel), and I had to run and ask the security guard where the chicken legs were while the guys waited in the aisle for me, holding onto the cart as other shoppers maneuvered around them. I felt a little stupid. But still. If I had just gone to the gym, I would have always wondered about Eric and Angel.

Turns out they'd been friends a long time, since they'd met at a job that had since laid them off. Eric lives near me but he's moving to a tiny town ("only 12 blocks long!") outside Lubbock, Texas, next week. He's got family there. Angel lives in another area of Chicago and was just coming to Wicker Park for the day to visit his friend. "Maybe I'll take Angel to the park today," Eric said. Angel vowed to go to Texas to visit, too, even though I'm not sure how he'd afford it. He told me about living in Florida for two years and losing his house because of a girlfriend. "People don't help each other enough and sometimes they try to take advantage of us, even though we don't have anything." "But we get along fine," Eric added. I wanted to know about why they were blind and where they lived and all that stuff, but I knew it would be crossing the line, even for me, to ask all that.

(To be continued . . . )

Eric and Angel, pt. 1

Today I met two people who reminded me that friendship is what makes life worth living. Their names are Eric and Angel, and I hope someday I see them again -- even if they won't ever be able to see me.

I'd just seen Patrick off to work after our morning walk, during which I'd been lamenting again about how people can be such jerky drivers. It never fails that someone almost mows me down on Wabansia Street even though they have a stop sign AND had just had the same sign a block before (meaning they'd gone from zero to daredevil speed in just a few feet for no good reason other than, I don't know, wasting gas). I was tired from rockin' out last night with the Hidden Mitten -- indeed fairly convinced I'd given myself whiplash thrashing around during the "Meltdown" outro -- but I was dragging my ass to the gym anyway. Another spacey Saturday, waiting for Patrick to get home from work.

And then I saw them: two blind men trying to navigate the bustling, construction-clogged streets of my neighborhood. One was tall and black and lumbering, tapping condo walls and parking meters with his cane. The other was smaller, Hispanic, with curled wrists and a labored gait, the results of some handicap or illness I couldn't place. They linked arms and held onto each other, smiling in the sunlight as they walked, slowly but surely, down my street. Other people whizzed by on their weekend jogs or coffee runs, and as I passed the men in the crosswalk at Wabansia, I heard one say kindly to the other, "We're almost to the Aldi." Apparently, they were going grocery shopping together at the discount store down the way.

I walked half a block in the other direction and had to stop. I know it sounds crazy, but I was trying not to cry. I wish you could have seen these two -- so good to each other, just in a simple act most of us take for granted, walking to the store. I don't know if it was the writer in me or the whole daughter-of-a-social-worker thing, but my heart absolutely ached to know these men's stories. I knew turning around was ridiculous, but there was no way I could go to the stupid gym now. Not by myself, on such a gorgeous day. Not to bop up and down to vapid dance remixes and futilely obsess over those five last mythic pounds every woman wants to lose. Not with my emotional wiring.

I have recently, officially come to embrace my mantra -- that everyone we meet can teach us something, impact us, maybe even change the course of our lives or the world. Of course, it helps that I like to talk to people, and that I believe strongly in following your heart and going with your gut. So I turned around.

(To be contined . . .)

Bookslut reviews by yours truly

Two book reviews I wrote are up at Bookslut today. I'm thrilled to contribute to such a great lit site (even if the name is one I'm not so fond of mentioning to relatives - heh). I reviewed two excellent memoirs-- Easter Everywhere by Darcey Steinke and The End of the World as We Know It by Robert Goolrick. Hope you enjoy them and are reading something great these days yourself! LOVE & LIT, Erin :)

Book news!

Great news! The 826CHI book -- A Sunday Afternoon Hotdog Meal: A Guide to Chicago -- is here! We had the book's release party today at the Printer's Row Book Festival in downtown Chicago, with readings by a couple dozen of the 205 kids who contributed to it. I've spent the past semester, along with many other 826-ers, helping students brainstorm, write, and edit stories for this book and I can't tell you how proud I am of their work. I wish I could quote dozens and dozens of stories here, and I wish everyone could have seen the packed auditorium of proud kids, parents, grandparents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends from all over the city who came to hear the young authors read about "shrimp from the future, a park shaped like a spot of paint, six-foot tall smelly, sweaty men, a pizza crust that's humungous, kind and friendly neighbors, and cabs that smell like fresh flowers". (Yep, that's the subtitle of the book!)

Can you imagine how cool it must be to be 7 or 9 or 12 years old and already be a published author? (The kids got to wear laminates at the party with the cover of the book on them and AUTHOR in big letters. They were beaming.) I hope this experience makes them feel like they can do anything they set their minds to. One mom actually came up to us at the book sales table and said "You took my son, a reluctant writer, and made him love writing." I can't imagine a better response.

Because I can't resist, here are just a few bits of glorious Chicago advice from the students, grades 2-6:

About the city . . .
"One of my special memories of the Lincoln Park Zoo is Monkey Day. It's when the zoo puts every single monkey in one place!" - Justice
"In Chicago you will find a lot of entertainment and people telling jokes. Trust me, you will laugh so hard you will start crying." - Stefany
"The Cubs' whole team's players are boy players. No women -- boooo!" - Nia

About transit . . .
"You must not play with the vine that stops the bus." - Eduardo
"I love a train and want to marry it because it is cute and pretty." - Brandon
"If you do not have money you should have walked." - Jocelyn

About dining out . . .
"Nicky's has good food and you will know Nicky's because it looks like the old days." - Kevin
"When you come to Chicago, if you are starving don't panic." - Karen

About dining in . . .
"My grandma makes the best pound cake in the city. Her pound cake is brown and the size of a laptop." - Dale
"My dad's lemon cheesecake tastes like you're in a bubble of miracle." - Nadeja

And those are truly just the tip of the iceberg. This book is so wonderful, when I opened it and saw my name inside I must have looked like the biggest grinning idiot. "Trust me," I was in a "bubble of miracle."

LOVE & IMAGINATION,
Erin

Adventures in imagination, Pt. 2

I now present more Fun Silly Awesomeness courtesy of the first graders I taught today at 826CHI. We wrote the story below as a class and then each kid got to write his or her own ending. TODAY'S Q FOR COMMENTING: How would you end the story? - Erin

TREASURE-HUNTING IN THE KINGDOM OF DOLPHINS

Once upon a time, on the planet Marvish, in the Kingdom of Dolphins, there lived a prince and princess. They were five years old, and their names were Rosabelle and Armanjoey. The Kingdom of Dolphins was underwater, and all of the kids there swam around all day.

Rosabelle and Armanjoey were sister and brother, and they really loved to go hunting for gold treasure. When they went hunting, they always wore safari hats, camoflauge, and brought magnifying glasses as big as T-Rexes.

One day, they thought that there was no treasure anymore in the Kingdom of Dolphins so they went to the Forest of Seaweed. In the Forest of Seaweed, Rosabelle and Armanjoey met a wizard who magically popped out of the seaweed and said, “Boo!!!!!!!!” The wizard was a man with a tall, pointy hat with blue stars on it. Rosabelle and Armanjoey were scared, so they huddled together and screamed, “Ahhhh!!!!!”

The wizard said, “Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Wizard George, and I was just being silly because I wanted you to laugh and be my friends. Come to my house, I have gold treasure there.”

So, the prince and princess followed Wizard George to his magic house made of eyeballs. “Eeeww” they said. They were surprised, frightened, and grossed out, but they wanted to go in anyway because of the gold.

When they went in, suddenly Wizard George pushed a button made of earwax and an eyeball, and a cage fell on the dolphins.

To be continued . . . (write your own ending in a comment!)

Clown dictionaries & Double trampolines!

Here's a sampling of the endings my first-grade students wrote to the story I posted earlier. Do yourself a favor and read them all. Pink rocks, clown dictionaries, and double trampoline time machines for everyone! L&G, E

"Now we are stuck in Yubba!" said Whanch.
"Why are we fighting?" asked Squoosh.
"I do not know. But we ate too much glink food," said Whanch.
The only way to get to New York is to shake hands. So they did. And when they got to New York they lived happily ever after. The end.

"OK, let me think," said Squoosh. "I have an idea. We can walk around and yell for help, and if someone comes along we can ask them for help to get back to where we were."
"Wait," said Whanch. "I have a better idea. We can find some more glink fruit and eat more of it."
"That might work!" said Squoosh. "Let's try it!"
They did and it worked. Then they became friends again. The end.

Whanch saw some magic powder. He picked it up and poured some on him. He was nice again so he poured some on the other and they became friends again. Whanch saw a plane in the sky and yelled to the plane driver. The driver came down and took them to New York. They were happy there.

