So, due to some unfortunate events (and without knowing the full story, you'll view "unfortunate" as defined loosely), we have half of a half keg sitting in our hallway, awaiting our motivation to drink.  Not that we've been without motivation this week. Ah, to the contrary, but we have been without a) time and b) the desire to go to work hungover.  But anyway, today I've been able to ice down a few pitchers and while I sit here, doing actual paid stuff, as opposed to this crazy free blogging, I'm actually getting paid while I drink beer. (And eat fudge, but that's beside the point.) This whole interweb thing? I think it's going to work.


                                              


And you know what goes so good with icey cold beer? Pimpin', that's what-



                                                                 
                                                                     Horrifying, I know.

                                                                                                          


I spent the better part of my weekend getting my house clean enough for the queen to visit, and watching shows about mysterious phenomena on The Travel Channel, which then prompted me to spend a better portion of my work week viewing websites of a similar genre. Know what I learned? That the world is controlled by a secret alien sub-race that is affiliated with either the Illuminati, the Vatican, or both. We're being poisoned, brain-washed, misinformed, and manipulated. And I've just been sitting idly by, watching The Soup and buying shoes.

But anyway, as much as my skeptical exterior has guarded me from fashioning tin-foil hats in light of my new knowledge, I've still found myself feeling a little more paranoid than usual the last few days. It's similar to when I've read medical websites and diagnosed myself with erectile dysfunction. Completely irrational, maybe, but if you immerse yourself deep enough in something, you begin to relate to it. It makes me wonder if I were to move to New York, if I'd become a Yankee fan.

It's not as if I haven't tried to shy away from the bizarre speculations, but I am limited, while at work, with my internet viewing. The obvious work-inappropriate choices are out, of course, as is anything that can be considered "moonlighting," so no internet freelance writing for me. In addition, my vulnerable geographical location means that I have to edit sites that are full of photos, brightly colored, or include flash. So I'm left with reading the local news, and the unassuming secret porthole of little known government conspiracy.

And so, this being only a three day week, I think I'm safe. But if you catch me digging underground tunnels, kindly encourage me to find a job that keeps me busier.

Driving in this morning, I noticed a firefly had made the trip with me, attaching itself to the lower left of my windshield, right by my Ravens cling.  We made it all the way into the (six dollar a day) parking garage, before he flew off.  I had some minor concerns about his ability to survive, in the daylight, in the city and partially indoors, but I'm guessing he's a pretty hearty fellow, considering he made it all the way through Bayview.  And now, I will share with you a bit about what I've learned concerning fireflies, via Wikipedia.  (You could easily look this up on Wikipedia yourself, but thanks for reading it here!)

Fireflies, or lightning bugs, are a member of the beetle family.  There are about 2,000 different species, found in both temperate and tropical climates (our climate is considered temperate?).  Their bioluminescence (and this is my favorite part) is used to attract mates or prey. (Like lipgloss, but more scientific!)  The light production is a chemical reaction between luciferase and luciferin (suddenly, lightning bugs sound devilish). A few days after mating, the females lay their eggs just below ground surface and the eggs hatch three to four weeks later. There have been instances of groups of fireflies blinking in unison, one of which was in Tennesee, during the second week of June 2005.

It looks like we just solved all of the mysterious glowing light sightings in history.

Dear Ravens,

I'm asking you politely, please don't.  Please... just don't.   

I'd rather my Sundays not get any more complicated.

Thank you,

A Concerned Fan

About halfway through my research for 1997, I declared it the greatest year ever in music ever and decided to wrap up Dowload This forever because I’d never beat this year. But images of Dave's face melting over my so-called greatest year in music not including The Beatles appeared in my mind's eye, and I decided better of making the declaration. But damn. Damn! Even if mass rebellion were to occur should I call it the "best ever," I will go on record saying it’s the last best ever. The only thing missing was solo-artist-love-of-my-life David Gray, who just missed ’97 by one year with his personal best, "White Ladder," in 1998. So there, now I’ve made him a part of 1997.

There is really no way to narrow this down to just ten songs, so I’ve created sublists, one of band releases, of which there were many, and one of female releases, again numerous. And then there’s the (dis)honorable mentions I’ll toss in at the end, because while most of them suck, they are iconic and emblazoned on my brain as a part of 1997.

