Juliette Lewis vs. The Music of Rush

My latest essay, Juliette Lewis vs. The Music of Rush, was published this morning on the fabulous site for pop culture criticism and satire, Fametracker. Thus, that's where I'd like to direct my friends and readers today. I'll be back tomorrow with more of No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin! -- ERIN xoxo

No Sleep Til Wisconsin! (pt. 2, Plan B)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: When I say college, you think [fill in the blank]? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

October 2006, Chicago, Illinois
(Continued from last week's pt. 1 post.)

So there I was, on the train on a gorgeous autumn day, speeding my way out of Chicago and to the great state of Wisconsin (which, an article in the Tribune recently assured me, “has it all”). Except I totally wasn’t.

“What do you mean this train doesn’t go to Kenosha?” I asked the conductor (or someone dressed up early for Halloween as Ringo Starr in Shining Time Station). I'm sure he wanted to bonk me on the head with his conductor cap and snap, What do you think I mean, lady?

“This train only goes to Waukegan,” he said, keeping his hat on. “The next one to Kenosha is in an hour.”

I was totally perplexed. First of all, Waukegan, Illinois, is maybe three stops short of Kenosha. What's the point of making that town the end of the line for this train? MY train? Couldn’t it keep going just a little farther? And secondly, what gives? I had gotten on the Metra at a platform that said “To Kenosha” and I had found the train times from the Transit Authority’s web link “Chicago to Kenosha, weekdays.” I should be whirling toward Wisconsin! And technically, I suppose, I was. But I wanted to actually be whirled into the state itself, not dropped off in some shiny Chicago suburb just shy of the state line. I wanted to go to America's Dairyland! All the way! Extra cheese, please! Now!

In the end, the conductor and I worked out a plan. He sold me a ticket to Kenosha and made a note on the back that said I'd be getting off the train in Evanston, then getting back on an hour later to continue to Kenosha. This actually sounded kinda fantastic (if pretty stupid). Evanston was my home for three years in college, and I had not set foot in the town, let alone on the Northwestern University campus, since graduation more than six years ago.

My college friend Deanna regularly mentions things we did and people we knew at Northwestern. Virtually 100% of the time, I have no clue what she's talking about. Zilch. Those college years are weird for me – I moved away from home for the first time, with semesters in Portland, Oregon, and Allentown, Pennsylvania (AKA "not that far from Philly or NYC"), sprinkled in for good coastal measure – and I recall being generally happy and social and productive. (I also recall eating a lot of spaghetti O's.)

But I barely keep in touch with anyone from that time anymore, which is totally unlike me. I am still friends with the first non-family member I ever met, hours after I was born! I have been exchanging myspace messages recently with my second grade boyfriend! I still talk to people from all the jobs I’ve quit. (And while I don't like to quit friends, I do like to quit jobs, so there are several. And I always tell coworkers who’re sad to see me leave, “Don’t worry, no one gets rid of me.” It's mostly true.).

But other than Deanna, there is no one from the college years to whom I speak on a regular basis. I almost never start stories with “When I lived in Evanston…” or “At Northwestern...”

The most I really think about college is to casually consider the fates of fellow students for whom my friends and I had developed ridiculous (but accurate) nicknames. I wonder how Long Arms is doing? Or, whatever happened to The Guy Who Walks Around Like An Asshole? Does he still walk around like that?

Clearly, I was long overdue for some memory jogging in Evanston. So what if I had missed one train and boarded another that was hell bent on staying in Illinois! It was an adventure and it was supposed to happen like this. The gods of public transportation were sending me back to college.

But could I handle this unexpected Plan B? Was I strong enough not to go homicidal in the face of all that silky, flat-ironed blonde hair and those ubiquitous Greek letters and North Face parkas? Did I really want to think about stolen bikes (two of them!) and voting for “Evil Dave Sheldon” for student government president? Could I handle flashbacks of my curious, novice stabs at rowing with the NU crew team (in freezing temperatures, before sunrise, on the Chicago River) or oil painting to the never-ending soundtrack of Pink Floyd in the art building? (Which, incidentally, had to be done by walkman, since the art teacher announced on day one that we could play any CD we liked on his stereo, as long as it wasn't Floyd. After 20 years around college art students, he'd had enough, and I guess that makes sense.)

Anyway, once I set foot on campus – that gorgeous, manicured mile-long wonderland of hallowed halls, changing leaves, and dudes playing hacky sack -- I knew it would all come flooding back. What if I had blocked most of it out for a reason? I remembered something about a student clubbing another student over the head with a hammer in the fine arts building once. I sure hope I wasn't the hammeree (or the hammerer, for that matter). I would soon find out.

(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow for to meet the people of the train, fancy pants and all!)

The Traveler is -- you guessed it -- traveling!

I am in Austin, Texas, this week to research my book and rock with my band, The Personals. The No Sleep Til Wisconsin saga will continue on Tuesday, Jan. 30. Until then, catch up on responding to the QUESTION FOR COMMENTING at the top of each day's previous posts. Looking forward to hearing from you!

LOVE & GUITARS,
Erin

No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin (Snafus #1-3)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: If you could hop on a train right now and go anywhere, where would it be? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

October 2006, Chicago, Illinois

Who's ready for a classic Erin goes on an adventure, fails to grasp the finer points of public transit, awakens blocked memories of laws broken in college (involving grand theft auto and Oliver North), and ends up someplace weird and unexpected story? I know I am! Let's do it.

So it all started a couple weeks ago, when I read in the Best of Chicago issue of New City that the coolest Metra ride went to Fox Lake. I assumed that this meant Fox Lake, Wisconsin, probably because the Metra I took to see Cheap Trick at Ravinia for my birthday last month went to Kenosha. When the Personals were on tour, I feel a bit in love with Wisconsin (aside from the mosquitos and Milwaukee), and the New City blurb talked about passing all kinds of scenery and architecture and changing leaves. A little solo jaunt to Fox Lake sounded like the perfect way to celebrate finishing my book proposal.

