Dear Cohutta, I love you even more, if that is possible. Love, Grilled Cheese Sandwich.

If you saw this past week's episode of "The Real World," you might have fallen in love with Cohutta as I have. Or if you were already in love with him, perhaps you developed an even deeper respect for the Southern-accented, surprisingly reasonable roommate.

Case in point: Parisa is making some grilled cheese sandwiches for her roommates. For some alcohol-fueled and therefore unjustified reason, Shauvon starts freaking out at her that she favors "her boys" over "her girls" because Parisa is making Cohutta's sandwich first. Cohutta sticks up for Parisa, telling Shauvon that she is screaming and throwing bottles for nothing. Then, in a masterstroke, he decides he is too good for this argument, takes his sandwich into his room and proceeds to address it, hoping that perhaps this little toasted cheese therapy session will help get him through living with these idiots. The best part: Shauvon hears him talking and swears that Cohutta is gossiping behind her back, to which Cohutta says, to his sandwich, "See, she even thinks I am talking about her to someone in here, but I am talking to you, grilled cheese sandwich."

It cannot get any better.

Maybe I am not as old as I thought I was?

I am not necessarily proud to admit this, but I am watching "The Real World: Sydney."

And I kind of love one of the roommates.

First of all, let me explain that my advanced age means that I am not generally interested in "The Real World" any longer. I couldn't stomach the kids on the show after, say, the New Orleans season. I made a stab at watching Austin, but decided either I was getting too old, or the show had changed too much for me to care. (I think it's the former, though the latter might play a small part.)

But then when I read that the current season was filmed in Sydney, my favorite city on the planet, I knew I had to suck it up and watch. Because I had to see the location shots; not because I give a crap about the drama of drunk 19-year-olds.

Imagine my surprise, then, upon "meeting" Cohutta, the cowboy-hat/bear-claw-necklace- (an actual claw, not a pastry) wearing Georgian gentleman who is mature beyond his 23 years. He builds log homes for a living and enjoys sitting down with his family for dinner. He is very quick to call out his roommates for their ridiculous behavior, including when Trisha and Parisa are mad that some Australian dude that they've been flirting with tells them they're "sixes or sevens." Cohutta is all, only an insecure woman would feel the need to ask a guy to rate her. You should be confident in yourself, and don't ask questions to which you don't want the answers. You tell 'em, Hutty.

Cohutta is not a saint, as evidenced by his unwillingness to go to Sydney's Mardi Gras parade, one of the finest "gay" events in the world. Additionally, roommate Isaac displayed heretofore unknown (for a "Real World" house) reason during a recent fight with Shauvon, after she fell off his lap in a drunken state. He refuses to apologize for her being drunk, though he does apologize for calling her a "slut," saying that's what he calls women when he is mad. That's not cool, but stick with me, here. He gets through his calm little speech -- through which Shauvon wailed and sobbed -- and states, matter-of-factly, "This was a good talk." Hilarious.

Neither Cohutta nor Isaac are above reproach, as they are males in their early 20s, after all, who have willingly placed themselves on a reality television show known for its debauchery. I'm just saying that they're a little sharper and/or more normal, I daresay, than your typical RW roomie. Cohutta is a random voice of reason that I did not expect in a "Real World" cast.

I can't wait to see how he responds in the next episode, when, according to the preview, it appears a roommate throws a drink at him.

The rock manifesto of a 32-year-old who's gotten a little out of touch

I've been thinking a lot about music lately: why I love it, what it means to me, why I've gotten away from it in the past few years. I'm having my own little sonic rediscovery, if you will. I don't have any good reason for letting the daily enjoyment of the rock and roll slip away from my life; I am not old, I do not have children, my CDs were not burned in a house fire. Maybe it's a consequence of working at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum for six and a half years: at some point, rock and roll became my daily grind and, in retrospect, I do not appreciate that. I had Word documents on the subject matter. Rock and roll exists in the heart, mind and soul, not on a shared server.

