Just Eat the Cat!

Searching for Jack Holt, 75, formerly of Chicago (now San Diego?)

2009-02-08T16:41:00.001-06:00

I am on a mission! I want to help my friend, a 75-year-old man in Chicago who is heartbroken because he hasn't seen his lifelong best friend, Jack Holt, in years.

Jack (or John) Holt would also be about 75 today. About 12 years ago, Jack moved from 6938 W. Medill in Chicago to the San Diego area to be with his sister, Joan Holt, and his mother, Mrs. Arthur Holt (unsure of her first name). Joan Holt is retired from working from the San Diego County district attorney. Mrs. Arthur Holt, who would be in her 90s now, worked for the Sec. of State's office in Illinois. Last my neighbor knew, Jack Holt had never married or had children.

This is all the information I have about the family. My friend doesn't have a computer and is struggling with loneliness and other emotions related to aging. He misses his friend, who he describes as being "like a brother," and it would mean the world to get to talk to him again after all these years.

For younger generations like mine (I'm 31), staying in touch or finding "old friends" is no sweat. We use Facebook and cell phones and don't bat an eyelash. But my friend has no computer and no way of tracking down his "brother" at a time in his life where reconnecting would mean so much.

If you have any info or suggestions that might help me find Jack Holt or his family, I will greatly appreciate it -- and you'll make a huge difference in someone's life.

Thanks!

New year, new writing!

2009-01-03T12:41:00.006-06:00

OK, so the NaNoWriMo plan didn't pan out perfectly. I did write a few thousand words and come up with an outline for a future book, though. Better than nothing. :)

And what's way better? Monday I start an 8-week online writing workshop led by one of my favorite authors and inspirations, Ariel Gore. You may remember her from the motivating and generally cool-chick interview she gave me this time a couple years ago: Ariel interview Pt. 1 and Pt. 2. I've been writing up a storm just at the thought of the workshop. I'll let y'all know how it goes.

In other news, the Hidden Mitten was in the studio last week recording a new EP (YAY!!!!) and I'm also getting the Silver Lining Writers Group back together for the new year. Woohoo! It feels awesome to end '08 and start '09 on a creative note. A studio diary will be coming soon from me, and in the meantime, here's the scoop on writing group from my Facebook post:

So, in 2007 I had this superfun writers group going with various friends. We got together every month or so to drink, hang out, and either talk about writing -- or not talk about writing, depending on mood. It was open to anyone with an interest in writing, so we had everyone from those with a published book to those who prided themselves on writing kickass e-mails. If one of us needed to vent about writer's block or a torturous freelance assignment, we did (and we drank). If one of us was celebrating seeing their article in print or book in stores, we did (and we drank). Those were good, inspiring, camaraderie-infused times.

Then I got a full-time job. Projects like finishing my book, writing on my blog, printing my 'zine, and getting the writer's group together fell tragically but understandably by the wayside. To that I say: NO MORE! Many members have asked when we're meeting again, and I shall put it off no more. Break out the whiskey and put on your best Hemingway pants -- for as the new year looms, Silver Lining Writers Group returns! Woohoo!

WHEN: 6 p.m. (or as soon as you can get there) Monday, January 19
WHERE: Hopleaf Bar, 5148 N. Clark http://www.hopleaf.com/
WHAT ELSE: For new-year's inspiration, we'll head to the Neo-Futurariam for the 8 p.m. show of my favorite theater production ever, That's Weird, Grandma. The show is cheap ($9), short (1 hr.), and unforgettably different and hilarious every time. (The Barrel of Monkeys troupe works with Chicago Public School kids, who write short sketches that the adult actors perform in the show.) If kids can write, we can write -- right?! :)http://www.barrelofmonkeys.org/
HOW: New people are always welcome! You can come for the meeting and the show, or one or the other. You can bring friends. You can dance on the bar. Bring it on. (And if you do, I'll definitely regale you with the infamous story of "salsa sock," which was born after a particularly whiskey-fueled meeting at (may it rest in peace) Pontiac Cafe. Just comment and RSVP so I know how many seats to grab at the Hopleaf.