Of course, when I plan trips for a group of people, like band tours or girly roadtrips, I become one with the atlas. I would marry the atlas. But when I get one of these little travel whims for myself alone, I tend to be pretty cavalier about details. I like to let shit unfold as it will.

And, oh, did it unfold when I decided to “go to Wisconsin.” (I am putting those three words in quotes for good reason.)

It sounded simple enough -- I would just catch the 10:43 a.m. Metra train and find myself out of state in time for lunch. Since my internal teacher's alarm clock goes off at 8 a.m. every morning, no matter what, I'd have plenty of time to get to my neighborhood station. Except! I must have gotten carried away with e-mail and my morning coffee(s), because suddenly it was 10:15. I threw together the usual stuff – a book, my writing spiral, the newspaper, pens and highlighters, sunglasses, etc. – and booked it to the station. Which brings us to . . .

Snafu #1

Apparently the Metra is the only train in all of Chicago that, if it feels like it, shows up early. I swear I was there on time. But after 40 minutes of reading the newspaper on the platform, I decided that, no, the 10:43 train was not merely late. I had missed it. I had rushed and eaten no breakfast, only to miss it by moments. Now my stomach was growling almost as loud as cars on the nearby expressway. The next Metra was 20 minutes away, so I had just enough time to dash off for a snack somewhere. I figured I’d better eat something since, barring some unlikely, unforeseen snafu, I’d be on the train for the next two hours, going to Wisconsin.

Snafu #2

Oh wait. I forgot to mention. When I say “going to Wisconsin,” I no longer mean Fox Lake. I mean Kenosha. Turns out there is also a Fox Lake in Illinois (surprise!), and I just imagined the article was talking about Fox Lake, Wisconsin. Now, was I going to take some gorgeous, critically-acclaimed train ride if it meant staying in the state of Illinois? Nope. I had gotten it in my mind that I was going to Wisconsin and, damnit, I was going to Wisconsin.

Don’t worry, we’ll get to the part where my friend Deanna tries to talk me out of going to Kenosha by calling it “the armpit of the Midwest.” Patience.

From the Metra platform, the only food option I could see was a Mobil station. I couldn’t risk going very far. Who knew when this train would show up. I was in a perfectly good mood despite missing the first one, but no way was I going to miss two!

Snafu #3

I hustled to the Mobil, which turned out to have only a very narrow, hallway-like interior lined with racks of crap I wouldn’t be caught dead eating (Combos, Funions, etc.). I settled on a bag of Ritz Chips (which I didn’t even know existed) and a Starbucks mocha frappucino (AKA “the usual”). Not exactly a healthy breakfast, but oh well. I ate them on the platform while reading a book, and the train showed up right on time.

As the train chugga-chugga-ed out of the station, a nice conductor kid, dressed like an old-school train operator and who eerily resembled Doug E. Doug, stopped by my seat to sell me a ticket.

Conductor: “Where to?”
Me: “Kenosha.”
Conductor: “This train doesn’t go to Kenosha."
Me: “WHAT?!?!”

(To be continued . . . Next time find out where the hell it turns out I am actually going!)

I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 8: Homeward Bound)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Do you remember a time when you realized you'd outgrown something you used to love? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

(Continued from yesterday . . . )

Friday, July 15, 2005

3:20 p.m.

An hour ago I wondered whether I still cared about this book discussion. Now, I am sure. I don't care. I do not even remotely care. I mean, come on, who discusses books anymore? Who even reads? Didn't I hear that radio or Betamax will be the death of print any day now?

At this point, I feel like when you wait in line for hours to get into a concert or some big new movie, and by the time the main event arrives, you're so tired you fall asleep in your seat just as the newly, digitally inserted Jabba the Hutt shuffles on screen. (And the nerds in your row do not appreciate it when you start muttering in your sleep about how "Fraggle Rock is totally better than this shit.")

It doesn't seem possible, but I am over the book discussion without even going to it in the first place. How over it am I? Let's see. I'm over it like Julia Roberts is over Lyle Lovett. I'm over it like Eddie Van Halen is over David Lee Roth, Sammy Hagar, and Valeria Bertinelli all put together. I'm so over it, if you climbed a magic beanstalk high into a city of clouds, then took the elevator to the 96th floor of the second tallest building in that city, and then took your $9 martini from the swanky bar of said building and climbed up the radio needle on top until you were so high over the city that you could barely breathe because the air was so thin -- well, you would still not be nearly as over the cloud city as I am over the book discussion.

That's right. I'm fickle. I'm dealing with it.

But before I give up my ridiculous charade, I'm going to do one last teenagery thing -- I am going to whine. Waah. I want to go hoooome. Not home to a messy bedroom in my parents' house, like I'd do if I weren't of age, but home to my messy, grown-up apartment. (Which is actually not so grown-up, to be honest. My husband calls it "the yuppie dorm." There's a gym, computer lab, and shared big-screen TV lounge in the building, and college students have even started moving in. The residents throw glorified frat parties on the roof with disturbing regularity, leaving signs on the door to the patio saying "Please don't bring glass. Plastic cups provided. Thanx! -- DJ Mel.")

But even if my apartment building is a glorified animal house, it's home. There are chips and salsa in the kitchen (with no security guard to stop me from eating them) and a Popular DVD waiting in the mailbox. Come to think of it, Popular is a show in which people my age pretend to be high schoolers. How appropriate. I think I'll just go home and watch other people get paid to lie about their age instead of doing it myself for free.

3:30 p.m.

On the way home, I'm feeling bad about wussing out, so I stop to console myself at the happiest place on earth (AKA a burrito place). After I ask for a chicken burrito with no rice and extra cheese and super hot salsa, the teenage girl behind the counter reaches over and stabs me in the heart with a metaphorical plastic spork.