"OK, Squoosh, I'm just going to play by myself!" While he was playing he made a double trampoline. In the middle of the night Whanch climbed in the other side of the trampoline and formed a time machine. He climbed in and went back to the jungle. In the morning, Squoosh found another time machine and followed him.

Then Whanch gets a clown to get a dictionary to live in a new world. Then Squoosh gets a maid to tell him the best way to live in a funny hairy world. Then Whanch gets a plan to get out of this world and be friends again. Whanch gets Squoosh and they got a pink rock and they put both of their hands on the pink rock. Then Whanch and Squoosh became friends again. Then poooooof they are back on Scripton.

Adventures in imagination

I know yesterday's post was heavy, so today I present some Fun Silly Awesomeness courtesy of the first grade authors I taught today. We wrote the story below as a class and then each kid got to write his or her own ending. I'll be back tomorrow with a sampling of the AMAZING endings they wrote. In the meantime, here's wishing you "plantinum google" moments of happiness.

LOVE & IMAGINATION,
Erin

ADVENTURES OF WHANCH AND SQUOOSH

Once upon a time on the planet Scripton there lived a tiger-turtle named Whanch Rary and his best friend Squoosh the Ball. Squoosh was a walking, talking ball who loved to slide down the branches of the jungle trees. Whanch Rary was ten years old and every day he dreamed of walking to New York.

One day, they decided to go on a long walk through the jungles of Scripton. "Where do you want to go?" Whanch asked Squoosh. "I've always dreamed of going to New York," Squoosh said. Whanch's eyes popped out and his mouth popped open. "Wow! That's my dream, too!"

The two best friends skipped along through the jungle, taking breaks so Squoosh could slide on the branches. When they got hungry, they stopped and picked bananas, chocolate chip cookies, ice cream sundaes, and glink-fruit. Glink-fruit is a magical fruit that comes in a six-pointed shape and turns your tongue forest green.

There was one big problem. Whanch and Squoosh didn't know that if you eat too much glink-fruit you will vanish into another world, where things are the opposite, and a tiger-turtle and a ball cannot be friends anymore. The friends had each eaten platinum google pieces of glink-fruit and platinum google is the biggest number there is on planet Scripton.

Suddenly, they poofed into another world. "OOO, what's happening?" they said, stomping their feet. "This is all your fault," they pointed. "We're supposed to go to New York."

To be continued soon by awesome 7-year-olds . . .

A tough day of teaching

Yesterday I worked with fourth graders at a school on the far south side of Chicago, helping them with memoir essays they are writing about themselves. All five students in my group were writing about something sad, to say the least. The sweetest one was about how much one boy missed living in the suburbs, where he had been a straight A student and had a best friend. Two were about murders of family members. One of those, the most gut-wrenching, was by a boy who had witnessed his father kill his mother with an ax.

At first the boy was very angry in his writing, wanting to push his father out of a window and watch him die. But he didn't want to read that aloud to me. He got this look on his face like he couldn't stand to say those words. He got distracted, fighting with the other kids at the table, throwing things on the floor, threatening to beat up the girl across from him. "I know you're a girl, but I'll kick your ass like a boy." It was intense. And again, the kid was 10.

But finally I got him to skip ahead in his essay, and he read to me about how he wants to be a good kid and grow up to be a good man -- a fireman or a policeman -- and that he will respect his wife and never lay a hand on his kids. I wanted to take him in my arms and hug him tight, but that's frowned upon, I'm sure, so we high-fived over the success of getting his feelings on paper and completing the assignment. I can't imagine being 10 years old, your mother dead, your father in prison, your siblings spread out with relatives, your mind clouded by the most unforgettable, unthinkable images. The murder happened when he was 2 years old. It must be the boy's first memory.

The lovely thing about yesterday was I'd met these kids before. We realized it when I walked in their classroom. They all started calling out to their teacher, "We know her!" and "Hey! It's Miss Erin!" and my favorite "Your hair used to be black!" (which it almost was a couple months ago). Turns out, that class had come to 826CHI for a bookmaking field trip and I had been their teacher. I loved seeing them again, since Chicago is a big city and I always assume I'll never see the field trip kids after they leave. Now I am determined to find a way to stay in touch with these kids, especially that one boy. I left a message with the school's office to see if they have a mentorship program, and if I don't hear back today, I'm going to keep trying.

New column for Chicago6Corners!

My latest column for Chicago6Corners is up! So far I've made it my mission to spotlight education-related nonprofits in my area, and I feel great about being able to do that. Plus, these places are a blast! Read on.

In other news, the next meeting of Silver Lining Writers Group will be Tuesday, May 22. Mark your calendar, Chicagoans. And thanks to everyone for asking about progress on THESE HALLS USED TO BE TALLER! It's going like gang busters. I'm on such a roll I have to force myself to get up walk around the block every now and then for fresh air. I'll try to get another excerpt up for you tomorrow. - Erin :)

Blasts from the past!

I got this message from a friend in Austin today:

"Erin...I heard you on KUT 90.5 this morning talking about being a teacher at Travis Heights...I guess that promo is a little old, but it was still cool!! Yay Thunderbirds! :) "

I recorded that radio interview THREE YEARS AGO. Crazy. But knowing it's on the air is still not the craziest blast from the past I've gotten in recent few hours. Last night I got this email:

"Hi Erin, I hope that you are well. I've been told (by a disappointed friend), that your article about me is no longer on
the Fametracker site. Do you know why? Best wishes, Bruce Altman"

Bruce Altman is an actor I profiled in a Fametrack "Hey! It's That Guy!" piece FOUR YEARS AGO. He wrote me way back then to say he liked the story, blowing my mind. And now this. I explained to him that the site is being overhauled since it was bought by Bravo TV and offered to e-mail him the a saved version of the story.

But anyway, wild, huh? - E

My debut column for Chicago6Corners!

I am now a columnist for the new online magazine, Chicago6Corners. It's a great site and I hope you'll check out my my first contribution. It's about my beloved 826CHI, the youth writing center in my neighborhood, founded by Dave Eggers and run by people who love kids and books. Good times! - Erin :)

RUI, Silver Lining, & the Hidden Mitten

Three big bits o' news:

1. I am honored and thrilled to have been picked as a reader for this month's Reading Under the Influence event, this Wednesday night at Sheffield's. I'll be performing an excerpt of THESE HALLS USED TO BE TALLER!, my forthcoming teaching memoir. If you live in Chicago, you should come! The event was a critic's pick in this week's Chicago Reader -- wow!

2. I am laying out and printing the Silver Lining zine this week. Holler if you'd like to help -- it'll be fun! And stay tuned for launch party and where-to-buy news. In addition, the Silver Lining writers group meets this Tuesday at 6:30 p.m. at Pontiac Cafe. Let me know if you're coming so I can reserve you a seat.

3. If you know anyone out near Dekalb (west of Chicago) or at Northern Illinois University, please spread the word that my band, the Hidden Mitten is playing at Otto's Underground this Friday w/ Little Red and the Hoods and a bunch of other great bands. Can't wait!

More tidbits from Colorado next week! - Erin :)

THESE HALLS USED TO BE TALLER! excerpt

[Here's a little snippet of the chapter I'm writing today. Hope you're all having a good week so far! -- Erin]

In the two seconds it took me to turn to the other teachers and ask, "Where is the restroom out here?" Veronica's pants were wet. So were her eyes, quickly filling with tears.

And then, up walked Alexia, with wet jeans, too. A simultaneous pants-wetting. Two human beings synchronizing, almost to the instant, the peeing of their pants and underwear (and, thanks to gravity, socks and shoes). It was a scientific feat, worthy of first place at the school science fair at least. It was also the last straw.

I closed my eyes for a split second. Maybe this was just a dream. It was still the night before and I was in my bed having a nightmare about how bad the first day of teaching would be -- a worst-case scenario dream. Or maybe I wasn't even a grown-up yet. I was just a little kid dreaming about how awful it would be if I grew up to be a teacher at my old elementary school. When I woke up, I would crawl into my parents' bed. "I had a scary dream," I would say, and they would wrap me up in a blanket like a papoose and cradle me until I feel asleep again, this time to dream of ponies and playing bass with Barbie and the Rockers.

I opened my eyes. Unfortunately, I was still all grown up, still on the playground, and my mommy and daddy were nowhere in sight. I was in charge here, like it or not (NOT!), and I had a major mess to clean up -- now -- before a third or fourth or fifth kid peed her pants.

Frantic, I asked the other teachers to watch the rest of my class while I whisked these girls off to the office. "The nurse will get you a change of clothes," I tried to reassure them.

Wrong again! The nurse did have several boxes of old, scrambled clothes -- like the Brady Bunch's dryer had exploded under the cot in her office. But she was not about to participate in our sitcom catastrophe. Wet pants were beneath her. Can't say I blame her.