Push, by Matchbox 20: I consider MB20 sort of the newer, edgier Hootie  and the Blowfish (and they’re only edgier because everything is edgier than Hootie). I remember the exact first moment I heard Push, and I was on my way to the mall (as usual), turning off of Liberty Road, and I tried to relate the song to the spanking new relationship I was in, but it didn’t quite work (not to be confused, of course, with a new spanking relationship, right?). That was the case at the time, at least, because now that the relationship didn’t work either, I see the irony. Rob Thomas wasn’t dancing yet, but he was part of what I shall now christen the "strong-band, singer/song-writer, but not in the John Mayer sort of sense" era.

Monkey Wrench, by Foo Fighters: I’m just now coming to fully appreciate the Foo Fighters, and I would probably have chosen Everlong, except my cousin just wrote about that song and I figured I'd mix it up a bit. Hell, download them both. Rachel Ray will love you for it, in that same awkward way you feel when you walk in on your sister in the shower.

Lakini’s Juice by Live: Easily in my top three favorite Live songs of all-time, I’ll share with you a fact I’ve learned many a time when this song comes up in not-so-polite conversation: This song has the ability to make one as hard as a week old brown biscuit. And thus ends the PG rating of my entry.

Walkin’ on the Sun by Smashmouth: I’m not a Smashmouth fan and I don’t even adore this song so much anymore, but at the time I thought it was revolutionary, and I still remember Michelle Stolzer’s little dance in the Baserunner room (please, view Hoodwink's other photos while you are there) when it came on the radio.

And now I’d like a quick aside, based on the fact that I just inadvertently invited Michelle Stolzer to visit my blog the next time she Googles herself. I owe Kerry Stossel of entry #2 an apology. She emailed me after finding her name on here and after re-reading my entry, I thought it was fairly complimentary, until I reached the end and boasted of my superior fashion knowledge. According to Kerry’s MySpace, she works in the fashion industry, so chances are, her knowledge probably (still) far outweighs mine. Then again, "in fashion" could mean she’s a sales girl at DEB, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt. My apologies, Kerry. I’m glad you, Megan and Heather are still friends.

Moving on…

Santeria by Sublime: Another song I grew to enjoy more as time passed. Learn about Santeria here.

Semi-Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind: There’s a mystery verse* to this song that was only played once in a great while on Baltimore Radio. While everyone outside of that listening area is probably thinking "What an idiot. It’s just part of the song," it was cause enough for me to call Erica every single time the song was played, in hopes it would be one of the rare mystery verse occasions. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Don’t Go Away, by Oasis: This is my favorite Oasis song, so download it, learn all of the words and sing it to me. But please don’t be as mean as the Gallagher brothers.

Discotheque by U2: Not one of my personal favorites by U2, but it was interesting to learn what they were doing  while my other favorite bands were creating their career best. Speaking of which…

Crash Into Me by Dave Matthews Band: Personally, I have entirely too many stories concerning this song and the entire album, and I could create an entire entry unto itself if I so desired. I do not. And considering every woman in her early to mid-30’s can say the same, I’m just part of the boring majority. I encourage you to listen to the song over and over and ignore everything else Dave Matthew’s has done since 2002.

Long December by Counting Crows: You’ll love it even more if you’re a Courtney Cox fan. Adam Duritz, however, is not anymore.

On to the ladies…

Each of the following women in the list below contributed to 1997 with albums, singles releases, and/or a big-ass music festival that provided popular culture with lots of shaving jokes and a chance to make out with a girl and not be judged. (I’m not speaking from experience, of course, because I was drowning in a sea of men at that time and wasn’t able to get to the concert when it folk-danced its way through Maryland.) So, in addition to Lilith Fair, 1997 was sort of the year of chick-created music, and while much of my personal preferences lean toward the men on the list, the women provided a few gems.

Paula Cole, Shawn Colvin, Meredith Brooks and Merrill Bainbridge were not, in fact, the same person and you know this because everyone knows Meredith Brooks sang Bitch. Shawn Colvin sings about a woman that burns down an entire town, which sort of makes her a bitch, but I’m guessing Sunny was justified (check it out, it's creative and fascinating). I’m not really sure what Bainbridge** sang, and I could look it up but I’m too lazy, and Paula Cole makes middle-aged women shriek in disgust when her CD is played in its entirety during a long roadtrip. Clearly, I am not an authority on the work of these four artists, so make your own determiniations of what material of theirs you wish to download.