She nods, smiles, and hands me my receipt. "Yes, ma'am."

I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 7: Things That Go Crunch)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: What is the dorkiest hairdo you sported in your youth? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

(Continued from yesterday . . . )

Friday, July 15, 2005

2:13 p.m.

Finally, the escalators and I have come to an understanding. It's smooth sailing all the way down to three, where I spot more teen specimens and hop off the slowest, least scary ride on earth. The new teenagers are three awkward, skinny ones. No one tries to jumpstart a dance party or keep stale slang alive, but they do poke each other and giggle. (Don't worry. No matter how badly I want to blend at the book discussion, I will not sink to poking minors.)

If these teens are any indication, I should've dressed much worse today. They are, quite simply, a fashion nightmare. One boy is wearing the ugliest, air-brushed KISS t-shirt I've ever seen and sporting a hairdo to match. How to describe it? Hmm. For starters, it's what my girlfriends back home call a "cut-it." And more specifically, it's like Robert Plant's mane, not so much in his sweat-drenched (and surely STD-laden) Houses of the Holy heyday, but more like Plant's hair right NOW! Or now! Or now! And definitely now! Only with oil slicks enduced by puberty instead of stage lights. (By the way, I don't know why I am so amused by all those photos of Robert Plant looking elderly, busting a move, wearing a tux, having a one-sided staring contest with some dude, etc., but I am. What's odd is if you look at his photo gallery, you'd think he was Sting or Paul Simon, not some guy who was famous for Tolkien-inspired blues rock and -- what's the legendary story? -- having women defile fish?)

Anyway, Cut-It Boy's tragic girlfriend is actually wearing a neon yellow Kill Bill jersey. Her pimples school my sporadic adult acne on what zits really are. I feel like the Noxema girl by comparison. Still, the kids look happy. It's summer, school is out, and they roam freely in the wild. Come to think of it, I'm impressed they chose the library, although I have no doubt they're just here to chat on the public computers with fellow fans of the Insane Clown Posse (that's a band, Mom) (but just barely).

2:15 p.m.

All this research and riding is making me hungry again. Good thing I have an apple in my bag. But wait! Not even I -- the twentysomething married chick on her third career who is gearing up to fib her way into a teen book club -- is ballsy enough to eat an apple in the library. Apples are the loudest food on earth. Louder than chips and salsa. Louder than bombs. No, I couldn't risk it.

At least not here in my current spot, I couldn't. A security guard has been pacing back and forth for the past 15 minutes. Someone must have tipped him off about the Slimfast incident. The only place without security is the restroom in the basement, and silly me, I have this thing about eating and drinking near toilets. Namely, I think it's nasty with a capital N. In fact, no matter how bad I need to pee in a bar, I will chug my vodka soda before hitting the stalls, so as not to bring the glass in with me.

Thus, it appears I'm headed back to the streets of Chicago for a while. Oh, but how tempting the idea of sneaking an apple in the library. I'm not making any promises, but if I see a good hiding place on the way out, I may have to go for it.

2:21 p.m.

I am getting cocky, now. I admit it. But I think I have every right, because I just totally ate an apple in the library! That's right. I am the Ultimate Snack-Sneaking Champion. Here's how it went:

After asking a security guard, "Can you tell me where the nearest library is . . . I mean, nearest restroom?" (because I am just that suave around men in uniforms), I took a quick potty break. And I hatch all my best plans on the pot. The ninth floor! I realized mid-flush. There's nobody up there! A serial killer could eat an apple up there and no one would be the wiser!

So back up I went. This time a man and woman, fellow twentysomethings, were quietly reading. (These were actual young adults. Couldn't I discuss I Can't Tell You with them?) I crossed my fingers they were too engrossed in Ulysses or War and Peace to hear me and retrieved the fruit from under a pamphlet about the Chicago Parks District's summer programs (canoeing! camping! more canoeing!). I bit in, bracing myself for the sound of that first crunch echoing off the hallowed halls of the atrium. I was in such a hurry to eat the apple before getting caught, I accidentally bit off more than I could chew. Literally. (God, please. I do not want to die this way, choking on an apple. At least let it be a tortilla chip. And let it be 70 years from now.)

Once I finally swallowed, I realized it was silent in the atrium. My chomp had been loud, but surprisingly, mercifully, there was no echo. No security guards sprang out from behind the planters, guns blazing. When snappily dressed people walked by, I only half-heartedly lifted the parks brochure to conceal the apple core.

Hold on. Is it possible I'm wrong about this no-eating-in-the-library law? Could city planners be hard at work on a fourth-floor food court as we speak? Whatever. Details schmetails. These are the facts: I am brave. I am proud. And I am full(ish) again. Also, I would make a terrible James Bond.

(To be continued . . . Tune in on Monday, when I may actually make it into the book discussion. That is, if I don't get distracted by thinking about Ratt and revolving doors again.)

I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 6: Love on an Escalator!)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: What's your favorite '80s band? Chime in after today's post! - Erin

(Continued from yesterday . . .)

Friday, July 15, 2005

2:07 p.m.

When we left off, my plan to ride gleefully, diagonally, all the way from the ninth floor to the library basement had been almost instantly foiled -- for the embarrassing reason that I lost sight of the escalator after only one floor. That takes talent! Now I must cheat and ride the elevator down one level to hopefully reboard the moving staircase there, assuming I can find it. Fingers crossed that fairies haven't cast a spell making escalators invisible to me. (You never know.)

A man gets in the elevator after me and punches level 3. He can tell from the glowy number seven I am only traveling one level -- going down, no less! -- and must surely think me the Laziest Person on Earth. I can sense his distain positively filling our claustrophobia chamber, which is totally rude of him. And misguided. Surely there is at least one lazier person out there.