So it is with great relief that I welcome music back into my day-to-day life like an old friend whose companionship used to be more vital to my well being than oxygen. In much the same way humankind's ancestors slithered out of primordial sludge, my 2007 Great Music Reawakening began slowly. In January I saw Sloan: always a favorite, they can do no wrong (even on "off" nights, which this was, because at least half the band was stricken with some sort of rock-deflating illness). In March a fortunate gene mutation helped me develop little legs, the better to traverse the rock and roll landscape: Australia's phenomenal but little-appreciated-in-these-parts You Am I played one of the best shows I've ever seen (and that includes Pearl Jam at the old Chicago Stadium on March 10, 1994, the night that will live on as The Night I Realized What Music Could Do). In May I was surviving like the fittest, and broke one of my old stupid habits of not seeing live shows of bands that I was not totally and completely mind-alteringly into: I saw Southern Culture on the Skids at one of the best live music venues in town. (Take that, naysayers! You know who you are.)

(In order to understand the importance of my going to three shows in three months, it is critical to realize that I used to go to shows all the time. Certainly when I lived in Chicago, but even after I moved back to Cleveland. There was even a time where I would drive all over the damn place, to states near and far, across Mason-Dixon lines and international [well, Canadian] borders, to see the finest in live rock and roll. But then I randomly stopped. As previously stated, there is no good reason for this other than the fact that, I don't know, I might have been tired.)

The live element is returning for me. I'm planning at least two shows in June, followed by what is sure to be the TRIUMPHANT return of the Old 97s to Cleveland in July. Beyond that, however, is my attendant rediscovery of the recorded music of bands that went missing from my life years ago. A lot of this has to do with the (un?)fortunate breaking of the 10-CD changer in my car. I have been forced to bust out some old mix tapes that have been rattling around in my car like coins that appear to be of negligible value but that, taken together, comprise a significant amount of useful American currency. For the first time since Bill Clinton was not having sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky, I am listening to Morphine again. Morphine is (was) a unique, dark, low, sexy three-piece made up of a drummer, a singer/slide bass player and a baritone saxophonist. It is nearly criminal that I have not heard "Thursday" or "All Wrong" or "Super Sex" in a decade. I mean, what is up with that?

Morphine is just one example. Soul Coughing. That is another example. Remember Soul Coughing? I didn't, for a long time there. But I am once again enjoying how "Screenwriter's Blues" perfectly captures the sound of Los Angeles in the middle of the night (or, I suppose, how I imagine Los Angeles would sound in the middle of the night, seeing as how I've only been out and about in the middle of the night in Los Angeles once, and I feel like that's what it sounded like). Midnight Oil? They deserve to be listened to, savored, for at least one hour per day. That is the least I can do for a band that writes lyrics about Holden wrecks and four wheels' scaring cockatoos and road trains and Kelly's country and our poet Henry Lawson and ANZAC Day and Truganini and Norfolk Island pines and currency lads -- a band that awakens such a strong desire within me to visit Australia that when I hear them I am thisclose to clicking over to the QANTAS Web site to see if I can get any good deals from LAX to SYD.

I just finished reading Nick Hornby's Songbook, and his connections with the songs about which he writes were, for me, the straws that broke the camel's back in terms of getting my rock and roll lifestyle back in order. I'm not familiar with all of the songs in Hornby's book, but it doesn't matter. His articulation of precisely why the songs touch him is so universal that we all can apply them to our favorite compositions. I don't get a deep-seated, visceral feeling of warmth and comfort when I hear Paul McCartney because he is such an astounding bass player and a brilliant songwriter (though he is both of those things); my knees get weak because both Beatles and post-Beatles Paul McCartney sounds like the entirety of the 11-year relationship my husband and I have shared to this date. I don't smile idiotically when I listen to Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot because of Jeff Tweedy's roots-music-influenced genius or because I once had a crush on a girl who fell in love with a heavy metal drummer; YHF floods my senses with what it was like to travel around the country with my best friend in 2002, trailing Sloan, losing our ability to remember what it was like just to enjoy a band from afar, gaining a friendship that will last forever.