#1 Crush by Garbage was not a standout for me in 1997, but I later downloaded it on Kazaa and let me assure you, it has stood the test of time.

Veruca Salt however, has not. Well, the music maybe, but not the band. They hate eachother now, due to a boyfriend saga the likes of Brenda, Kelly and Dylan. I’m not sure though if it was Veruca or Salt that played the Brenda role, and thus do not know who’s solo career to support. But c’mon?! Veruca Salt?! I will always love them for paving the way for my one day band, Augustus Gloop. Dowload Seether because it was a song before it was a band.

Let’s wrap this up a little more quickly and just say Sarah McLachlan, Madonna, Sheryl Crow, Fiona Apple, No Doubt (sorry boys in No Doubt), Alanis Morissette, and Lucious Jackson all had songs released in ’97 that were infinitely better than the Spice Girls, and yet I’d recommend downloading Say You’ll Be There anyway.

Lastly, the (dis)honorable mentions go to the following songs, regardless of their artistic credibility because they will always remind me of the most fun year of my life.

Mmm… Bop by Hanson

Hypnotize by Biggie

Your Woman by White Town (Hi Erica!)

Tubthumpin’ by Chumbawumba

In My Bed by Dru Hill (disclaimer: I’ve never heard this song and I know nothing about it, but it’s 1997 release gives me an opportunity to tell you that these guys worked at The Fudgery in Baltimore and used to sing while they made fudge. If you go there today, there’s still boys making fudge and singing. It isn’t nearly as homosexual as it sounds and it’s a little like Baltimore’s version of The Pike Place fish market.)

*Hey, what do you know! It's common knowledge. Thank you Wikipedia!
**Oh hey, she sang Mouth. Yeah... didn't love it. Download it anyway! It's part of a great year!

Well I bumped my knees this morning when I took a running leap onto the bandwagon, but I have to admit, it was exciting hearing Drew Olson on the Bob and Brian show talk about the "play-off type" atmosphere at Miller Park. For those of you baseball fans that haven’t heard, the Brewers acquired CC Sabathia yesterday from the Cleveland Indians, and just about everyone in Milwaukee has had an experience with incontinence in the last twenty-four hours because of this. For those of you that aren’t baseball fans, and yet you care enough to try to understand, Sabathia was last year’s Cy Young award winner, which basically means he was the one not voted off the island, the Top Chef, the contestant with the million dollar case that held out and didn’t succumb to the charms of the banker. And now he's a Brewer.

If you’re a numbers person, you can go here and see why this is so exciting. Come back though, because I have more to say.

And it is this: It’s been over ten years since I’ve done this, and by "this," I mean spend the latter weeks of summer and early weeks of fall with a fist that repeatedly travels from my gut to my throat with the fury and gusto of fifteen hyenas on acid. Maybe I’m jumping the gun a bit, considering it’s only July, but if I’m jumping the gun, the rest of the city has jumped the gun, the gun rack, the targets and any subsequent victims of the bullets. But aside from improving the pitching staff to the point where opposing teams are supposedly cowering in fear, this has done for morale what only gobs of money, gold medals and carrot cake can do. This is the move that fans everywhere hope their teams make before the trade deadline (as opposed to acquiring Harold Baines. Again. [Not that I don’t love a St. Michael’s boy.]) Bringing a loose, laid-back, uber-talent into an already humming clubhouse could be the difference between a good team and a playoff team. Perhaps my other team should be taking note. Farm systems, young, home-grown talent, great chemistry, and one massive, mind-blowing mid-season acquisition, that sells tickets. Of course, Hall of Fame owners wouldn’t hurt either.

So I have some catching up to do. I have been reading and I have been writing, and since I’ve been remiss about updating here, you all have no idea about what. So I’ll tell you! Here, I offer you a fine compilation of book reviews, just in time for the dog days of summer.
 
Let’s start with a decent piece of literature (yes, I will apply a more sophisticated moniker when the need arises) entitled The Historian, by Elizabeth Kostova.  I’m happy to say that this was a really spectacular book, but unfortunately it’s the only one I’ve read in quite awhile.  I talked Dave into buying it for me at Half Price Books, and I chose it mainly due to the look and feel of it. If I remember correctly, I only read the first sentence or two on the back cover concerning the plot synopsis.  It was substantial, and had thin tissue-style pages that such a high volume of gave a heft in my hands, and made the pages fold easily back around the spine for comfort.  While I can’t say this was a quick read, it was enjoyable, much like spending time catching up with an old friend. It might take awhile for the details to unfold, but you are enjoying the company.
 