When we arrive on the seventh floor, I dash out of the elevator, hoping to catch the escalator as it ducks behind a bookshelf or is beamed up a la Scotty. But the escalator is not hiding. It is right where it's supposed to be, descending from and ascending to the eighth floor, just a stone's throw from the elevator. I swear it wasn't there back when I was on eight. This is a mirage. I must ride it to check that it actually exists.

2:11 p.m.

Well, pinch me, it's for real. I rode back up to eight and then back down again to seven. Somebody must have spiked my Slimfast earlier, but at least it feels good to know the library architects were not total morons. Time to resume my diagonal downward trek. And with an hour left to kill before the book discussion (remember that?), I'll be damned if I'm gonna do any actual stepping on these escalators, other than on and off. I am a rider only. If my knees and feet work, I shant be showing it. (Perhaps snooty Elevator Guy was right -- I am the Laziest Person on Earth.)

The guy behind me in the black cap does not appreciate my strong will and lead feet. I feel him literally breathing down my neck a step behind me, even though there is no one near us and International Escalator Law dictates you leave at least one step between you and other riders (lest anyone should need to fart, maybe). I must assume Cap Guy is in a very big hurry to check out Theo and Me, the autobiography of former Cosby kid Malcolm Jamal Warner. Who wouldn't be?

But that's his problem, not mine. Mine is trying to conjure an appropriate mental soundtrack for my little ride. I try to recall songs about escalators, but all I can think of are grating hits about related forms of transport (Aerosmith's "Love in an Elevator," Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Rollercoaster of Love"). Since Chicago is big on revolving doors, I wonder if there are any jams about love in one of those. That would be tricky.

Hey, I know! How about "Round and Round" by Ratt? Consider the lyrics:

Lookin' at you, lookin' at me
The way you move, you know it's easy to see

Sounds to me like lead singer Stephen Pearcy is caught in a revolving door at some Sunset Strip hotel, only a pane of glass between him and a hot, trashy female member of the Ratt Pack. Stephen would like to sleep with this woman, of course. But neither party is very bright, either thanks to genetics or to a night of wicked partying with Sebastian Bach, Jani Lane, and Nikki Sixx. Lyrics again:

Round and round
With love we'll find a way just give it time
Round and round
What comes around goes around

Just give it time? How long does a revolving door take -- two seconds, maybe four? It sounds like Mr. Ratt and Ms. Pack are just pushing the door around in circles over and over again, not realizing that one of them must make the first move and exit the contraption if they're ever going to take it upstairs. Get a room, you two! Other people need to use the door!

(To be continued . . . Tomorrow I break more rules, study more teenagers, and try not to take a hideously ugly KISS t-shirt too personally. . . )

I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 5: Specimen Sighting!)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: If you were thrust into a dance contest, what kind of moves would you unleash? Chime in after today's post! - Erin

Continued from yesterday . . .

Friday, July 15, 2006.

1:33 p.m.

After the thrill of Slimfast sneakage, I've decide it's time to get my eyes back on the prize. If I'm going to masquerade as a teenager, I should find a specimen to emmulate. Luckily, I just overheard someone mention going to the top floor, and that someone had the unmistakable, cracking voice of a teenage male.

The tenth floor is off limits to the public, and I can only assume the librarians are conducting official library business involving ritual bloodletting, small woodland creatures, and maybe, I don't know, Bigfoot. I think this is as reasonable as any other explanation, really.

After briefly considering busting onto the 10th floor (maybe later), I arrive in the ninth floor atrium, where I take a seat on a wooden bench against a wall and wait. Sure enough, a group of teenagers enters. These! These are my people! Or at least they once were and will soon be again. I must listen closely and heed their style and dialect if my literary criticism is to mesh seemlessly with theirs in a mere 90 minutes. They are not quiet for long.

"I'm on top of the world!" one hulking doughboy exclaims, spinning around, arms out, eyes on the skylights. (Note to self: Make grand gestures, possibly involving bastardized mocking of the movie Titanic.)

"We could have a dance contest!" a girl says, busting a move on the marble floor of the atrium. (I hope somehow dancing is called for during the book group! Maybe I will teach the kids some "cool new moves" like The Running Man and The Cabbage Patch.)

"Dang! This is phat!" a boy observes, looking up at the atrium skylight. (Phat, indeed, young sir. Phat, indeed.)

1:49 p.m.

The teens have made their way around the ninth floor, which also includes an African American history exhibit. On the way out, one of them whistles sharply, a single piercing note. I look up quickly, not because I'm startled by the whistle, but because I have simultaneously, coincidentally, had a great, fabulous, genius idea -- a eureka! moment that will transform my writing. The boy laughs. I'm pretty sure he laughs at me, thinking Ha ha, look at the old lady with the computer, afraid of a loud noise. In reality, I'm probably just projecting and he's probably just thinking about a girl or a video game or a corndog. Nonetheless, I have forgotten what my eureka! idea was, and my back is starting to ache. I am getting OLD. As I sit here, heinie on hardwood, spine against stone, my joints are creaky, my forehead is crinkly, and I could really use some Bengay.

2:05 p.m.

I am so bored. My very boredness is making me feel like a teenager. They are always bored, aren't they? And my computer is running out of battery juice, meaning I may be forced back into those ill-made cubicles very soon. I need something to perk me up! I need adventure and excitement! I need to . . . ride the escalators!

The Harold Washington Library has a stupendous series of escalators, the likes of which I have seen nowhere else, in which two chunks of moving walkway are necessary to get from floor to floor. The ceilings here are not that high, but halfway between floors you must get off on a platform, take a hard left turn, and get on another escalator. All that stepping on and off! It's double the thrill!

I find the escalator on the ninth floor, no problem, and ride it down to the eighth. Somehow, though, at this point I cannot find the escalator down to seven. I see one labeled "Up to Ninth" but nothing about going down. Hmmm. This is odd. Perhaps I have stumbled upon some magic escalator vortex that will transport me into a land of fright and wonder, a la The Neverending Story. This calls for an investigation! And I think I have just the 27-year-old teenager for the job.