Happy new year and happy writing and reading to everyone!
LOVE & LIT,
Erin :)

NaNoWriMo 2008!

2008-11-01T12:42:00.003-06:00

It's Nov. 1 and I'm embarking on a new project: National Novel Writing Month (AKA NaNoWriMo). This means I'm going to try to write the first draft of a manuscript in one month. Yikes! Scary! But hopefully it will be just the kick in the pants I need to write more. I look back on the time when I had time to write on this blog or my Myspace blog every day, and it blows my mind all the memories and stories I was getting down on "paper." The habit of writing really is a huge part of the process, and I'm crossing my fingers it comes back to me like riding a bike (though you may know the story of how I didn't learn to ride 'til I was 19, so that old adage doesn't quite work here).

ANYWAY. Wish me luck! I'm hoping to post every day to keep track of my word count. 50,000 in a month is the NaNoWriMo goal. Here goes nothin' - or hopefully, somethin'!

LOVE & STORIES,
Erin

Silver Lining zine: You're Looking at Country, pt. 2

2008-02-05T17:13:00.000-06:00

We rejoin Silver Lining contributing writer Jennifer Levin in her love of country music. You can catch pt. 1 in the previous post. - Erin

Who says who gets to listen to what? Well…though we were not religious, my parents called the principal in protest when I was made to sing “O Come All Ye Faithful” in elementary school, and when I was 10, on a family camping trip through Kentucky, Tennessee and Mississippi, they warned me daily not to tell anyone we were Jewish. In retrospect, this level of “Jewish damage” is out of proportion to the sporadic and relatively tame anti-Semitism I actually encountered growing up, but…at a company Christmas party three years ago, jealous of the two-stepping couples on the dance floor, I asked a co-worker to teach me. “Don’t be silly,” she laughed, gulping water and grabbing her girlfriend by the hand, “Jews don’t have to know how to two-step.”

I was appalled, yet felt the need to defend myself to her in my head, angrily listing the CDs currently in rotation in my car: Jimmie Rodgers, Gillian Welch, Iris DeMent, the Carter Family, Allison Krauss and Union Station — who did she think she was? I had nothing to prove. And still…

Last August, I put off going to the Santa Fe Bluegrass Festival for the first two-and-a-half days, citing housework and other obligations. But on Sunday evening William and I finally headed for the rodeo grounds, where I knew that anyone with any street cred would recognize me as an interloper.

“Everyone’s so old-timey,” I said, and though no one had even looked at me, “I feel Jewish.”

“Jewish is like the oldest of the old-timey,” said William.

We settled into the main performance tent just in time to hear the band play Del McCoury’s “I Feel the Blues Moving In,” one of my all-time favorite songs. Knowing the lyrics to the first song I heard eased my anxiety. I let the music take over and forgot to feel like an outsider. The only thing required of me was an unending tolerance for the music. Turns out, I really can listen to it forever.

The Bluegrass Festival was a turning point for me, and we’ll be going for all three days this year. I can no longer deny who I am. However, I still need two-stepping lessons and I’d also like to learn to clog and yodel. In return, I can teach you how to make potato latkes and pineapple noodle kugel.

Silver Lining zine: You're Looking at Country by Jennifer Levin

2008-02-04T13:06:00.000-06:00

Today's Silver Lining contributor, the lovely Jennifer Levin, comes to us from Santa Fe, NM, by way of Chicago, where she once struggled with being Jewish, Midwestern, AND a fan of Country & Western music all at once. Read on! - Erin

When I was nine I wanted to be Tom Sawyer. I wore overalls, went barefoot, and to the dismay of my family and classmates, attempted to learn the harmonica. That I was a girl living in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago in 1984 didn’t dampen my desire to exist in the 1840s. Eventually, however, I grew breasts and could no longer convince myself of the fantasy.