The author used flashbacks in a very effective and understandable manner.  Two stories were artfully woven into one, and while the outcome may have been predictable, the details were thought-provoking enough that you didn’t mind. Each of the characters was written with a sophisticated detachment, and yet their personalities unfold not unlike a true friendship might: patiently, and with a natural grace.  As each of these characters becomes fond of one another, so does the reader. There is mystery, suspense, romance, and you learn a bit about eastern European history.  I’ll just throw that in there at the end so as not to deter you from reading.
 
Speaking of mystery, suspense and romance, when I finished with The Historian, I moved on to a Christmas gift I’d given that had been borrowed back to me.  An Ice Cold Grave , by Charlaine Harris, came via recommendation, and it was well worth my time and money.  While this book was equally entertaining, maybe even more so than The Historian in some respects, it was a quick read and can be finished over a lazy weekend.  Harris’ characters, that are actually part of a series, are genuine and very likeable.  Jumping into the second book in the series was seamless, and it made perfect sense without being bland with the background explanations.  The author accomplished something, that is always a pleasure to see when successful, by creating believable dialogue.  I’m looking forward to reading other selections from the series, just as soon as my mother buys them.
 
And this is where my truly enjoyable, highly recommended pleasure reading ends.  I picked up a couple of buy one/get one half-price selections at Borders while waiting for Dave a couple of weeks ago (I also bought a red dress which, thankfully, saved the shopping trip) and usually when you get two, at least one can be mildly qualified as a gem.  Such is not the case this time.  Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest To Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass LookBig, Or Why Pie is Not The Answer, by Jen Lancaster, was one of those books you pick up (and here, I’m describing the work at the expense of revealing my occasionally faltering self-image) thinking “Hey! This writer is just like me! She says things that I’ve said!”  And there’s nothing better than finding a character just like you that prevails over all evils in the end, because that, of course, means you can too. And here’s the blueprint!
 
This was sort of the case here, but not exactly, and the story was sort of funny, but I didn’t laugh my ass off.  And it was sort of an OK book, but not quite.  Here’s the thing, and maybe I’m shooting myself in the foot here, but I think I’m detecting a trend that I have a problem with. (Dave would have you know this is nothing new.) The trend seems to be to start a blog, and your blog is great and entertaining, and there are cute pictures and fun little tales and strangers can see into the relatable parts of your life.  But this doesn’t always translate to a book and yet, it seems to be getting translated a lot. Back in the day when I discovered Pamie, it was all new and I thought it was brilliant. But the writing quality was consistently better and the market is now seemingly saturated. Everyone seems to have a link in their sidebar now to their book.  (And in all reality, I wish I did too and I’m burning up with envy, but you know, that aside.)  It’s just a little upsetting to me that strong women writers are getting away with just writing about banal, mundane things.  There’s very little insight and very little imagination, and we as a nation of women readers are eating this up.  Than again, I do have the belief that a part of great writing is taking the banal and mundane and making it entertaining, fun, and interesting and relatable. (Here’s where I go slip on my flip-flops and trot through my garden.) 
 
This isn’t to say there is no value at all to this extended-blog-style hard copy, but if every woman blogger just turns her blog entries into a book, how do we determine the ones that are the standouts?  Won’t we eventually get tired of paying for a compilation of what we can get for free online?  And worse, won’t we eventually discredit the entire genre, and we’ll discount a book based on the fact that it was written by a female blogger?  Maybe this isn’t the case (they have rubber soles and glassy beads, and they are SO CUTE), because my theories have been proven wrong in the past.  Eight years ago (good grief I’m old) I figured the reality TV phase would wear off, and while there’s been some pretty awful ones cancelled, it’s still hit or miss and some continue to catch on.  And there have been trashy romance novels and cheesy slasher books for a long time, so not everything has to be a great work of literature.  Dave gets upset with me all the time for complaining about music that appears to have no value, and tells me all the time that sometimes things can just be fun. And maybe that’s the case here.
 