(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow when the escalator investigation leads me to ponder the mating habits of '80s hair metal bands!)

I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 4: Breakin' the Law)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: What's the last rule you remember breaking? Chime in after today's post! - Erin

(Continued from yesterday's post.)

Friday, July 15, 2006

1:01 p.m.

Before I go into total stealth-teenager mode for the book discussion, I'm going to warm up with some general rule breaking. Teenagers are rule breakers by default, since it's impossible to play by all the rules all the time when everyone but you -- parents, teachers, security guards -- gets to make them.

My stomach is growling something fierce, and thus I've chosen an appropriate rule to break: the no-eating rule. I'm determined to work up the nerve to drink my Slimfast . . . in . . . the . . . library! A real rebel, I am. In truth, I haven't actually seen any physical signs that say NO FOOD OR DRINK. But I also haven't seen any signs that say SHUT UP, BE QUIET, IT'S A LIBRARY! We all know that's understood, though, don't we? And I think the food and drink one is, too. Since Slimfast is both a food and a drink, I am being doubly ballsy by even considering this.

1:07 p.m.

I have now worked up the nerve to remove the Slimfast from my backpack. It is next to me, on the floor of the library, under my wadded up red hoodie.

1:12 p.m.

Having skimmed the first few pages of my books, I take a moment to shake up my Slimfast. This makes a surprisingly load noise, magnified by the relative silence of the library stacks. When I shake the can, I also get water on my face -- condensation that's been collecting on top of the can for the past two hours. The books, thankfully, are spared. Oh, how I love library books. Of all the possible petty crimes for which I could be hauled off to the slammer today, destroying library books shant be the one.

1:13 p.m.

After all the noisy shaking, I set the can back down under my sweater. It makes a clanging noise that any trained security guard must surely know is the sound of an aluminum beverage can hitting the marble floor of a public library. My eyes dart around, looking for other humans who might be watching me through the stacks. Nothing.

1:15 p.m.

Oh lord, I have opened it. I have popped the top of the Slimfast can! It was the loudest, longest opening of anything ever. The mouth of the Grand Canyon opened faster than this. I am amazed no one has come to collect me yet. How is it possible I am not painfully but comically bouncing down the sidewalk on my bum? Where is the paddy wagon?

It seems I have committed the perfect crime. Still, I am not going to get cocky. I put the open can under my sweater again, keeping my eyes pealed and hoping no lint is falling from the sweater into my "lunch."

1:21 p.m.

Mission accomplished! I am officially a rule-breaker of 10-story library proportions. My stomach is full (well, not full exactly because, let's get real, we're talking Slimfast here) and the can is empty (except for those pesky drops that won't go in my mouth but will surely drip onto my clothes). But the point is I have eaten in the library! Ha! It's liberating! You might even say I feel 19 again.

Oh, and in case you're wondering how to pull off such a daring caper, here's how I did it: I held a book in front of my face and took very big gulps. Pure. Genius.

(To be continued tomorrow . . . The Slimfast incident was nothing! In part five, I am drunk with rule-breaking power!)

I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 3: Giant Library)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Who is your favorite Ghostbuster? Chime in after today's post! - Erin

(Continued from yesterday's post.)

Friday, July 15, 2005

11:13 a.m.

I made it! Despite temptations on every block of downtown Chicago -- coffee shops! records stores! places that sell chips and salsa! -- I am finally here at the Harold Washington Library. It is a glorious, 10-story behemoth of truth, literature, and having your backpack inspected on the way out. So far I have sniffed around floors 2, 1, 9, 8, 7, and 6, in that order, and am sitting at a desk which was chosen because it has a power outlet for my laptop and because the previous user left behind books titled Prayer and Understanding Marijuana. I figure I may need both if I'm going to successfully impersonate a teenager today.

Unfortunately, my new desk has the glaring drawback of being built for Bull from Night Court. I'm having to strain something fierce to sit up tall enough to type. My neck would like to say, Hey, you up there on top of me, with the brain! I was just wondering when you're going to clamp some of those gold rings around me like the African tribal types do. I mean, I assume that's why you're stretching and craning me like this. Because, otherwise, why? What do you think we are, a giraffe? Are the legs down there really too lazy to get up and find us all a more suitable table?

And my legs would say, Shut up, neck! Yes, we are!

11:42 p.m.

The man behind me just belched. In the library. Gross. If there is no smoking in the library, there should also be no belching. And no making weird whistling noises trying to suck food out from between your teeth, which is almost definitely what he's doing now. I think what we have here is a classic case of the Homeless Library Patron. This man is why most people who like books and have any money whatsoever are across the street at Barnes and Noble. They can't handle the homeless, and Barnes and Noble knows that. Why else would they build a book store right across the street from the gothic wonder that is the Harold Washington Library?

But the joke's on them. If I've learned one thing from the Corporate Saboteur it's that shiny floors, stupidly named beverages, and narcolesy inducing music are no shield against encounters with undesirables.

Anyway, the Belching Guy has every right to be here -- but he's also very distracting. Right now he has moved on from belching to alternately yawning and sniffing, with emphasis on the sniffing. I never knew anyone could sniff with such force. What is he sniffing for? Isn't he used to the way he smells? Aren't we all used to our own smells? Isn't it me who should be sniffing thanks to him? Or wait! Maybe he smells smoke! Is the Harold Washington on fire?! If so, I will be very disappointed. I haven't even seen floors 3 through 5 yet, and if I don't go to this book discussion, I'll always wonder if I could have pulled off all the bold-faced lying. Plus, considering how long it'll take security to inspect backpacks when we're all trying to flee the flames at once, chances are everyone from the second floor up will be toast.

12:50 p.m.