In high school, though I shaved off most of my hair and wore combat boots, I preferred Pasty Cline to Siouxsie Sioux. In college, my affinity for the Waterboys inspired my roommate to forbid me from choosing the music anymore, because the Waterboys picking made her feel “too white.” And when I grew up and got a job and started listening to bluegrass in my office, co-workers leaned in to ask how someone like me had ever been exposed to country music.

“Someone like me” means “Jew from Chicago.” And though I would classify what I listen to as many things — bluegrass, high lonesome, rockabilly, twang, Western swing, classic country, alt-country — it is, indeed, country.

This country-love began about six years ago when my boyfriend William came home with the soundtrack to O Brother Where Art Thou and changed my life. Everything about this “old-timey” music was right for me — I told William I could listen to “I’ll Fly Away” forever. And yet, the curiosity my new musical pursuits provoked in others gave me pause. Who was I to sing along with a church song about going to heaven?

Was I being ridiculous?

(Was she? Was Jennifer being ridiculous? More tomorrow, when "You're Looking at Country" concludes. Can't wait! - Erin)

Trade in Celebrity Obsession for Community Service

2008-01-23T17:15:00.000-06:00

A friend in Oklahoma's blog this morning really inspired me. My heart aches right now over all the things it made me think about. Thankfully, I'm an optimist and I truly believe it's not too late to save our society from becoming a cesspool. But we all need to do our part to turn this freaking ship around. A link to his blog plus my response and call to action are now on the Open Books blog.

L&G,
e

P.S. -- After you read the blogs, I hope those in Chicago will suck it up and sign up to help Open Books with our Big Move. We can't do the bulk of our work until we get our books moved and sorted. They are used in critical community service programs and are sold to pay for all the literacy work we do. We desperately need people for the early Public Storage shifts, 7 - 11 a.m. Saturday and Sunday, Feb. 2-3. Just this once, get up early on a weekend. Then you can skip the gym and eat all your want at Super Bowl parties as a reward.

Silver Lining zine: Favorite Questions #3

2008-01-16T16:21:00.000-06:00

Three favorite questions for . . .

Jim Hall, Chicago, IL, 28

1. What's one BOOK that has made your life better?
The Brother's Karamazov because it's impossible to fee sorry for yourself when faced with a Dostoevsky character.

2. What's one ALBUM that has made your life better?
June of '44. Four Great Points. It proved to me that the music I wanted to listen to was out there, and that if I listened well enough, I could find it, and maybe make it myself.

3. What's one way you can take lemons and make lemonade?
I'm finding out just how productive I can be without constant internet access.

Silver Lining zine: Favorite Questions #2

2008-01-15T16:18:00.000-06:00

Three favorite questions for . . .

Jennifer Levin, Santa Fe, NM, 33

1. What's one BOOK that has made your life better?
I re-read The World According to Garp (John Irving) when I was very unhappy with my choice of college during freshman year. It made me realize that I was studying the wrong thing in the wrong place and so I moved to Santa Fe to be a writer.

2. What's one ALBUM that has made your life better?
Furnace Room Lullabye by Neko Case and Her Boyfriends. I didn't realize anyone sang that way--belting, uncatagorizable--and the song "Guided by Wire" made me understand my own past in a way I never had before.

3. What's one way you can take lemons and make lemonade?
I'm a little burnt out on my job--but I have 65 hours of vacation to use up in the next six weeks, so I'm taking all of next week off for an impromptu "writing residency in my bedroom." Only two days to go!

Silver Lining zine: Favorite Questions #1

2008-01-14T16:14:00.000-06:00

Three favorite questions for . . .

Kristen Brown, Austin, TX, 32

1. What's one BOOK that has made your life better?
Books don't normally affect me very much, and I don't really have favorites. (I know, I must be a Communist or an alien or something.) BUT, The Mezzanine, by Nicholson Baker, totally rocked my world. I think about that book almost every day. It taught me that I am not the only person who thinks in footnotes (!!) and who notices the minutiae of life. And it reminds me how it is BEST to be like that, because then you never take any of life for granted.

2. What's one ALBUM that has made your life better?
I'd have to say that Disintegration, by The Cure, changed my life more than any other album because it was THAT album that made me understand the emotional power of music and fall in love with music in general. AND, Robert Smith is hot.