So back to Such a Pretty Fat. (Get it? It’s the face. Her face is pretty, in spite of her disgusting, out of control body, so that’s her redeeming quality. Her face.)  It’s sort of cute and sort of relatable.  And Jen Lancaster  is a talented writer. So read her blog. And if you want to make the jump over to the blog compilation book, I’ll send it you.
 
So finally, is the last book in a three month span of deteriorating novels.  And holy crap did it deteriorate.  I had two reasons for buying The Entitled. One, Camden Yards is pictured on the front cover, taken from one of my all-time favorite baseball views, the on-deck circle.  Nothing says hope like a man with a donut, standing on deck.  It’s such a great place to be, some Hall of Famers even ended their careers there.  The second reason I chose this book is because one of the reviews featured on the cover called it “the greatest baseball book of all-time.” Greater than Wait Till Next Year ? Greater than Shoeless Joe? Well, this I had to read.
 
As you might have guessed, the reviewer lied. Or was just delusional. In a failed attempt to find a redeeming quality concerning the book, I decided instead to see if I could figure out the worst part of the book. The dialogue was awful. The plot holes were so deep one could hide a young woman in them and string lotion on a pulley system down to her. I did get the sense the author knew baseball, as he should, based on his career, and there was a certain familiarity with the day-in and day-out stuff that one experiences. But it was so choppy, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you what it was that was familiar to him.  There were flashbacks, and with pretty much every one of them I found myself asking if this was the current season they were describing, or the previous one or ones. I’m still not sure we were only dealing with two seasons, and at one point, I was pretty sure there was a flash-forward.
 
In my own weakness, I found myself trying to figure out what parts he’d taken from what players (because I’m vaguely familiar with quite a few of the ones he would have taken from), and while it drove me insane, it was solely my fault.  I used to do this with Jackie Collins novels too, trying to guess the celebrities, which is probably impossible, but I pinned quite a bit of her literary sexual hijinks on Paul Newman.  Probably it was the salad dressing and the blue eyes.
 
Anyway, aside from my desire to ruin the characters based on personal experiences, the story itself was a mess. The characters were flat, and the agenda was so obvious it hurt. It was as if someone had been given a blueprint for how to create surprise endings or sympathy for characters or story arcs, and the writer just inserted his or her ideas directly into the blueprint. (For the record, I feel bad saying all of this. I wish I could say “What a great book! What a great writer! Buy, buy, buy!” Maybe it’s because I fear someone tearing my writing to pieces one day? Nah, I hope I can sell stuff that people criticize one day.)
 
And as for the worst part of the book?  Well, it was actually easy to pin it down. The worst part was the completely inadequate manner in which the author wrote women. For all the brilliance of Wallie Lamb, Frank Deford took the two women characters and turned them into something so completely unbelievable, it made me question my own womanhood. He tried to communicate the complexity of he said/she said and one night stands, and sex for fun, and how messages can get mixed up, and he blew it, at least from the female point of view. And then he threw a rape theme (can rape be a theme? Well, it is here) in there and it was so insincere, so passionless and so mundane, that I wondered if the author had ever even spoken to a woman. (I’m probably going to find out there was some tragic story in his own personal experience he based this all on, and while I’ll feel like a jerk, I won’t change my opinion.)
 
At the risk of giving away some of the plot (but you weren’t going to read this anyway, right?), I’ll share one of the lower points of the plot. The basis is (which I probably should have given you earlier on, and come to think of it, for all of the books, if I’m calling these reviews) girl shares cocktails with ballplayer, ballplayer and girl get down and dirty, girls says rape, ballplayer says no rape. Ballplayer’s manager gets involved, and so does manager's lawyer -aughter, who was raped herself. (This was revealed as a cliffhanger at the end of a later chapter, and I got the distinct impression I was supposed to be shocked. I was not.).  Well, as it all comes to a tidy end, formerly-raped-lawyer-daughter confronts accused-rapist-ballplayer, and concludes that the original girl was probably not raped, but even if she was, at least she got to sleep with the ballplayer.
 
What? WHAT?! SERIOUSLY?!  I mean, if we are going to get into the ins and outs of messing around with ballplayers, and one’s adolescent desire to do so, and where the line is drawn between a groupie, a fan and a respectable baseball professional, you’re talking to kind of an expert.  I drew that line people, and I drew it dark and hard, and never crossed over it. (Except the adolescent desire part, but that’s all in the past.) But there was never a circumstance where I would have thought that getting to have sex with one of those guys was justification enough to excuse a rape.
 