The discussion is 2 hours and 40 minutes off. I'm wondering if I should get there early, right on time, or late. If memory serves, teenagers are always late, or tardy, as they call it in high school. I wonder, too, about how many people will be there. If it's just me, I hope I melt into the ground from embarrassment before there's time for shame to set in. Hmmm. Will I accidentally burst out laughing at the first trite, teenagery thing that's said? Will they all talk like they know everything and they've had such big life experiences already, like everyone did at 16. Who will lead this discussion -- an adult, a kid, a librarian? Hmmm, maybe this isn't such a good idea. I hate it when librarians get mad and shush you. I can't imagine getting kicked out of the library for impersonating an adolescent. Is there a felony for that, like impersonating a police officer? Is it possible I haven't fully thought this through?

OK, my neck is killing me! I've got to move!

12:55 p.m.

I've found a new home on the back wall of the sixth floor, by a window. It's not a big or particularly picturesque view, but it's something. I've also found several books I want to read (the first chapter at least), including Teen Aganst? Naaah . . . A Quasi-Autobiography and Avoiding Prison and Other Noble Vacation Goals. Perhaps these books will offer some valuable insight into today's mission.

Speaking of finding things: I never did spot a street rubber band, thank god. Clearly, we're all better off (me, for the obvious reason that I don't have street rubber band in my hair, and everyone else for the reason that it would be impossible to respect someone with a street rubber band in her hair and nobody wants to read the writing of someone they don't respect). But now I have to rely on the kindness of librarians to find one. Aside from Megan Owen's mom and Bart from the Twin Oaks Austin branch, those ladies kinda scare me. I just checked over my shoulder, inadvertently, to make sure none of them were watching me type this -- as if they have such good hearing from working in a quiet library that they can somehow make out the different keys I'm typing and mentally spell along, reading my every word. Who knows what powers librarians possess, really? They've read a lot of books, and their brains were trained on the magical minutae of the Dewey Decimal System. Plus, now that the check-out system is computerized, you just know they're dying to find other uses for those weird old gadgets that once stamped the due dates in library books. Yes, I'm sure of it now. Screw library security -- the librarians are truly the ones to be feared today. No way am I going to jail covered head to toe in smeared, blue-black ink splotches that say July 15, 2005. I'll get my own tattoos in prison, thank you very much.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Perhaps if I find a ponytail holder, I can still pull off this ruse and avoid incarceration all together (at least for today). I've got a good spy outfit: yellow and black Reef flipflops, shorts from Old Navy, a red tank top with stars on it, and a darker red zip-up hoodie with embroidered flowers (from the teencentric Delia's catalog). Also, no makeup. Today, the freckles rule the face with an iron fist (as my dad used to say)! I didn't even try very hard to cover any zits (for once adult acne is useful). Most importantly, I moved my wedding and engagement rings to my right hand. If anyone asks, they are promise rings from my high school sweetheart. Not a lie, per se.

1:01 p.m.

As cool as the Harold Washington Library is, I like to imagine I'm actually in the main library in New York City. That's where the opening scene takes place in Ghostbusters. God, I love that movie: when the Ghostbusters walk past the stack of books in the basement and Venkman says, "No human being would stack books like that" . . . when Ray hushes them with, "Listen! Do you smell something?" . . . when Venkman asks the freaked-out old librarian, "Are you, Alice, menstruating?" Someday I hope to work up the nerve to say that to a librarian and just see what happens.

(To be continued . . . Join me tomorrow when I explore the library further and make some very big noise breaking one of its biggest rules!)

I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 2: Streets of Chicago)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Who made the best partner for Lennie Briscoe on Law & Order -- Chris Noth, Ben Bratt, or Jesse L. Martin? Chime in after today's post! - Erin

(Continued from yesterday's essay.)

Friday, July 15, 2005

8:47 a.m.

The big day has arrived. Frankly, it's a miracle I'm not still in bed. I love to sleep in. Being a teacher put a stop to that for the past nine months, but lately the ZZZZZZs have been making an impressive comeback. I am the Ultimate Sleeping Champion again. Nevertheless, today I crawled out of bed with my husband -- we still haven't bought a bed frame or box springs to go with our mattress, so "crawled" is actually pretty accurate -- and pretended I had to get up like the rest of the worker bees. I am not one of them, not until I head back to Austin and the first graders of Travis Heights Elementary in a month. But if I don't wake up and go to Starbucks like the rest of the bees, I'll spend the whole day watching Law & Order marathons on TNT and USA. The day will be shot (inasmuch as watching Law & Order counts as wasting your day, and I will happily take the con side of that debate at another time). But after two days of Detectives Lennie Briscoe and Ed Green, or Lennie and Mr. Big, or Lennie and that guy who used to date Julia Roberts and who looks pretty hot fake-reading a newspaper -- after spending the past two days watching those guys solve crime on our roommate's freakishly large TV -- I think it's best if I cut the cord and get out into the real world.

I mean, why watch pretend stuff on television when I can go out into the real world and pretend myself? Exactly. Let's roll!

9:13 a.m.

I've packed my backpack with everything I need for a fine day of fakery -- medium red delicious brand apple, Vanilla Slimfast, Ipod, cell phone, highlighter, pen, laptop, composition notebook, pocket-size spiral notebook, one unread novel, one unread nonfiction book about writing, and of course, the recently read novel I'll be discussing with teenagers in a few hours. Over coffee with my husband, I told him proudly that I was going to a book discussion at the downtown library. He sounded impressed and jealous. I did not mention the mandatory age range of the discussion group (14-19) or that it was listed under the library's summer activities for young adults. I object. I am a young adult. 27 is a young adult! A 14-year-old is a child. (AUTHOR'S PREEMPTIVE NOTE TO HER TWO YOUNGEST SISTERS, AGES 11 AND 14: Not you, silly!

9:45 a.m.