3. What's one way you can take lemons and make lemonade?
Recently I realized that instead of complaining and whining every time I had to sit in the Credit Union drive-though for 35 minutes (!!) every two weeks on payday, I would use that time to call my grandfather, or balance my checkbook, or make to-do lists, or do any number of other things I complain about never sitting still long enough to do!!

Silver Lining zine: Jessa Crispin's "Books for Getting Off the Couch"!

2008-01-11T17:02:00.000-06:00

I asked some of my favorite writers and lit types to contribute lists of recommendations. Bookslut's fabulous editor Jessica Crispin, a fellow Chicagoan and former Austinite, came through with flying colors. Yesterday we wallowed in her list of books, and today we revel! - Erin

Top 5 Books for Getting Off the Couch by Jessa Crispin

Pussycat Fever by Kathy Acker
"All of us girls have been dead for so long. But we're not going to be anymore."

We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson
Jackson will make you believe in the power of witchcraft and the rage of little girls.

Lawless Roads by Graham Greene
Greene's travel narrative of Mexico will make you want to go exploring yourself, even through the worst parts of his trip.

Becoming the Villainess by Jeannine Hall Gailey
Gailey retells fairy tales, Shakespeare's stories, and superhero plots with a quick wit and modern sensibility.

Don't Tell Me the Truth about Love by Dan Rhodes
These stories of love gone horribly and hilariously wrong will eclipse any problems you're going through.

Silver Lining zine: Jessa Crispin's "Books for Wallowing"

2008-01-10T16:55:00.000-06:00

I asked some of my favorite writers and lit types to contribute lists of recommendations. Bookslut's fabulous editor Jessica Crispin, a fellow Chicagoan and former Austinite, came through with flying colors. Thanks, Jessa!- Erin

Top 5 Books for Wallowing by Jessa Crispin

Death of the Heart by Elizabeth Bowen
There's something about Bowen's writing that makes me want to take to my bed for three days and languish in her prose.

The Thin Place by Kathryn Davis
It's a book to be read slowly, and repeatedly.

The Varieties of Religious Experience by William James
More than just a (friendly) philosophy book, it can reorder your entire brain. After all that, you might need a nap.

Troubles by J. G. Farrell
Farrell's description of the decay of an Irish big house, overrun with cats and madness, will cause you to lose days at a time.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
The ultimate wallow book.

*Tomorrow -- no more wallowing for you! Jessa's Top 5 Books for Getting Off the Couch will be here!

Silver Lining short: Anna Price

2008-01-08T16:10:00.000-06:00

The Silver Lining is a classic-rock-inspired band from Cambridge, Mass., and their 2006 album Well Dressed Blues is out on EYE-CON Records. I spoke with lovely vocalist Anna Price.

ERIN: How did you choose the name The Silver Lining for your band?
ANNA: So much of rock is really nihlistic and a-melodic these days, which is why I think it's lost so much of its audience. We wanted to say something a little bit more positive. The name the Silver Lining aknowledges that sometimes life can suck, but there's always a bright side too.

How do you find a silver lining when band life gets rough?
The important thing is to have other stuff in your life that makes you happy. If you count on the band as your sole reason for happiness, you'll put all kinds of pressure on yourself and you won't be able to enjoy the good parts. In other words, being in a band is really fucking hard so just try to have fun and don't take it so seriously.

What advice to you have for readers who need to kick a dark cloud in the ass?
Count your blessings. Most likely you're better off than 90 percent of the people on the planet, and the things that suck in your life are probably not so bad as they seem. Figure out what you can't change and accept it, and work to change the things that you can.

(I couldn't agree more. Thanks, Anna!)

Silver Lining interview: Ariel Gore! Pt. 2

2008-01-07T16:50:00.000-06:00

Silver Lining presents the second part of our interview with author and zine inspiration Ariel Gore. Her hard-won, entertaining, motivational, and gutsy insights begin in the previous post.