As I tossed around overalls and shirts and dresses in search of not one but two pairs of pants that would fit a first grade girl, I found that either the school's upper grades had a serious incontinence problem or these clothes were donated by someone who wasn't thinking much about the age, and corresponding size, of a typical pants-wetter. Most of the clothes were HUGE, and the few items that weren't were so tiny the wearer surely would've been young enough to sport a diaper anyway.

Finally I found some pant candidates. I felt as though I had just run a marathon through a thrift store (which, come to think of it, would definitely be my preferred kind of marathon). Proudly holding up the pants, I braced myself for the grateful hugs of pee-soaked girls.

"Those pants are UGLY!" Veronica exclaimed in disgust.

I looked at her, entire bottom half soaked and splotchy, with the most genuine confusion. I would no more have anticipated her response -- a fashion critique of the pants?! WHAT ?! -- than if she had ripped off her face, revealing her true alien features, and demanded to be taken to my leader.

"YOU ARE MARINATING IN YOUR OWN URINE!" I wanted to shriek at her.

But I couldn't. It was beneath me. So I held my nose and dove back into the box of moth-eaten clothes.

These Halls Usued to be Taller! (excerpt)

[Here's a little snippet of the chapter I'm writing today. Hope you're all having a good week so far! -- Erin]

I am naked in bed, clutching blankets to my bosom and begging invisible first graders to "just do your work." Oh lord, here we go again.

Believing my apartment to be the classroom where I teach, I have developed the unsettling but unshakable habit of shooting bolt upright in bed at 3 a.m. I am not awake. This is a nightmare -- one where I am, quite simply, always at school. My closet is the chalkboard. The bureau is a bookshelf. And every lamp, end table, and pile of shoes is a student. Every shadow is a student. There are supposed to be 24 of them. Over and over again, I methodically count these invisible children aloud, praying each time that no six-year-old has been flushed down the toilet or lured from the monkey bars by a candy-wielding stranger. I have to count fast, for there is only one of me, and she is naked and stuck under blankets.

How unfair. These precious few hours before sunrise are my only chance to rest and regroup before another day in the trenches of teaching, and I am spending them -- as I'll spend every night of my first semester -- believing the kids are still in the room with me, that I am neglecting them by closing my eyes for a few seconds, that they will never learn to read or add or focus a microscope. Because of me, they will never graduate from high school, never go to college, never escape the housing projects where they live -- in the same neighborhood where I grew up and returned to teach. (To Make A Difference!) Instead I am ruining the Youth of America in my sleep, and worse, they have all just seen my boobs.

After several rounds of counting, I let go of the blanket with one hand and reach out to the two dozen three-foot phantoms. "Pleeeease! Just do your work for a few minutes! Mrs. Walter needs to sleep."

Silver Lining filling up with fabulousness!

I just announced Silver Lining three days ago, and already the lineup of content for the first issue is blowing my editor/publisher mind! The latest news is that Jessica Crispin -- the Bookslut herself! -- has agreed to contribute. (Keep an eye on bookslut.com for reviews and features by yours truly very soon, by the way.) A Chicago writer will also be contributing a piece about her virgin excursion to South by Southwest in Austin, Texas, last month. I can't wait to read the juicy details! And Austin writer/musician Melissa Bryan of the Shindigs is working up a regular music column for us. Last but not least, I'm also super excited that the debut issue of Silver Lining will include an interview with the one and only Jessica Hopper of Punk Planet, Hit It or Quit It, and the Chicago Reader! Jessica will be interviewed by someone very special, but right now it's a secret, so stay tuned.

LOVE & LIT,
Erin

P.S. - I hope to see all you Chicagoans THIS WEDNESDAY at my show with the Hidden Mitten. We're rockin' the Subterranean in Wicker Park with the absolutely fabulous Little Red and the Hoods. I can't wait! You simply must come say hi. :)

Latest Silver Lining news and call for artist/designer!

So things are taking off with Silver Lining faster than even I expected. One of my favorite authors, Ariel Gore (of Portland, OR), agreed to a Q&A interview and she was AMAZING! Here's how the interview started:

Erin: The Silver Lining zine's theme is making delicious, hilarious, rockin', and generally badass lemonade out of the lemons life inevitably hurls at us. Can you think of a specific silver-lining situation in your past, where you went from feeling downtrodden to feeling triumphant?

Ariel: Well, that's what it's ALL about, isn't it? I mean, you are born! What a fuck over! You get this human existence and you're wailing about it for a few minutes, and then you just have to say, well, all right, looks like I'm going to be here for a while, and the landscape IS strangely beautiful, I guess I might as well see if I can spread some love around.

I mean, can you ask for a better was to kick things off?! :)

Today I'm interviewing the guys in Birdmonster, one of my favorite bands (out of San Francisco), and the guys in The Dollar Store, one of the coolest performance concepts in Chicago. And writers from all over -- even the United Kingdom! -- have signed on to contribute. Damn, this is fun.

Of course, I can do a lot of this as editor/publisher girl. But I CANNOT design a cover. At least not a good one. It just not my thing. So if anyone wants to talk art and design, or already has some bright idea for what the cover of Silver Lining should look like, give me a shout. My only real design requests are that the cover:
- be in black and white
- have spots to tout a few of the stories
- and be fun to decorate -- I'm planning a cover-coloring party so the Chicago team and friends can dress up the first 100 limited editions.

Looking forward to hearing from y'all! Hope everyone is having a lovely week!
-Erin

Call for submissions to Silver Lining!

The response to the Silver Lining announcement has been amazing! Thank you, everyone! (And see yesterday's BIG NEWS post, if you missed it.) Now it's time for you to put that enthusiasm down on paper. Here are the types of stories we still need, all in the 100-750 word range. Short stuff, no sweat! Just pick one (or two):

- book reviews**
- CD reviews**
- live show reviews** ***
- shorts on something bad that happened to you that had a silver lining (these can be funny, serious, or somewhere in between)
- a tale of something bad that happened to you that you think has absolutely NO silver lining (should be short and funny -- or at least not "someone died" because that's obvious and too sad). FYI, this will be the Silver Lining Challenge: if a reader can invent a creative silver lining for that issue's "no silver lining" story, we'll publish it in the next issue.

*Of course, Silver Lining is open to all ideas, we just know it definitely needs these for the first issue. Suggest away, if there's something you really want to contribute.

**The things you review can be as obscure or as mainstream as you want. Preferably it's something you have strong feelings about! :)

***Reviews can be for live shows ANYWHERE. Not just Chicago.

Let us know if anything strikes your fancy and we'll reserve that spot for your byline! These are all short stories, so we'd like you to send them via e-mail by Monday, if possible. (If that's a problem, don't let it deter you. We could sign you up for issue #2.)

LOVE & LIT,
Erin (editor/publisher) and the Chicago team

P.S. -- Besides the byline and publishing of your printed work, what's in it for you will be the fun of working on this together and the exposure to book publishers (I'll be sending the zine to everyone who's involved with my book, These Halls Used to be Taller), media (I'll be sending it out to media in Chicago to advertise the launch party at the end of the month), fellow writers, and tons of cool folks who read. Plus lots of other silver linings I can't think of now because I haven't had my coffee yet!

Big news of the writing kind!

Meow meow, friends and readers of Just Eat The Cat!! It's good to be back. I have so much great news for you, let's jump right in and break it down, shall we?

1. The first issue of Silver Living, the new zine created, edited, and published by yours truly, will be out this month! The title comes from my outlook on life: dark clouds always spur me to whip out my silver eyeliner and start painting! Thus each issue will be anchored by an essay or story that includes the writer or a character -- somehow, some way -- making lemonade with life's lemons. It's a theme I've discovered runs through my own writing. I was too old to attend Hillary Frank's teen book discussion, so I spent the day pretending to be a teenager and writing about it (see the first serial on this site). My first year as a teacher was as rough as rough gets, so I grinned, beared it, took notes, and wrote a book. The list goes on. Anyway, the Silver Living zine will be available at indie bookstores such as Quimby's in Chicago as well as through this site (stay tuned). The zine will also include fun shorts like book and music reviews, poems, cartoons, etc. I welcome your contributions. Just comment or send me a message about what you'd like to write!

2. Speaking of what you'd like to write, I have also founded the new Silver Lining Writers Group here in Chicago. About 10 of us will meet the second and fourth Tuesdays of the month at 6:30 p.m. on the patio at Pontiac Cafe on Damen Avenue in Wicker Park. We will share our own writing, give each other feedback and support, and discuss any books or writing we've loved lately. New members are welcome at our next meeting, and it's OK if you think of yourself as an "aspiring writer" (guess what: you're already a writer, I promise, so drop the 'aspiring'!). If you're interested in joining us, comment or send me a message.