Huh. Maybe that was the point. Maybe the message he was trying to convey was that these guys think they are so entitled, that this frame of convoluted thinking exists.
 
But isn’t that something I should be sure of at the end of the book?  At the end of a successful, well-written story, should I be left wondering whether to be pleasantly intrigued by the rationale, or completely and utterly offended? Whatever the case, it was terrible and cheesy and actually ended with the lawyer-daughter and accused-rapist-ballplayer exchanging a wink. That’s right, a wink.
 
And thus begins my hopeful optimism as I begin my new book.

So, we went to Baltimore, and the next thing I knew, two months had passed.

But while we were there...

And then we came home, and it rained for 40 days and 40 nights.  Once we'd swum up from the feces-infested, acid cesspool, we got to see the O's play the Brewers at Miller Park.  History will show that Milwaukee and Baltimore have had a fierce rivalry, made more fierce by those two folks up above.  While the Brewers were victorious in the series (as they usually are versus the Orioles), let me remind those of you gloating what happens when Aaron Rodgers throws a pass with Ray Lewis on the field.  Anyway...

She's such a happy drunk (she's not drunk at all).

I am though, so don't judge me by my gigantic, blotchy, dehydrated face.  And look, a vintage rally towel, circa 1996!



I'm guessing he was the only dad in town that got an "I'm Kind of a Big Deal in Essex" tshirt for Christmas.  As a matter of fact, I know he is, because I designed it.  And speaking of designing the absolute best thing you can wear to an O's game when seeing them in another town...



You can only see part of this on the picture of me above, but let me explain why this is the best tshirt in the whole world.  See, this young gent is down on his knee, asking one of the lovliest ladies in Baltimore for her hand in marriage. He could be off brewing his delicious, sensibly-priced concoction, but instead, he's decided to turn his life and love over to this fine, fine woman. And her response? "Hmm. I could marry you, but these barbecue chips are so delicious, I can barely remove my hand from the bag to entertain your proposal."  There's nothing more empowering than a cute, round-headed brunette that has the ability to be blase toward a marriage proposal in the face of hometown cuisine.  If only he'd proposed with a butterscotch krimpet, than he'd have her attention.

Moving on, but keeping with the theme (abstract as it is) of what happens when Kelly stops eating chips and starts paying attention, we used up two of our hopefully several Summerfest tickets last Friday.



Your eyes don't deceive you at all. My head did shrink in the course of one week (as did my ass, a bit), after subsisting on a menu of mainly fruits and vegetables at every meal. See how hydrated I look?  But alas, it was Summerfest, and it didn't last.

  

They always pose with their beer and then make corny jokes about product placement. It does look like Greg's beer is up his nose, though, so it was worth putting up with their adolescent boy hijinks.  

There's no pictures of the concert because we were further back and really not able to see much. Well, I wasn't, at least, because I'm shorter than the boys (except for Greg, who no one is shorter than (but damn, that ass...)), and while I maintained balance on the picnic table bench, I was unwilling to attempt maintaining it on the picnic table itself.  No matter though, because after surviving the winter we survived, all I cared about was drinking beer and screaming every lyric I possibly could, as loud as I could, in an attempt to exorcise every cold, bitter, snowy memory of this past winter.  It didn't exactly work, but the misery of this feels pretty far away right now.

The following is a list of the top 10 reasons why I have built a relationship between myself and the Interweb that is so fulfulling, so complete, so passionate, that I will never turn my back on my allegiance.  Just so you know, this thing we've got here? It's good stuff.

1.  In 1996, when my family bought a computer, about ten years after the rest of the world, and connected to the internet, about two years after the rest of the world, it was as if I'd discovered another planet.  I think the hardest thing for me to believe was that if everyone was doing it, why weren't people just running up to strangers on the street screaming "THE INTERNET! YOU CAN TALK TO PEOPLE! THERE ARE PEOPLE IN THE COMPUTER!" And I guess sort of secretly we did. I remember asking the event planner/webmaster at work (ha, webmasters had time to do other stuff back then) if there was a way to outsmart AOL and utilize your 500 free minutes after you'd already registered for the service. That's right folks. AOL per minute. Those were the days. He told me no, and inquired as to why I hadn't used the free minutes in the first place. Well, of course I had, and then about 10,000 others and all shifty-eyed and conspiratorily I told him about my $160.00 bill. He nodded and smiled. "Ah, the AOL-virgin mainline. I remember those days." So apparently I wasn't alone. About three months later, at the company Christmas party, after I'd experienced my first foray into the Hot Tub chatroom and not understood at all why I kept getting pop-up messages saying "Cyber? Want some dick?" my not-yet-best-friend and I somehow came around to talking about AOL. I don't remember the specifics but the conversation went something like 'Oh my God, I'm in love with an internet boy too! I'm mailing (mailing, not emailing mind you) my picture and he's mailing his and he is so perfect and lives 3,000 miles away and can't love me because I'm not Jewish and SWOON, SWOON, SWOON!" (That's right Saltzy, you were my first, buddy, but not my last.)