Erin: What has been the most rewarding aspect of your career as an indie writer and publisher?

Ariel: Well, that's a hard question to have follow the last one, because now I am all worked up about how HORRIBLE it is. But it's not! It's amazing and excellent to be able to make an (albeit very modest) living doing what I like to do. I just read Anne Lamott's new book and interviewed her for our community radio station, and I am of course just so freakin' jealous because she makes enough money to have a lot more leisure time in it all than I do, but then I look around at my life and just breathe in my appreciation, because I trusted that if I worked really hard at doing what I love the world would somehow support me and that has been true. Through much poverty and other gloop--but always liveable poverty and other gloop.

What's the latest in Hip Mama world? Has your pregnancy given you a ton of new material to work with? (Of course, this interview was months ago, so it's not quite the latest now. Check out her website for more.)

I don't know. Not so much yet. I just found out IT'S A BOY. That's something new for me. But I'm not sure if the baby thing feels totally real to me yet. (Although, I can say, I really don't know why they discourage the teen mom thing SO much, pregnancy is really very uncomfortable when you're 36). Anyway -- my daughter is headed off to college in the fall, which is just head-spiningly amazing to me. Being the parent of a teenager is hard, hard in a lot of ways, but one thing I love is being reminded that as a parent I am dispensible. I have been important, but through all of my triumphs and fuck-ups, she is her own person with her own destiny. There were things that always came naturally to me that she is no good at, and there are whole worlds I have been terrified to even ENTER that she has, simply, mastered.

You were a big inspiration for the Silver Lining zine. Would you share with us some of your inspirations as a writer, a mom, or just in general?

Diane DiPrima, Katherine Arnoldi, Anais Nin, Micelle Tea, Anne Lamott, Mary Waters, China Martens. Well, that looks like a very femme list. I'm sure that some men should be on it, but they don't pop into my mind just now.

You talk about this in your book, but can you sum up your advice for women who think "I don't have time to be a lit star" or any other kind of star?

Well, a woman--any woman--has to make a real effort not to dissolve into everything that needs her. We are trained to put the thing that we want to do last--and with writing it's also WORK, so if we manage to carve out a couple of hours in the week for ourselves, we might as well just go get a drink and relax. So we've got to learn to put writing up there at the top of our to-do lists, and not let everyone else's wants and needs cut in line.

And lastly, is there anything on your mind these days that you think more people should be aware of or thinking about? Consider this question free reign to spread the word!

There's a lot of jealous meanness going around. There's a lot of frustration and grief on the planet right now. There's a lot of arrogance. Just don't get sucked into that. You are a unique and amazing genius -- and so is everyone else. Share some love, man. I know I sound like a freakin' hippie, but what are you going to do? Avoid everyone who has gotten sucked into that mean jealous arrogant thing, because it's super toxic and contageous. Don't try to save them or anything. Share the love, and then MOVE THE FUCK ON.

Silver Lining interview: Ariel Gore! Pt. 1

2008-01-04T16:41:00.000-06:00

*In 2008, the Silver Lining zine goes online here at Just Eat The Cat! I'll be posting interviews, poems, essays, and other writings from friends around Chicago, Austin, the U.S., and the world at large. It's great stuff -- and better late than never! To kick things off, here's my interview with Ariel Gore, the author, zine publisher/editor, and Hip Mama who largely inspired Silver Lining (the zine and the Chicago writers group by the same name). Thank you, Ariel! And thank you to the contributors and readers for their talents, support, and patience. Viva 2008! - Erin

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. For me, success has been ALL about taking what the world told me was my handicap and turning that into my strength. Being a teen mom, you learn that real fast. When you have a kid as a teenager--ever an older teenager like I was--you can either be what the world tells you you can be, which is nothing, or you can just pack up and run away in the night and go to college and do your thing and be a bad-ass--sometimes awesome and sometimes tired and messed up--mama. The world told me I should be ashamed of myself, but I flaunted it: Yeah I'm a teenage welfare mother.

Your latest book is one of the best guides for writers I've ever read (and I've read tons). Would you give us a tidbit of writing advice you wish someone had given you along the way?