3. My writing is ready to go from the page to your ears! Now that I'm settled in Chicago, it's time to explore the city's thriving scene for open mics and readings. My goal is to attend a minimum of one a week, reading my own work when possible. This week's definite pick is Reading Under the Influence tomorrow night at Sheffields. Come on out, and make sure you say hi when you see me (go to my personal blog for visual clues)!

4. If you don't live in Chicago (and even if you do), there are several other ways to check out my work coming up. Of course, you already know Just Eat The Cat!, and I'm looking forward to providing the next installment of Mania in the Mountains for you on Thursday. But there's more! Keep an eye on the personal essay site Fresh Yarn, which will soon have an essay of mine about learning to ride a bike at the age of 19 (!!!) on its main page (and in an anthology, if all goes well). Also, look out for the next issue of Love, Chicago magazine, which will include a feature profile I wrote for its special tattoo issue. Oh, and on the off chance you live in Montana or know someone who does, I just wrote an entire section of The Billings Gazette newspaper. It will be out this month, and when you see page after page of features on doctors and medical procedures, you can say "I know who wrote that!"

5. Bravo! Bravo! Lastly, there is some excitement because the fabulous Bravo TV network recently bought Fametracker, the web site for which I'm a regular contributor of pop culture/satire essays. The bad news is it means all of my essays are currently off the site (so links in my previous posts won't work). This is because legal issues on freelance work are still being ironed out. This means people are taking notice of all our efforts over in the land of fametracking. And that can only be good news! (You see how I'm all about the silver lining?)

So, folks, thanks as always for your readership and enthusiasm! Hope to hear from you about my various projects, and I especially hope some of you will jump in and get involved!

LOVE & LEMONADE,
Erin

Funeral for a friend

March has been a terribly rough month, culminating with a death in my "friend family" today. I apologize to my readers for being MIA lately, but I assure you I've been coping through writing and a fertile spring is ahead for Just Eat The Cat and my other adventures in writing, rocking, and teaching. Until I return in a few days, I hope you're enjoying some wonderful books and the web sites I recommend here (scroll down and check out the righthand side of the page). Also, if you want to read about a hilarious, one-of-a-kind guy who must now live on in memories, go to weheartjoe.blogspot.com and read about Joe, gone way too soon at 33.

Much love from Chicago and Austin. Hug your loved ones tightly, my friends. ... Erin

Mania in the Mountains (Pt. 1: Hellbound redheads, party of 2!)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: What was the last job you quit and why?

Estes Park, Colorado
July 2002

When I was 24, I quit my day job and announced to the world that it should look out, "Because I AM GOING TO CAMP!" The concept was a bit ridiculous -- dream newspaper reporting job: OUT! s'mores: IN! -- and my grandfather actually laughed in my face when I told him over breakfast at IHOP. But at least I was not alone. My sister and cousin were already Colorado-bound, and I convinced one of my best friends to join us, too. Quarter-life crisis? Let's do this!

Off we went for a summer adventure as camp counselors in the Rocky Mountains, where the four of us lived in cramped staff dorms, slept on creaky bunkbeds, ate frightening mess-hall slop three times a day, and took home paychecks with absurdly tiny dollar amounts on them -- especially considering I had just quit a cushy newspaper job and was, at 24 years old, a total Danny Glover ("too old for this shit").

But of course, we had the time of our lives. Kindergarteners with tourette's cursing on pony rides! Middle schoolers lost and found in the vicinity of mountain lions! Camp staff driving vans into an icy river and living to tell the tale! Plus the usual hiking hookups and late-night stargazing under the sparkling Colorado sky. It was heaven.

But there was one problem during that stolen summer -- the whole park was ON FIRE. For real. Ash rained from the sky, and calls came over the camp PA -- "a large bear, displaced from his den by the fire, is running through camp along the main road ... please end weenie roast promptly and bring campers into lodge for parachute games."

One July evening, word had spread through the staff quarters that we were to meet in the chapel for an emergency fire evacuation meeting that night. I didn’t want to go because the powers that be had chosen to hold the meeting at the beginning of a church service. (The "C" in YMCA stands for Christian, and they don't let the staff forget it.) My friends and I theorized, only half jokingly, that the fire meeting was all a ruse to brainwash us into attending chapel on a regular basis.

“If I don’t hear the words ‘fire evacuation’ in the first two minutes, I’m outta there,” I told Paul, a fellow redheaded counselor and a barely legal drinker (as opposed to many of my other new bestest friends, who were -- gasp! --still teenagers). “I’m not interested in saving my soul from some kind of eternal fire, just the one that’s creeping over the mountains right this minute!”

When we reached the chapel doors, church volunteers were handing out small black and white fliers for an upcoming service. The sermon topic must have had something to do with our carnal instincts, because the fliers read: “I invented sex. You’re welcome. –God.”

My friends and I tossed this idea around for a while, snickering like campers in the back of the church. “Come on! Did God really invent sex?” one guy asked. "Wasn't Mary supposed to be a virgin and shit?" Just a few months removed from the newsroom, I immediately went into Blasphemous, Fact-Checking Journalist Autopilot Mode: “Did God actually print these fliers? Are those really direct quotes? And who was He doing all this so-called inventing with, anyway?” I was going to hell.

Eventually, the director of the camp stepped to the microphone and greeted the staff. “Who here has never been to this weekly church service before?” he asked, as casually as one can ask a question that might as well be "Who here is Saved?" The mic wasn't very loud, so he cleared his throat and asked again.

“Who here has never been to this weekly church service before?”

Then, as if in a dream, I heard an exuberant, deafening holler of come from the seat next to me, where Paul was sitting. “WHOOOOOOOO!” Paul had responded as if Mick Jagger had just asked, “Who likes alcohol and loose women?” and for several very long seconds Paul's echoing "whoooo!" was the only sound in the entire, cavernous chapel. Everyone turned and stared in our direction, at the two redheads who were clearly going to hell. Specifically, I felt like Paul had just yelled, “Is anyone here trained in the occult? THIS ROW NEEDS AN EXORCISM!”

We clutched our stomachs, cupped our hands over our mouths to stifle the chokes of laughter, and ducked down in our chairs. The night was off to an auspicious start, and believe me, Paul and I were just getting started.

To be continued tomorrow . . .

Goodnight, Wisconsin!

Due to extensive freelance commitments at the moment, I regret I'm forced to save the detailed conclusion of the Wisconsin saga for one of my books or my new zine. But I don't want to leave you totally high and dry. So to wrap it up for now, here's the short version:

I made it to Kenosha! Go me!

I was there long enough to pee, and then I turned around and came back to Chicago. It was that simple, and of course, it was so much more. I still owe my readers the tale of using Oliver North's rental van to spin doughnuts on a soccer field on the north shore. I won't forget, I promise.

-- Erin :)

Detour: Houston, Texas

CHARLES, PUT SOME PANTS ON, THEY'RE HEEEEERE!

The brilliance above comes from my grandmother and was more or less the first thing my mom, sisters, and I heard upon arrival in Houston on Sunday. Words cannot express how genius I feel for the decision to go to Houston to see my grandparents and write unfettered by Austin things like friends and fun. Houston is a cesspool of sucky swampitude, but I have never been so focused in my life. Six medical articles written in a 24-hour period! (Do they give Pulitzers for raw productivity?) Plus, I continue to stomp on my former-picky-eater inner child, who never would have gone anywhere near my grandmother's corned beef and cabbage last night. Granted, the amount I ate would qualify as a drive-by at best, but I'm going to pat myself on the back anyway. As they say in Braincandy, it's the little things.

And speaking of the little things, I took a writing break yesterday to go to a neighborhood playground with Mom, Shannon, and Colleen -- and I ended up writing anyway. I couldn't help it. Our girls-only tetherball tournament was something to behold. And it is so awesome spending time with my sisters, who have been amazing people since day one, but are suddenly witty, beautiful teenage firecrackers. They were in diapers, faces caked in mushed plums and animal crackers just the other day, I swear!

SHANNON, 14, defacto tournament rule enforcer: "You can't touch the string, Colleen!"
COLLEEN, 12: "The string touched meeeee!"

SHANNON, three games later in the tournament: "You can't let the string touch you, Colleen!"

Colleen is my youngest sister, born when I was a senior in high school and statistically more likely to be my own daughter than my mother's, since Mom was 45 when she got pregnant for the fourth time (no drugs, just silly old nature!). Once at the Armadillo Christmas Bazaar in Austin in about 1996, a fellow shopper noted "Aw, how sweet, three generations!" That was all the abstinence education I needed.

My faux-daughter is sensitive and brilliant, a quiet writer/thinker type. And as is often the case with such kids, Colleen's also got some challenges -- namely dyslexia and major trouble with the motor skills most of us take for granted (and around which elementary school sadistically revolves -- jumping rope is like brain surgery for her and she uses scissors like NO ONE you've ever seen, trust me).