Shortly after Erica and I had established we'd reached a new, technologically savvy level of geekdom, we began chatting online. Neither of us being the most trusting people when it came to friendships, new or old, we established something that probably would have never come about if we hadn't the ability to speak to eachother in a forum that provided someone the ability to say honest, forthright things without the face to face discomfort that might cause someone to recoil in horror.  I can't quite say how Erica and I have maintained a thirteen year relationship, but we have and we have the internet to thank for at least a portion of it. We also have liquor, potato skins, and an utter disdain for cancer-faking, old-married-man-chasing, Kool-Aid makers, but that's beside the point.

2.  My third job at the Orioles (four total, unless you count guarding the explosives, but that was just one day and I can't actually prove "whatchamacallit" was me) was sitting in the press-box behind Rex Barney, watching the game and inputting the data into the computer for Major League Baseball. (That's right. I left that job. I know. I'd kick me in the crotch too if I could.)  Once I got the hang of it and didn't cry during every game due to frustration and no longer needed to be talked down from the ledge each night by Cal Ripken (seriously, it happened. Greg Zaun was there. Ask him.) I earned my now life-long moniker of MLBGirl, first spoken by co-worker, friend and other ledge-talker-downer, Tom Keenan. (Back then he was Thom.) I embraced it with the passions of seven suns because it beat the crap out of "Brownie," my other nickname and it was jaunty and sporty and fun, and, well, affiliated with baseball. Initially after signing up for AOL, I used a variety of screen names, ranging from boring (KBrown839) to just plain sucking (SunGirl8). I created an account for MLBGirl, notified all my online chat buddies and closed out all the other subpar accounts. (Except for "BaltoHotChick." Ha! Just kidding.) Thus, my infringement upon Major League Baseball copyright began.  Few things have remained a consistent a part of me as long as that name.   It has become a part of my identity and I have the internet to thank for the opportunity to immerse such a major portion of myself in it for so long.

3.  Speaking of Tom, he too, of course, was online, and our chats provided me with the opportunity and courage to tell him that shortly after he left my 21st birthday celebration, I started smoking (three cigarettes at a time, I might add), and that I'd met my first serious boyfriend online, both of which he'd guessed long before I'd ever told him.   In which case, maybe I should include that first serious boyfriend on this list.  Eh, nevermind.

4.  But, since we're on the subject,  online boys have played quite a role in my "adult" life.  Shortly after 9/11, I was living in Hagerstown, which if you check your maps, you'll realize is directly in the flight path of Camp David. (Ha! Irony. I love it.) For anonymity purposes, let's address a certain someone as "the person that was sleeping next to me," was violently awoken one night, me screaming in his ear and shaking him, telling him it sounded as if planes were about to fly into our bedroom windows. Drowsily, he told me it was fine and to go back to sleep. Not possible for a fatalist like myself, I shuffled into the other bedroom, to sign online and check news reports that would assure me we were once again under attack and the sleeping idiot in the other room was the best I'd be able to do with the remaining ten minutes of my life. When the lack of news updates failed to convince me everything was fine, I IM'd (that's instant messaged, for those of you new to this interweb thing) the only remaining person on my buddy list at 2 am. He'd invited me to Frederick Keys games before and he seemed friendly enough and was on my buddy list because his screen name included MLB as well.  I vaguely remembered that he either lived near DC or worked in government or something, that at least it was a person I wasn't bothering with my personal drama. Everything, of course, was ok that night, and it was ok months later when I accidentally sent him and everyone else on my buddy list a virus (you know, come to think of it, no one ever said a word about that supposed virus...hmmm). He asked me how life was going and frankly, it wasn't going too swell, and eight months and numerous lengthy phone calls later, we were driving around Frederick County in his truck, playing truth or dare at 5 am. He blows into my life not unlike a violent thunderstorm every few months, always reminding me of who I've been for the six ten years he's known me.  We would have crossed paths hundreds of times, but it was the internet that made us aware.