I'm so glad you like it! I think writers have to reimagine themselves as BOTH artists AND entrepreneurs. We have to dream big and work harder. We have to CREATE a context in which our work matters and makes sense. If you think of the beat writers or any creative community like that, they invented that grouping for themselves--they didn't wait around for some publisher to say, Hey, this might fit into a new little sub-genre I've been thiking about...

What do you think is the best advice for writers that, alas, must simply be learned the hard way?

Well, most writers are very sensitive. We dream of publishing and we dream of our work being loved and appreciated and accepted--and often our work is very personal so we interpret that love and appreciation and acceptance as being very personal, too, and when it all works we are happy and fufilled, but taking the praise personally sets us up, because someone is going to hate what we put out there. They are going to write shitty reviews of our genuine effort. And how can we not take that personally? Worse, someone is going to suddenly feel like it is his freaking CALLING to take us down a notch, and they're really going to get personal and ugly. This is more about being a public person than being a writer, but when you publish--even if only ten people read your work--you have become a public person, and humans are very, very cruel to each other.

Where am I?

2007-11-20T15:34:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-09-13T08:12:00.000-06:00

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.

2007-08-22T18:52:00.000-06:00

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

2007-07-21T20:33:00.001-06:00

(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

2007-07-21T20:32:00.000-06:00

(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

2007-07-21T20:31:00.000-06:00

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

2007-06-11T08:24:00.001-06:00

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!

2007-06-09T13:32:00.001-06:00

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

2007-06-06T12:05:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-05-24T06:08:00.001-06:00

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

2007-05-23T12:13:00.000-06:00

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

2007-05-22T12:11:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-05-14T13:00:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-05-04T09:35:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-05-02T07:32:00.000-06:00

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

2007-04-29T20:56:00.000-06:00

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

2007-04-19T08:59:00.000-06:00

[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)

2007-04-17T10:00:00.000-06:00

[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!

2007-04-06T11:49:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-04-05T09:52:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-04-04T08:45:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-04-03T14:53:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-26T17:30:00.000-06:00

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!)

2007-03-24T14:03:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-03-24T12:58:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-15T10:34:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-08T17:28:00.001-06:00

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!

2007-03-07T21:26:00.000-06:00

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!)

2007-02-15T08:36:00.000-06:00

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

2007-02-14T13:03:00.000-06:00

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!)

2007-02-13T09:11:00.000-06:00

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!)

2007-02-12T19:10:00.000-06:00

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)

2007-02-12T16:55:00.000-06:00

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

2007-02-09T11:49:00.000-06:00

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!)

2007-02-08T08:34:00.000-06:00

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!)

2007-02-07T15:36:00.000-06:00

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

2007-02-06T15:29:00.000-06:00

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?

2007-02-05T17:12:00.000-06:00

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)

2007-02-02T12:09:00.000-06:00

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.

No Sleep 'Til Wisconsin! (Pt. 3: Meet the Metra)

2007-02-01T09:45:00.001-06:00

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: Ever had a wacky public transit experience? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

October 2006, Chicago, Illinois
(Continued from Tuesday's pt. 2 post.)

Where was I? Oh, yes, I was bounding down the steps of the Metra station and into collegiate/shopping wonderland of downtown Evanston, Illinois. Which, if you’re keeping track, is NOT in Wisconsin.

As my Converse hit the concrete, I was almost knocked down by the even more purposeful bounding of a man with salt-and-pepper hair and easily the most ludicrous pants I’ve seen since the Personals went thrift store shopping in Madison (which actually IS in Wisconsin) in May. These pants were pouffy and gave the illusion that the wearer had no knees. The pants' graphic print fabric was covered in kitchen utensils and salt and pepper shakers. Is this guy dressing to metaphorically match his hair? I wondered, before remembering that Evanston is, or at least was, home to a fancy-pants culinary institute. I gave the guy a free pass from the fashion police, hoping to god his fancy pants were his school uniform.