I kiss the hubby goodbye and stroll out onto the streets of downtown Chicago, belly full of two ludicrously named Starbucks items: the grande nonfat non-foam vanilla latte and the Reduced Fat Cinnamon Swirl Coffee Cake. The stupid terms for Starbucks coffee sizes used to bother me. Then my stomach fell in love with that six-word pastry and I really got pissed. I mean, should I have to spit out all those needless adjectives before I've even had my daily jolt of caffeine? I've taken to just pointing at the cake and grunting "gimme the cinnamon business," but the, ahem, baristas never get it. It's like they're robots only programmed to understand Starbucks language (or like most Americans trying to get by in a non-English-speaking country). I end up having to say the whole long name anyway. Argh.

I am so peeved by all this, I am extra amused to see a certain unmistakable local dude breeze through the 'bucks as I exit. My husband and I call this dude the Corporate Saboteur. Our best guess is that he's homeless or a crack addict or both. The problems of homelessness, poverty, and drug addiction are more prevalent in Chicago than anywhere else I've ever lived, and your heart will break daily if you let it. From what I can tell, the best any of us can do is volunteer in our communities (or a needier one than yours) and be thankful for what we have. If anyone has a better suggestion, please, I'm all ears.

But all that said, the Corporate Saboteur is pretty funny. Today's sighting was a classic example. Looking quite spaced out but proud of himself, he strolled through the side door of our Starbucks, which is located on the first floor of a glass building that houses the company's corporate office and a bunch of law and accounting firms. The Corporate Saboteur bought nothing but strutted purposefully across the coffee shop, past dozens of Wall Street Journal readers. He left behind the almost visible stench of a thousand dumpsters, of clothes positively baked in human matter. It was an indescribable, impenetrable wall of funk -- accompanied by a sly, little grin -- that clearly, loudly declared: "I'll have an iced venti, nonfat, non-foam, half-caf, hazelnut almond cup of FUCK YOU, YUPPIES! TO GO, PLEASE!!" I was tempted to run back in and give the guy a high five (even though I know -- since it took 11 very pretentious words for me to order a breakfast that was essentially "coffee [comma] donut" -- I am one of those yuppies now).

10:15 a.m.

After the grande existential crisis that comes as a free side order with every cup of Starbucks coffee, I stop at my favorite bookstore, on Washington and Franklin, where everything is 50% off this month for some reason (they swear they are not going out of business but just need to pay the rent). I'm there at least every third day and I never make it out without a new book, usually several. Wednesday's purchase was I Can't Tell You, the book that started this whole "faux-teen on a mission" mess. Books can be very powerful. Here I am about to risk serious embarrassment and possible mistaken identity (for a pedophile) simply because I want to discuss Hillary Frank's book with others. Is it my fault the only others reading this book are teenagers? (AUTHOR'S NOTE: At this point I barely care about the book anymore. I just like the idea of going undercover in a nerdy public forum from which I am barred by ageism.)

I made a couple of purchases at the book store -- rationalizing that I'd actually finished one book since my last visit and was thus deserving of a reward. At the checkout counter, the clerk wrestled with a rogue rubber band tangled in the cash register cord. My 27-year-old brain went ding! I was going to need a couple of those if I was going to wear pigtails in a few hours. (Always thinking, me!) I asked the clerk girl, who kinda knows me by now (if for no other reason than I spilled water on the counter a couple visits ago): "Could I have that rubber band?" She cheerily turned it over to me, proving one of my mantras (You Can't Get What You Want If You Don't Ask).

Fishing around in my backpack as I hit the sidewalk again, I was sure I'd brought another ponytail holder from home. But alas: keys, quarters, transit card, chapstick -- no rubber band. One was definitely not enough. With a plain old ponytail, I could be any lazy-haired woman walking around town, probably in sweatpants. But with pigtails, it would be a whole new ballgame. They can shave a decade off my appearance. (Just ask the guy who carded me at an R-rated movie not that long ago!) But was I really going to have to casually scan the sidewalks between the bookstore and the library, looking for something to put in my hair? Ewwwww. Gross. But accurate. A spy does what a spy must.

(To be continued . . . On Monday, find out if I actually end up with a street rubber band in my hair and what happens when I actually reach the 10-story behemoth that is Chicago's Harold Washington Library. Party time!)

I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission! (Pt. 1: Living Room)

Thursday, July 14, 2005

11:11 AM

I feel an adventure coming on. I just got off the phone with a nice, if slightly deaf, foreign-accented lady from the Harold Washington Library. I called to preregister for tomorrow's discussion of the book I Can't Tell You by Hillary Frank. I just bought it yesterday because it was small and inexpensive and fun-looking -- hopefully quirky Gen Y fiction like The Perks of Being a Wallflower. And after enjoying the book in a single sitting, I was inspired enough to find its author online. Turns out there's a discussion group convening tomorrow! In my favorite library! About this very book!

There's just one itsy-bitsy snag. According to the Library Lady with whom I spoke, the discussion is for kids 14-19. What choice did I have?

Library Lady: "Age?"
Me: "Nineteen."

This is true, as long as she means mental age. If by chance she means actual age, well it's 27 (28 in a few weeks). Still, with pigtails, no makeup, and lots of moisturizer, I can certainly pass for 19. It's the freckles. I'll definitely have to take off my wedding and engagement rings, though!

The best part about my chat with the Library Lady was that before I lied about my age bracket, we had this awesome, "Who's On First?"-style exchange, made worse by my terrible cell phone reception.

Library Lady: "What event are you calling about?"
Me: "The book discussion for I Can't Tell You."
LL: "OK, so it's a book discussion? You're not sure which one?"
Me: "It's I Can't Tell You."
LL: "What kind of book is it? Do you know the author's name?"
Me, yelling into my cell phone: "IT'S I CAN'T TELL YOU!"

Of course, that's when it dawned on me that our problem was not about language or accents or technology. It was about the book title. Hillary Frank might as well have named her book I Don't Know the Name of the Book.