This is all background for my favorite tether ball moments, which always happen when my mom tries to encourage Colleen without blatantly playing favorites or making it seem like she thinks her youngest daughter is physically challenged (which she isn't, at least no more than her oldest sister, who stubs her toe on a daily basis). More classic moments from yesterday ...

MOM, watching Shannon kick her little sister's butt in 3 seconds flat: "It's OK to move your feet, Colleen!"

MOM, to me, trying to be politically correct and sports-based at the same time (and failing spectacularly): "We should give her some kind of head start, you know like in golf -- what do they call it?"
ME: "A handicap."
MOM: "Oh."

The reality is that all the women in my family (including my other sister Meg, who was missed, as she lives in North Carolina) are probably about equally skilled at tether ball. When a rubber grapefruit comes hurtling at our noses, we will yelp and try to block it.

I think I like Shannon's comment to Colleen the best: "YOU'RE JUST LOSING TO BE CUTE!"

Hee. Aren't we all?

LOVE & GUITARS,
Erin

P.S. -- Parting quote from my mom, who I love more than even I can say in words: "I heard you, I just didn't know it was something I was supposed to understand."

Detour: Austin, Texas

This trip to Austin will be a working vacation -- writing all day, rocking all night -- and I really needed to get started on the plane this morning (cancer stories don't write themselves). However I blew it before we even took off, thanks to Love Is A Mix Tape, a book loaned to me by Mike from the Hidden Mitten. (Mike Mitten would be so much easier, but he already has a couple of cool last names just like me. Oh well.)

I decided to read a few pages of the book until it was OK to use electronic devices. Big mistake! It's not that Mix Tape is the best or worst book ever, but it's pretty good and, more importantly, it's about the two things almost every musician (certainly myself) cares about most -- songs and love (the third is probably drugs and alcohol, but I'll leave that to Alice in Chains and the Alkaline Trio, respectively). Each chapter of Love Is A Mix Tape starts with the contents of a cassette the author and his wife used to listen to before she died, completely out of nowhere, from an embolism at about age 30.

You know where this is going, maybe? Well, if you guessed I was weeping before the plane's wheels even left the ground, good guess.

Music and love are the most powerful gifts humanity has to offer. They often feel like one and the same to me. When I'm happy, every song sounds like church bells and a raucous gospel choir. When I'm heartbroken, music makes me feel better -- or lets me wallow and feel worse until I'm ready to feel better, which is a crucial step unto itself. Of course, the tough part is that sometimes my love of music takes me away from the love of my life, and SXSW is going to be a rough week for both Patrick and me, which bites. I'm not going to say, "when you love someone set them free." Screw that. It's more like, when you love someone, don't give them hell for going on tour with their band or being locked in a video game design studio for 12 hours a day. Ah, modern marriage.

Anyway, I'm at the part of the mix tape book (a true story) where the young wife has just died and the husband is suffering with how every song he hears reminds him of his wife or makes him wish his wife could have heard it. God, how I know that feeling. When friends and members of The Personals came with me to The Broken Spoke a couple weeks ago for Dad's birthday, I played my childhood favorite song ("I Wish a Buck Was Still Silver") by my dad's favorite singer (Merle Haggard). The lyric "Are the good times really over for good?" has gone to a whole other level in the past three years. Same goes for "He Stopped Loving Her Today" by George Jones, another favorite of mine from childhood and now a regular on Erin's Jukebox of Perpetual Mourning. (When you grow up the daughter of a honky tonk dad, a lot of your childhood soundtrack ends up being pretty sad or at least based on the "Think I'll Just Sit Here and Drink"/"Tonight the Bottle Let Me Down" story arc. Thankfully, my wonderful mom also raised me on the Beatles, so I had silly songs about yellow submarines, eggmen, walruses, and fields of strawberries to keep me child-like, too.)

I've said this a million times, but I am so grateful my dad got to see The Personals play once before he died. And now I'm grateful to be playing the bass he gave me in my new band in Chicago. I hate that he'll never see me play with the Hidden Mitten, too, at least not in person, and that I can only imagine his gleeful reaction to the Wisconsin photos from last weekend. (Oh, how Captain Dave loved an adventure! And loved to take surprise, bad-hair pics of my sisters and me on roadtrips. Lovely.)

I look at the Estelle's photos from Saturday night, and I fucking hate that I have to dance with a stranger now instead of you, Dad. It was fun -- spontaneously swinging around the middle of the barroom with some random, benignly friendly guy -- and the look on my face in the Flickr photo is probably a lot like both of our faces were when we danced together at the Spoke. (I'm glad I can still smile like that. For a while, I wasn't sure I could.) Now I wish you could see how happy I am in Chicago. I wish you could come to the Hideout and see Devil in a Woodpile and dance with me while that one dude plays the washboard, like we did in Austin. We would show those Yankees how it's done, ya know.

If I were a character in a movie, maybe I would close my eyes and dance by myself, imagining you as an angel swaying to a slow song on the toes of my black ass-kicking boots, like you used to let me stand on your brown cowboy ones when we would play Hank Williams records in the den when I was little. (I would have to save that for the movies, or maybe one of my book characters someday -- 'cause when real people dance with ghosts, they look batshit crazy and frankly I don't need any help from you or anyone in that department. Heh.)

When Mike and I were at a bar in Wisconsin on Friday night, I played "Ramblin' Fever" on the jukebox. I was surprised to see it there, but playing that song is one of those things that cannot be helped. If "Ramblin' Fever" is available, it must be played -- I don't want you to look down and see me being "a rock and roller" when I could be singing along with the Hag.

My hat don't hang on the same nail too long / My ears can't stand to hear the same old song / If someone said I ever gave a damn / They damn sure told you wrong / I've had ramblin' fever all along.

Hey, Merle and Dad, that makes three of us.

So my new friends don't know, but my dad and his friend Gary famously used to go to SXSW together every year. They would make it a point only to see bands my dad would normally avoid like the plague -- Japanese keyboard pop, Brazilian punk, Swedish dudes in wigs hitting each other on stage with dildos (seriously!! you should have heard the phone call from Dad the day after that show!). A few years ago, Gary and Dad invited me to join them, and we got a new, Three Festkateers tradition going over the next couple years. The twentysomething, the fiftysomething, and the techie from California who was somewhere in between. I took the guys to see Cruiserweight and They Might Be Giants and Satan's Cheerleaders. We ate pizza in the street and I gave my dad a joking hard time for being extra nice to the waitress at a blues bar. One year we played tambourines in the crowd with a cajun band and got to keep the tambourine. (Last I checked, it was still in my dad's closet. My stepmom tried to give it to me after he died, but I wasn't ready. Maybe I'll try to get it on this trip.)

There's a lot of SXSW backlash this year from Austinites, myself included. But no matter how long the lines get and how hipster-mafia the band selection process seems, the festival will always be a special, bittersweet time for me because of my memories of being the punk rock daughter (as he thought of me, despite the fact that I don't know if I really qualify) on the town with her country and western dad. If you see me get a little teary during Birdmonster or Limbeck next week, it could be because I am sad Lucero cancelled their showcase. Or it could be because I miss being David Walter's SXSW sidekick.

The plane lands in an hour and I'm going to see if I can't finish Love Is A Mix Tape before we touch tarmac (without getting tears on your book, Mike, promise!). I hope you're ready for me, Texas. I will be rocking out for two -- myself and that unforgettable, unstoppable honky tonk angel stepping on my combat boots.

LOVE & GUITARS.
Erin

P.S.-- Well what do you know? The guy getting off the plane in front of me turned out to have a t-shirt with "ROSWELL, NEW MEXICO" on the back in big letters. Wow. That's where the Walters are from, and you never met a more devoted Roswell guy than my dad. I'm going to take that shirt as a good sign for this week. (And yes, the Roswell thing does likely make me at least part alien. I told y'all I didn't need any help in the crazy department. Hee.)

Wisconsin, Do Not Push Me!

I apologize profusely to those who are waiting to hear about how the Wisconsin train journey ended. I am buried in a major freelance writing project right now -- you know, the kind where they actually pay you money -- so it will be another week or two, most likely, before we return to the scene of the Ollie North auto theft crime, as promised. However, just so you know I haven't forgotten my dear readers or the state of Wisconsin entirely (I would never!), here is a little taste of what happened this past weekend when I actually managed to get STRANDED IN WISCONSIN (as opposed to the train trip, wherein I can't seem to make it there in the first place). Here's the summary from my personal blog on Myspace, where you are welcome to keep up with me too, so long as you don't mind the updates being less essay-like:

I still love you, Wisconsin.