But speaking of fancy, let’s talk about the train before it chugga-chuggas out of the station. The Metra is the Cadillac of Chicago public transportation. Much as I love the El, compared to the Metra, those trains are rusty, flat-tired El Caminos. If you’re going to catch fire or derail from time to time, and serve as a urine receptacle for the city's homeless and/or frat guys, you don’t get to be the Jaguar or even the Jetta. (FYI, the bus is the bus.)

The Metra costs more – I shelled out $6.40 for my ticket from Wicker Park to Kenosha, vs. $2 for any El ride – and it costs more for good reason. It’s faster. It’s cleaner. The seats are comfier. Since it’s double-decker, you immediately feel like you’re riding one of those cute red buses in London, waving at the queen's guards from the top deck and trying to get them to crack a smile by hollering lewd puns about their big, furry hats and sharp, shiny swords (or maybe that was just me). Also, I took the Metra to see Cheap Trick for my birthday. So I heart it, plain and simple.

What’s most notable about the Metra, though, could be the riders. I can’t say what the people in the lower cars are like or what they’re doing down there because I try not to associate with people who would pass up the chance to ride up top. (What’s wrong with them? You can ride on ground level any time!) But in my car – the caboose, of course – it was clear that Metra riders are a slightly different breed. I have only two Metra rides to draw from, but I’m going to generalize anyway. (It’s my saga. I can do that.) In short, they look richer and whiter than anyone I have ever seen on public transportation.

Meet the people on the top level of the caboose with me: a man with a tie and wire-rim glasses scribbling in a legal pad; another guy pretty much the same, only slightly older, with no tie, highlighting documents instead; three men reading newspapers (none of which were Streetwise or even USA Today); a middle-aged woman in a suit whom I had assumed was a man when I sat down in front of her (She seemed peeved that I was looking around, surveying the train car . . . people don’t like it when you look around but that’s just tough. Far as I know, I've only got one shot at life on this planet, and I'M GONNA LOOK AROUND, BITCHES!); a younger, spiffier woman with an Ipod, also in a suit; and the exceptions to the rule – a girl in a pink hoodie and sneakers staring out the window and a younger guy who looked like an extra from the film Heavy Metal Parking Lot wearing a t-shirt that urged some wrestler or rapper I’d never heard of to rest in peace.

That’s who the riders were. Which means they weren’t trudging from car to car asking for “spare change,” rambling about lost tabs of LSD and how they see better without their glasses. No one is eating tortillas off the seat. I imagine they were thinking your basic nonthreatening, boring people thoughts: Should I make rice or potatoes with the chicken tonight? When is Sheryll Crow going to play the Midwest again? Isn't it about time pleated pants came back in style?

All these train people made me want to be around my people again -- people who could speak extemporaneously on the relative merits of Cinderella (the band, not the fairytale) versus Ratt (the band, not the vermin). I had an hour to kill before the train to Kenosha chugged into the station -- not a lot of time to safely skip down memory lane at Northwestern and be back without missing the train. And I'd be damned if I was missing another train!

As the caboose stopped and I bounded onto the platform at Evanston’s Davis Street Metra station, I spotted two record stores. I had a decision to make – rock-n-roll or college. Is there really any question?

(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow for my run-in with Rod Stewart's junk!)

Juliette Lewis vs. The Music of Rush

2007-01-31T15:22:00.000-06:00

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)

2007-01-30T09:44:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-01-24T17:33:00.000-06:00

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)

2007-01-23T13:37:00.000-06:00

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)

2007-01-22T17:08:00.000-06:00

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)

2007-01-18T13:22:00.000-06:00

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!)

2007-01-18T00:34:00.000-06:00

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!)

2007-01-17T18:15:00.000-06:00

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)

2007-01-16T15:05:00.001-06:00

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)

2007-01-15T10:01:00.000-06:00

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)

2007-01-12T18:40:00.000-06:00

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)

2007-01-11T13:59:00.001-06:00

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 . . .

2007-01-11T09:08:00.000-06:00

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!

2007-01-11T08:35:00.000-06:00

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