2:42 PM

So, I just wrote the author, Hillary Frank, an e-mail. I doubt I'll hear back from her in time for tomorrow, but who knows. I wrote her in a way that may lead her to assume I'm a teenager. Honestly, the way I write isn't always that far off from the angsty and/or flighty missives of a high school freshman. I just cranked it up a notch. In hindsight, I don't think many kids say "that is just beyond me" but whatever. Here's an excerpt:

Ms. Frank,
I am so excited! First, I happened across your book, I Can't Tell You, at the book store yesterday and couldn't put it down. I looked at your author info on the flap and was so excited to find out you're from Chicago. I surfed your web site and found -- AMAZING! -- there's a discussion of the very book at my library tomorrow. That is just beyond me! Anyway, I was wondering if you would be there tomorrow. I really hope so! If not, could I treat you to coffee sometime? I'm working on a book myself and would love to hear about your writing life.
Thanks for a great read,
Erin

1:41 PM

I heard back from Hillary Frank already! She must be either an e-mail obsessive who checks for messages practically on the minute or the lonely writer stuck home alone. I am both, so I can identify. She seems really friendly, but maybe it's because she likes kids and thinks I'm one. Too bad she won't be there tomorrow, although as an adult, she might have been able to sniff me out. Here's some of her reply:

Erin,
Thanks so much for your kind words about I Can't Tell You. Writing books is a tough job and it's letters like yours that make it all feel worthwhile. I'm not going to be at the discussion tomorrow, but I hope you still go. Sounds like you'd have a lot to add to the conversation. . . . Good luck with your own writing!
Best,
Hillary

Good luck with my writing, indeed! If I don't keep getting sidetracked by reading other people's books or planning elaborate library hijinks, maybe someday I'll get my teaching book done. Whatever. Tomorrow is going to be one for the books (no pun intended).

(In tomorrow's installment of "I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission!", yours truly strikes out for history's most espionage-filled trip to the public library. Stay tuned . . .)

Before we begin . . .

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: When was the last book you read? Chime in after today's post! - Erin

There are these things I do on occasion. They're impossible to categorize, except that they are unplanned and culminate with hysterical laughter from my girlfriends and an inquisition into my sanity from everyone else. I call these events "Pulling an Erin."

On a small scale, I'm thinking of the time, years ago, when I stopped at a fancy furniture store in downtown Austin and ended up asking to use the phone in a fake British (possibly Scottish) accent. On a larger scale, I'm thinking of the time when I decided to research a new friend from Northwestern University via the web (bear in mind, this was long before "Google" was considered a verb). After clicking just a few links, I determined my friend was a fascinating individual -- a part-Asian, part-Anglo rollerderby enthusiast who had studied at a prestigious Chicago science academy and even had an identical twin brother attending NU as well. Unbeknownst to my friend, for several days in 1997 our interactions revolved entirely around this database of knowledge I'd clandestinely amassed. The problem was: absolutely none of it was true. The fact that he didn't look remotely Asian and never wore rollerskates should have tipped me off. It didn't. Nor did the fact that his name turned out to be Phil and not Tedd as I believed (yes, with two Ds, that's what the Internet told me!), although it did hammer home the point that I didn't actually know this guy very well. In the end, the whole thing blew up in my face in a much more entertaining way, involving the revelation of something that was actually, shockingly true -- that for some reason both of us considered our favorite words to be "pants" and "corn." There are a thousand other freakish details to this story, and I will certainly write about it all here sometime soon.

For today, the critical point is that for 10 years, the "faux-Asian non-twin story" has been the standard by which all "Pulling an Erin" events are judged. But now I am forced to admit something scary: that a new contender has emerged. I can scarcely believe it myself, but it's true. This week I uncovered my typed diary from a 24-hour-period in July 2005. I was spending 6 weeks in Chicago, hanging with my husband and trying to churn out a memoir about, among other things, the fact that I am just a silly, spastic kid in adult's clothing. Of course, in the book I mean that metaphorically. But in the diary you're about to read, it's almost literal. Things started sanely enough, with a case of good timing and the love of a good book. They ended with me masquerading as a teenager, stowing away in Chicago's famed Harold Washington Library, and questioning the very meaning of being a grown-up. You'll see. . . .

Welcome to Just Eat The Cat!

Happy 2007 and welcome to my new blog, Just Eat The Cat! I'll be posting friends-only peeks at essays-in-progress, updates on my forthcoming memoir These Halls Used To Be Taller! Confessions of a 27-Year-Old First Grader, tales of rock-and-roll mania with my bands, The Personals and the Hidden Mitten, and other fun stuff. I decided to start a new, independent blog because, despite the glut of humans on Myspace, I know many of my friends and family have let the bandwagon pass them by. Good for y'all! I mean that. Just yesterday I told the Chicago news crew that stopped me on Michigan Avenue for an interview about the new iPhone that I wish cell phones didn't even exist. Not exactly a technophile, me! But I am a compulsive writer and thus gave into the blog-nomenon six months ago, and here we are.

To kick off Just Eat The Cat, I thought I'd put together a "best of" my Myspace blog and perhaps the tour blog I did for the Austin American-Statesman newspaper on behalf of The Personals. But man, it was impossible! I couldn't choose. 2006 was an amazing year and if you want to catch up before diving into this new blog, go for it! Contrary to popular belief, you don't need to be a Myspace member to read the blogs, mine included. Here they are:

My personal Myspace blog (July '06-present)
The Personals band blog (ongoing)
My tour blog for the Statesman (May/June '06)

Coming soon to Just Eat The Cat . . . a stunning, many-part true adventure called "I Was A 27-Year-Old Teenager On A Mission!" . . . and the exciting conclusion to my (also many-part) Myspace saga "No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin." I'll start with the former, so new readers will be on the same footing as readers of my other blogs (but I promise my Myspace friends that an end to the Wisconsin trip will follow). Enjoy!

LOVE & GUITARS,
Erin