We have an interesting history, Wisconsin and me: Band tour. Train adventure. And now . . . car accident that leads to gig-missing, rural-stranding, and (of course!) total awesomeness. Props to Garrett, Melanie, and Steve for playing the show in Madison with two members of the Hidden Mitten actually hidden. And props to my Mitten bandmate Mike Flavor for not killing me/us (or the gear!) and for understanding that when one gets stuck in Janesville, Wisconsin, one grins, bears it, and gets out the guitars to learn new songs in the hotel room. That is, when one is not drinking at a bar with 12 letters and zero vowels (or lowercase letters) in its name. And not commandeering the jukebox in the name of Metallica and Led Zepplin. And, of course, not buying disposable cameras to take photos of cupcake trucks, ludicrous public signage, and one's triumphant, karaoke-soundtracked return to Chicago. These are not attractive photos of me -- I am tired and dazed and I really don't care. I was stuck in a snowstorm in Bumblefuck, people! And I persevered! Near-death by 18-wheeler has never been so tolerably fabulous.

LOVE & GUITARS,
Erin

No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 9: Ted Nugent detour!)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: When I think Ted Nugent, I think [blank]!
OBSESSION OF THE DAY: Finding some clean snow for snow angels! AND THIS!!!
FAMETRACKER ARCHIVE OF THE DAY: Jonathan Rhys Meyers fame audit

(Continued from Tuesday's post.)
October 2006, Evanston, IL

I know what you're thinking: What in the name of hair metal and hunting rifles does Ted Nugent have to do with a train ride to Wisconsin? Oh, ye of little imagination. Don't you know by now? Ted Nugent is EVERYWHERE. Specifically, he is everywhere I go. I see him in the chip aisle at Jewel, but turns out it's just "some dude" with "cut-it" hair on the hunt for munchies. Lately I think it could be him getting on the train with me at Washington and Dearborn every afternoon, but I'm not tall enough to tell for sure through the crowd. Then even when I'm home safely, napping soundly in my bed, he haunts my dreams (usually by playing some wailing guitar riff on the neck of Bambi).

Much like I hope my Fametracker piece Juliette Lewis vs. The Music of Rush will get me to stop obsessing over those two topics, I hope that by taking a detour to Nugentville now, it can be the last time. It's gonna be tough, kinda like when I've tried to give up chips and salsa. But I think it's worth a try. Purge the Nuge with me, won't you?

So, with four hours to kill before the Kenosha train and an American Apparel store to avoid, I decided to head back to Dr. Wax for some music-dork browsing. I'd flipped through maybe two rows of records before, somehow, I managed to strike up what must have been my eight millionth Conversation With A Stranger Regarding The Mystery And The Majesty Of Ted Nugent. This is my favorite stranger conversation of all time (even better than the general "Tell me a story!" one I use on the unfortunate soul sitting next to me on an airplane during turbulance). I like to hear what other people have to say about the Nuge. You never know what they'll know. The Dr. Wax clerk provided an exciting new tidbit for my Ted collection: Did you know the Motor City Madman has a line of beef jerky? He does!

Otherwise our chat was nothing major, just the usual “Isn’t that guy a nut, but, like, a totally intriguing, hilarious nut?” conversation. If I need to, I can bust out memorized quotes from Nugent's autobiography/manifesto, God, Guns, and Rock'N'Roll, which introduced me to the phrase "full bluntal nugity" and which includes a letter to the children of world about living life, Ted-style. (Buy it now, people.) (Used, of course.)

I'm not sure if I'm ready yet for some of his other literary works, which include Blood Trails II: The Truth About Bowhunting and Kill It & Grill It. But I’m pretty sure I know why I've accidentally become obsessed with their "author." The reason is: Ted Nugent is news to me. New news.

Until college, I had never set foot in the Midwest. I probably could not have told you which city is the motor one (Detroit, right?). As a little kid, all I knew musically were my parents' faves: The Beatles, Merle Haggard, George Jones, Bob Wills, and Aretha Franklin. Then from third grade till high school, my musical taste ranged from Cyndi Lauper to Cinderella, Led Zepplin to the Dead Milkmen, and generally included a lot of Violent Femmes, They Might Be Giants, and (what the hell) Richard Marx. (If you want to hear the story about the time a radio station hosted a promotional event involving a bleary-eyed Marx signing autographs from 6-10 a.m. over breakfast at an Austin taco joint and my mom taking my sister and me before school, it’ll cost ya.)

The point is: I'd never heard of Ted Nugent. Not until college, when an Onion article came into my life. The headline was “Ted Nugent Talks That Way Even When Buying Socks” and after 10 years of fondling the newsprint, I have the story memorized:

According to JC Penney men’s-department sources, rocker Ted Nugent talks that way even when buying socks. “What color socks do I want? I want every damn color, plus a whole bunch that don’t even exist. Life is too short, man. Whether it’s socks or shoes or whatever, you gotta bite into life like it’s a big ol’ hunk of bison. Otherwise, you wake up and suddenly – poof – you’re fat and old, and you never had any friggin’ fun. And if you’re not having fun, you may as well move to Iraq or Cuba or some other hellhole where there ain’t no good times to be had.” Nugent added that that’s the way he sees it, and if you don’t like it, you can kiss his lily-white ass.

That article is lovingly stuck by magnet to my refrigerator as we speak. I treasure it like normal people do a pet. In fact, I want to meet it’s author and buy her a pony. That writer exposed me (so to speak) to this "Ted Nugent" person, a man clearly worth knowing about. The blurb indicated he was a “rocker.” And that he was crazy. Those are two qualities I look for in an obsession, or a life partner, for that matter. Still, otherwise, Ted-wise, I had nuthin. Who was this masked man?

Ever since then, I have been paying attention. When the Nuge opened for KISS in San Antonio in 2000 and told the crowd that Americans should be required to speak English, I cursed him (puta!) like everybody else. But then he started doing reality shows and there he was, back in my good graces again. I mean, did everyone see VH1’s Supergroup with Nugent and Sebastian Bach? The hair! The conflicting schedules for hunting and rocking! The drama over choosing FIST! as a band name! The declaration of "I still agree with me"! Oh, swoon. If that show is not out on DVD soon, I'm starting a petition.

Frankly, that was the problem with Northwestern University -- no insane hunter/rocker dudes with cat-scratch fever and a penchant for (one can only assume) wringing the necks of entire populations of woodland creatures with his bare hands, on the rare occasion a rifle or switchblade isn't handy. Ted Nugent is the TV show Deadwood come to life, but without wasting a scene here and there on a love story.

As I left Dr. Wax record store and headed for Northwestern's campus, I made myself a promise. No more conversations about Ted Nugent today! I figured I had about a 50-50 shot at it, maybe better as long as no one offered me any beef jerky or hollow bullets in the student union.

(Continued tomorrow.

Greatest Hits: Fametracker fame audits

Woohoo! The post you've all been waiting for -- my collective thoughts on Ted Nugent -- is on its way tomorrow. In the meantime, please enjoy some of my Fametracker fame audits of yore. -- Erin :)

Joaquin Phoenix . . . Sample rant: "It's hard to imagine a Hollywood producer barking at a casting agent, 'Find me the second most famous actor in a family, preferably with a lip scar and a nose like a claw, or you'll never work in this town again!'"

Jake Gyllenhaal . . . Sample rant: "If this time next year I have to watch you making animal crackers dance around on Liv Tyler's naked stomach, I will not be held responsible for my actions."

Adrien Grenier . . . Sample rant: "He cooks and loves his mom but -- oh, the humbling curse of the rich and famous! -- can't find a date. (May we suggest Laidster.com? Or a haircut?)"

No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 8: Commence!)

FAMETRACKER archive of the day: Battle of the Nerdy Spawn of Tom Hawks
TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Your favorite pair of shoes? Tell us!
OBSESSION OF THE DAY: Going out and having fun tonight, blizzard be damned! -- Erin :)

(Continued from yesterday.)
October 2006, Evanston, IL

Walking around Evanston, killing those FOUR HOURS before the next Kenosha train, I passed the shoe store that witnessed one of my all-time triumphs. It was a Saturday morning in 1997 and two of my Northwestern dormmates, Cindy and Jenni, wanted to look for new kicks. My closet was already overflowing a la Imelda Marcos, but who was I to desert my friends in their hour of need, especially when I was such an expert on the topic at hand? It would be cruel of me to deny Cindy and Jenni access to my skills.

“I am only going for moral support,” I told them. “No shoes for me!”

And I meant it. I really did. As we opened the door to the store, I was actually repeating those words aloud, as if a good mantra could ward off the inevitable.

“I am only going for moral support,” I said again, walking in. “I’m not buying anything. I don’t need anything, and . . . ”

. . . and then, the world stopped spinning and time stood still. There they were. THE SHOES. MY SHOES. On the wall, at eye level, 15 feet from my face. They were Converse All-Stars, but oh god, they were so much more. They were plastic-y and silver, with tiny pink, glittery sparkles all over. They had pink stars where normal Cons had, what, white ones? Or black ones? I didn’t know. My memory of all other shoes had been obliterated by this pair. The edge of the sole was white with a jaunty grey stripe going around it. And . . .