5.  Remember free, legal Napster? And free, somewhat illegal Kazaa? And more difficult to trace free, totaly illegal LimeWire? My bank account and CD collection would like to thank the internet for those.

6.  So while we're on the subject of music and boys, let's discuss a little band of mine called Counting Crows. In 1993, they provided me with the album that has defined both the best and worst events of my life. They remind me of putting on lipgloss, still limping, but healed enough (at least physically) to cross all of Lot D and enjoy my Blow Pop during batting practice. They remind me of Lent and the longest winter and home. And they remind me that if a (uber-hottie) guitarist and a (dreadlocked) lyricist wouldn't have joined forces in Berkely, California, I'd be living in some God-forsaken city, probably still internet dating and not playing fantasy football. But wait! We were singing the praises of the internet.  Do an AOL search on Counting Crows. See what (completely outdated and no longer updated) blogs pop up. And then do not message the cutest boy affiliated with one of those websites, because I am a force to be reckoned with.

7.  I moved to Milwaukee in late 2003, basically penniless and without a job anywhere on the near horizon. I wasn't exactly sure what to do, other than to steer completely clear of Mayfair Mall, but I spent a good portion of each day on the computer, creating cover letters and searching classifieds. It was just a matter of time before I grew desperate enough to answer ads for mystery shoppers and part-time delivery drivers. And during one of my nineteen trips to Craigslist per day, I came across an ad for writers in Chicago.  Turns out, someone inside the computer wanted to pay me a ridiculous amount of money to spend a weekend running from restaurant to restaurant in Chicago, looking at their menus, eating their food and describing their ambience. Then they wanted me to write about it and they put it on their official looking website and sent me a check for more money than I'd made per month at my last actual, paying job. 

8.  You know what's really great about the internet? If you have a computer at your desk at work, and your boss isn't terrified of what's going on inside the scary, scary box, you are never, ever bored.

9.  Moving away from a city that once you're gone from becomes your most favoritest city in the whole world, is a whole lot easier when you can still read their newspaper for free, follow their sports teams on the daily basis and listen to their radio stations, without having to put up with all of their God-awful population.

10.  About two weeks ago I was Googling my aunt, as I am wont to do on occasion, and after learning that her children had sold the rights to her published knitting manuals, I decided to start Googling other family members. I've always struggled with the fact that I never seem to get to know my relatives before their deaths and than I'm left riddled with regret. So it was a pleasant surprise when I came across my beautiful , talented cousin and an even bigger pleasant surprise when she emailed me at length about all she has been up to in the I don't know how many years since we last spoke. When I moved to Milwaukee and left my parents behind in Baltimore, and flew back every two or three months, it was easy (expensive and inconvenient, but easy). Three years later when they left too, it got a lot not easy, and I became extraordinarily aware of the fact that my connection with the city more or less boiled down to crabs, baseball and Erica, who didn't exactly live right around the corner during our time as friends. I had long since resigned myself to the fact that most of my living relatives really didn't like me all that much, and that was fine, because total strangers often feel the same way, and they don't even know me.  Talking with Jessi brought back to me a part of myself I thought I'd left in 1996 with the last and only set of towels my grandmother would ever have a chance to buy for me. I can't say all of the emotions I've had the last couple of weeks have all been snoballs and daffodils, but some have. The hardest part about leaving Baltimore for good was the fear I had that my mother was right, that there truly was nothing left back there.  But a part of me that I'd had to push aside, because I didn't know how it fit, and I didn't know if it would hurt too much to assimilate it, I can claim it again. And that's pretty cool. And if this is too sappy or you don't get it, than just go back to the free music thing. Because hey, you can't beat free music, right?

Sometimes you think you know something, or someone, or even  yourself, and it's just reality and it's the way it always is and always will be and then suddenly, it's just completely upended. Thanks internet, for always, always doing that.  And, holy crap, for delivering Sephora right to my door.

Dear Internet,

I'm having an identity crisis. And my water heater keeps breaking. Can you help?

Signed,
MLBGirl