“. . . and I AM A LIAR!” I exclaimed, pushing past my friends and making a beeline for the shoe display. “I need these in an 8!” I breathlessly told the clerk. I shrugged at my friends. They knew me. What could I do? The shoes were silver and pink and glittery, damnit!

I wore those shoes to my journalism school graduation two years later, along with what can only be described as Outrageous Moon Pants – silver again, in jean form but somehow made of thin, stretchy spandex – and a v-neck Radiohead t-shirt. The day before, at the campus-wide commencement ceremony, I wore a swishy dress and my black, knee-high combat-meets-go-go boots. (Long before I had the Personals as a legitimate excuse to be on stage, I loved a good costume change.)

Of course, I was wearing all that jazz under a dignified black robe. But still. During the journalism graduation, you could clearly see the silver sneakers and moon pants peaking out. It was a classy ceremony in a classy theater. Each student was only allowed a couple of tickets. I had to beg and barter for more so two parents, one stepmom, one sister, one boyfriend, and one childhood best friend could get in. Much to my dismay, they did not allow airhorns at Northwestern graduations. (I guess, technically, they didn’t allow them at my high school graduation either, but that didn’t stop my dad.) The audience was instructed to save its applause for the end.

“I don’t care what the dean says,” I told my crew beforehand. “And I don’t care what the other families do. We are Walters, and you better go beserk when they call my name.”

My family did not disappoint. They were LOUD. We’re good at that. (For my part, I made quite the fool of myself from the audience, standing and screaming like a banshee in the name of friendship when my roommate from the Portland internship was trotted out as our perfect-GPA valedictorian.) And when I crossed the stage, family hooting and hollering, the stuffy dean shook my hand, leaned in, and – I swear -- whispered in my ear, “You want to yell back, don’t you?”

And I did. Hell yeah, I did. So I did. It was an answer to the dean’s question, but I directed it to my family in the balcony.

“YEAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I screamed and thrust my fist in the air, like Metallica had just brought Ozzy out with them for an encore. It felt amazing.

Bye bye, college. It’s been real!

(Continued tomorrow . . . Maybe I'll get on the train. Maybe I'll finally tell you about that whole Oilver North/auto theft debacle.)

No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 7: Evanstontastic!)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Am I crazy or is a certain store with the initials A.A. the most annoying clothier in decades? Vote in your comment below. (And if your answer is NO, which store do you think really deserves the title?)
OBSESSION OF THE DAY: Chicago band Alkaline Trio. Love them. And now, back to our story . . .

(Continued from last week.)
October 2006, Evanston, Illinois

If we shant go to Kenosha, we shall shop. Shopping is the next best thing to Wisconsin, right? But I can tell you where I will not be going in Evanston on this fateful day. I'll give you a hint -- soft t-shirts, unsupportive halter dresses, and more attitude than an international Chloe Sevigny fan club convention. Yep, Evanston has an American Apparel now!

Oh, how I loathe that store. Not the products, per se -- I’m sure the Personals will have our yellow car logo on a girly tee or two before too long. I just wish the company would stop hitting me over the head with how cool they are. In the Chicago Reader! On the back of the Onion! Via hipsters who seem planted at my favorite bars, wearing gold lame hot pants (that's supposed to be pronounced "lamay," like the fabric, but I couldn't figure out how to make an accent over the "e," and "lame" is just as accurate).

The hot pants people are hanging around strategically, just waiting to tell me how much they LOVE American Apparel. Well, good for them. But as far as I’m concerned, AA is the 21st Century equivalent of Units. (Remember that store in the mall? Everything you bought there could be a shirt, or a dress, or a belt, or a headband. Or a jockstrap or a diaper or a plug for a gaping head wound! Fun.) So needless to say, when I see the new AA, I spit on the sidewalk and keep walking.

Next, I pass a Mexican restaurant that reminds me of the first time I ever got sick from drinking. I didn’t know it then, but that night would become the prototype for all other drunken barfing experiences in my life. The main elements include: margaritas and nachos or other greasy food at dinner, followed by pre-night-out drinking in someone’s apartment (It’s free! And it’s the worst idea ever -- wine for a while, vodka for a while, a cigarette or two on the balcony). It all culminates with a ride on public transit to some dance club to which I will never actually arrive, because three stops out of Evanston, I will have to get up and yak. Hey, it's classy, and that particular El platform (I'm not naming names) is my disgusting territory forever and ever, amen.

And speaking of drinking, I also pass the apartment where, at a party, I remember being very excited that some guy I didn’t know had a neon Shiner Bock beer sign on his wall. I must have been pretty starved for Texasness, since I hate beer. I also pass the sports bar where I ordered a mudslide and proceeded to drink it with the same breakneck speed I drink normal milkshakes, not really considering the alcohol content, and causing both an instant brainfreeze and an instant hangover headache.

These stories may suggest I drank a lot in college. I wish. Northwestern was the kind of place where people declined invitations to go out on Friday nights. “I have bio homework,” they would say with a straight face, as though that were some kind of excuse.

I was not remotely intoxicated during my college graduation, but I'm sure the dean thought I was. There were silver pants. There was screaming from the stage. And we will get to that tomorrow.

(To be continued . . . )

No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 6.5)

Today's post will come by 8 p.m. CST, promise. It's just been a busy day.

In the meantime, have you met my kickass new band, the Hidden Mitten, or my raucous, beloved longtime band, The Personals? If not, you should!

Back soon with the ol' essay, darlings . . . Erin :)

Greatest Hits: Celebrity vs. Thing

Thanks to a semi-late night and a semi-early morning, I think today is another good day for some of my Fametracker.com greatest hits. As a I reported previously, some old stuff has to come down off the site for legal reasons, so enjoy it now! And have a rockstastic weekend! -- Erin :)

Johnny Depp vs. Chocolate

Wentworth Miller vs. Mirrors

Heidi Klum vs. Bras

No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 6: FOUR HOURS!)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: At this point in the saga, would you go home or stick around for the next train? Chime in below! And I think I'm adding something new today . . .
LOVE OF THE DAY: Ease Down the Road by Bonnie Prince Billy

(Continued from yesterday.)
October 2006, Evanston, Illinois

The instant I felt the air under my feet, I knew jumping was a huge mistake. The train chugged away and I realized: so what if that was the wrong one? It was a 50-50 shot, and regardless, that train was going in the right direction. If it had turned out to be the wrong one, I could've simply gotten off at the next stop and waited a minute or two for the Kenosha train. Makes sense now.

But, of course, that was the Kenosha train. How could it not be? It was just that kind of day. And the next Kenosha train was not for almost four hours. FOUR HOURS!

I felt totally dejected. I could not believe how badly I’d blown it. I mean, last summer I was frequently late for my voice lessons because I'd yet to grasp the finer points of the CTA brown line, but we’re talking a few minutes late. Not six hours. I had arrived at my neighborhood Metra station at 10:43 a.m., expecting to be in Wisconsin by lunch. It now appeared I would be taking the 4:33 p.m. train, if I decided to go at all. Sure, once upon a time, I happily lived in Evanston for three years. But at that moment, I thought I might jump off something much higher than the train platform if I had to spend another three minutes there, let alone three hours.

Ugh. Everyone else -- even the pervy bankers -- understood how the Metra works. When it comes, you go. What was wrong with me?

I stopped by the conductor’s booth once more, just to verify, 100%, how thoroughly I had blown it. (Yep. Thoroughly.) Worst of all, I found out the last train of the day back to Chicago from Wisconsin left 11 minutes after the Kenosha train arrived. Basically, if I hung around Evanston long enough to fulfill my destiny of going to Kenosha (please, just try to say “fulfill my destiny of going to Kenosha” aloud without laughing), I would be there long enough to take a whiz, as long as there wasn't a big line for the ladies' room. Fantastic. What a great story that would make.

THE PEEPS: "Yo, what did you do today?"
ME: "Went out of state to pee."

I surveyed Evanston from the elevated heights of the train station. It was beginning to dawn on me that my little college town -- the one that didn't allow bars or bowling alleys because, as the rumor goes, students would get drunk and try to fling their naked selves down the lane at the pins -- had gone through some big changes in six years. Now I could have thrown a rock and hit the following establishments: Pier 1, Coldstone, Ann Taylor Loft, Urban Outfitters, LA Fitness, Chili’s, the inexplicably named Fashion Tomato, a two-story Borders, and Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant. Someone had also seen fit to move the one-story Barnes & Noble diagonally across the street (a grand total of, say, 30 feet) and add a second floor. The pitiful shell of the old one was still obvious, since shadows of the words Barnes & Noble remained on its façade where the sign had been.

Maybe I had been too hasty, considering suicide over shopping. After all, it may be a chain, but Urban Outfitters does sell the Erin essentials: tights, hoop earrings, miniskirts, yellow stuff of all sorts. OK, that settles it. The show must go on!

(And it goes on tomorrow. Four words: Tight, shiny silver pants. See you then!)

No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Pt. 5: the big leap!)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Cats and other works by Andrew Lloyd Webber -- yay or nay? Discuss! -- Erin :)

(Continued from last week.)
October 2006, Evanston, Illinois

Full disclosure: I do not want to write these next couple installments. I mean, I really do not. Because these are the sections where I reveal myself to be an even bigger moron, at least when it comes to public transit (and isn’t that just a big mirror that reflects our whole lives?), than you or even I thought possible. But I must soldier on. If I don’t write this part, we can’t get to the donuts on the soccer field later!

So here we go.

I was in the record store, chatting with the clerk about Ted Nugent’s beef jerky business while he looked up the book All You Need to Know About the Music Business for me on the computer. I have a copy on loan from Adam, but I need my own because, much like the businessman on the Metra, I like to highlight. No. I need to highlight. It’s become something of a thing with me (points if you know what movie that’s from!) ever since I read Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance while working at a YMCA camp in the Rocky Mountains.

If you know that book, you also know the YMCA/mountain setting is an almost eerie one in which to read it. There were so many mind-bending ideas in the philosophical parts of the book, and I knew I’d want to remember them. I also knew there was no way in hell I would ever waste another second of my life reading about how to maintain a motorcycle! (Say what you will about Zen . . . , but there is no false advertising in the title. None whatsoever. Kind of like the musical Cats, which, I learned the hard way, is just about cats and that’s it.)

Anyway, Vintage Vinyl was out of the book, so I stopped by Dr. Wax on my way back to the train (no luck either). It was almost 1 p.m., and the announcer in a Metra booth kept making garbled comments about how a train was running at least 20 minutes late. Which train? Heading which direction? No one on the platform could tell. But we all distinctly heard Waukegan mentioned. Big whoop. I was sick of Waukegan and I hadn't even been there (yet).

Two semi-creepy men kept trying to talk to me, and since, mathematically, two semi-creepy men equal one total creep, I went inside the station. I asked the disembodied voice which train, specifically, was late. If it was mine, I wanted to do a little more shopping instead of spending half an hour getting leered at by suburban bankers.

The woman assured me my train was on time. But the weird announcements continued and by the time a train pulled up, heading north (AKA "to Wisconsin"), I was more confused than ever. Which train was this? Was it the delayed train, which was only going to stop in Waukegan like the first one I’d been on? Was it my train, the train that would FINALLY get me to the land of cheese curds and that quarterback with the unpronounceable name?

I looked around, hoping to see a sign, either on the train or from God. The El trains are clearly labeled on every car. On the Metra, you are apparently just supposed to know and trust. Ha.

I got on the train, looked for a conductor to query, and couldn’t find one. I asked the first passenger I saw, “Is this train going to Kenosha?” All the woman could say was, “I think so.” Not good enough. I had a one-track mind, and a voice in my head wouldn't shut up: We are NOT going to Waukegan! Don't make me go ninja!

I'm sure Waukegan is a fine place, but there was no denying the will of the voice. So I did the unthinkable. I still cannot believe it. As the announcement was made – “doors closing!” – I turned around and jumped off the train.

WHYYYY???!!!!

(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow when we find out if leaping off the train was a good or a bad move. Heh. What do you think?)

Battle of TV's Gorgeous Gamblers

The top story on Fametracker today is brand new, courtesy of yours truly. Lust along with me, won't you? Tomorrow, we resume my Quixote-esque quest for Wisconsin. Promise.

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Can bad hair ruin a movie? Why or why not? Show your work. (I'll give you one hint, in case you're stuck getting started. Ready? . . . Remember that heinous LION'S MANE on the main dude in the film adaption of Rent a year or two ago? Do you??? ;) - Erin)

Where did the day go?

My sincerest apologies! The day got away from me. Teaching, Fametracker deadline, freelance project, and the list goes on. I promise you the next chapter of the Wisconsin saga tomorrow.

In the meantime, I'm told Fametracker is having to remove a bunch of content soon for legal reasons (long story). I'll still be writing for the site, but if you want to read my old stuff, you've got to do it now. Here are three links, for starters:

Luke Wilson's fame audit (Although, turns out I couldn't even sit through 5 minutes of Idiocracy.)

The one that got me quoted in the Washington Post: Mark Ruffalo vs. iPod Nanos

And the one that prompted a nice e-mail from the actor himself: Bruce Altman's "Hey! It's That Guy!"

No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin! (Pt. 4: Bilbos and Blondes)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: What are your thoughts on Rod Stewart, the man and/or the music? Favorite song? Feelings about the hair? The mole? Chime in at the bottom, after the post, or just say hi if you're feeling shy. -- Erin :)

October 2006, Chicago, Illinois
(Continued from Thursday's pt. 3 post.)

At first glance, as I strolled through downtown Evanston on my way to the record stores, everything looked pretty much as I left it. There were the oddball, old-school stores, with signs reading “The Shaver Shop of Evanston” and “Birkenstock Repair.” Places like that always made me wonder: How do you make a living repairing an item most people consider disposable and/or too ugly to be worn by anyone except doped up hippies?

Next I passed Le Peep, the breakfast restaurant where I first met my college roommate. She was from the nearby suburb of Morton Grove, a pitcher for the Northwestern softball team, and a journalism major like me. She was also, it seemed, one of the first blonde people I’d ever known. (Really.) When she sent me her photo the summer before freshman year, I was genuinely shocked, like a malfunctioning Erinbot: “Beep beep, human beings are supposed to have brown hair. Does not compute! Malfunction!”

I thought this, I’m sure, because there were a grand total of 11 white people in my senior class photo of about 200 (as we stood on the risers by the Travis High soccer field on photo day, some of us got bored and actually counted). Most of the white kids probably had brown hair, too. I remember at least one was bald. Needless to say, at Northwestern, I was not in South Austin, Texas, anymore. It took me a while to think of all the upper-middle class white kids at college as “like me,” even though, technically, they totally were.

That was 1996. Now it was ten years later and I was walking by Le Peep once again. And I’ll be damned if somehow an exact replica of my old roommate didn’t just jog right past me! It was uncanny. Same tall, muscular body type and high-swept blonde ponytail. Same running shorts and hooded sweatshirt. Same string backpack. I almost called out her name. However, the eerie flashback was cut short by what can only be called the Classic College Conversation.

“C.S. Lewis was a creative guy,” I heard someone behind me say. “But he’s no Mike Krzyzewski."

Did I hear that right? Were the guys behind me on the sidewalk comparing the author of the Chronicles of Narnia to the longtime coach of the Duke University basketball team (a man who, come on, should really just start spelling his name “Shhshesky” and put us out of our misery)? Of course they weren't. But that's what it sounded like so I'm going with it.

“Tolkien’s the one who’s really got the goods,” Guy #1 went on. “He invented his own language.”

“Well, it’s a combination of, like, seven other tongues,” Guy #2 countered. “Cuz you just can’t do that anymore – invent a language by yourself.”

G#1: “Yeah,”
G#2: “Yeah.”

Thankfully, Dr. Wax record store was just around the corner and I parted ways from Mr. Dungeons and Mr. Dragons before they could start debating which hobbit is the hottest. And speaking of hot, as soon as I entered the store, I was faced with a life-size, stand-up cut out of Rod Stewart, he of all the luck and all the pain. In the giant photo, Rod is wearing leopard fur boots, jeans, a button-down denim shirt, and a floor-length brown leather duster. I repeat: A FLOOR-LENGTH LEATHER DUSTER!

I once had lunch with my friends Kirk, Carolyn, and Andrea, wherein the girls told me Kirk still owns a duster and thinks it looks good on him. Kirk did not deny this, and Carolyn, his wife, vehemently disagreed with his assessment. For my part, at the mere conjunction of the words “Kirk” and “duster,” I choked on my water, sprayed it on the floor to the side of our booth, and had to excuse myself to the restroom to give myself a makeshift Heimlich.

This Rod Stewart duster was almost as amusing/sickening. Rod had both hands deep in his jean pockets, so deep that he appeared to be grabbing his own junk through the denim. Indeed, the smirk on his moley face said, “Yeah, I’m grabbing my junk. And?” Which is pretty much what you're saying anyway, when you choose to be photographed and/or go out in public in a duster. I'm sure the ladies will back me up on this one.

(To be continued . . . Tune in next week when I consider cooking with Ted Nugent and the declining possibility of getting to Wisconsin.