How could I have pushed something so powerful and personal to the back burner? I should be flogged for my behavior but, like a loyal and loving dog, the music was waiting for me to return, happily greeting me with its fucking awesome rock and roll leash in its mouth, welcoming me home.

An heir and a spare

Good news from Denmark: Crown Princess Mary is pregnant with her second child. I'm not one to pay a whole lot of attention to royal activities, but I am a huge fan of Tasmanian-born Mary and her Crown Prince, Frederik, who met at a bar in Sydney during the Olympics in 2000.

Their story really is the stuff of fairy tales -- handsome young prince and stunning Tasmanian meet at a delightfully non-royal location (pub) and fall in love. Stunning Tasmanian marries her prince wearing one of the most gorgeous dresses I've ever seen, featuring 100-year-old lace and "calasleeves," and carrying a bouquet of roses, peonies and -- in a poignant homage to her homeland -- snow gum and Australian eucalyptus. (I modeled my own bridal bouquet after hers.)

All this princely magic really is every little girl's dream, and I therefore offer sincere congratulations to the hot young royals. Keep the dream alive, kids.

Please indulge me in two more thoughts about the Crocodile Hunter

I mentioned last night that one of the saddest moments of the Steve Irwin memorial service was when his fellow croc-catching mate loaded up his ute and drove it out of the arena. Here's a photo of the ute as it appeared during the service:

I'm so moved by this. What is left of a man? A truck, some canvas, a net or two, a surfboard. Why do these meaningless things endure while the most meaningful thing of all must leave? Certainly his legacy is his widow and his children, but there's an inherent cruelty in the permanence of possessions and the transience of being.

It's a notion that has haunted me for many years, since it was first articulated by the pile of victims' shoes in the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. Inscribed on the wall above the 4,000-odd pairs: "We are the shoes, We are the last witnesses / We are shoes from grandchildren and grandfathers. / From Prague, Paris and Amsterdam / And because we are only made of fabric and leather / And not of blood and flesh, / Each one of us avoided the Hellfire". Of course I'm not comparing Steve Irwin's death to the Holocaust. But the concept of what remains behind once we are gone is the same. It's sad, and unfair. And it's unavoidable.

One last point: The photo also reminds me of how real Steve must have been. When a person attains a certain level of success and celebrity, often they leave the tasks for which they became famous for others to carry out. For example, Martha Stewart has an army of minions to do her cooking, cleaning, gardening, crafting, etc. Looks to me like Steve Irwin did his own work, in his own old ute, right up to the end. He had a team behind him, yes, but his car was just as he left it, ready for his next foray into far north Queensland. He didn't outsource his vision; he did it himself.

OK, enough. Tomorrow, I swear I am going to write about The Biggest Loser. The new season debuts tonight!

Fair dinkum

I just finished watching the Steve Irwin memorial service, and I have come to the official conclusion that, legally, I am not cynical enough to be a blogger.*

The service was heartbreaking. I sat on the sofa for nearly an hour, bawling. The dog was concerned. I'm not sure which moment was most devastating: Steve's father, Bob, asking us not to grieve for Steve, but rather for the animals -- who lost the best friend they ever had; Steve's daughter, Bindi, doing a brilliant job of reading a note for her daddy while displaying more poise than I exhibit on any average day; the sight of Bob, Bindi and Steve's sister feeding his three favorite elephants, who were brought into the service by Australia Zoo staff; a video of Steve's crying as a baby elephant touched his face with its trunk; Steve's "right-hand croc man" loading up Steve's ute, which was parked in the middle of the arena, and driving it out of the venue for the last time.

I weeped like a child during each of those moments. But I think the most devastating thing might be this. Interspersed throughout the program were video clips of Steve, as well as taped messages from all manner of celebrity. One clip showed Steve as a guest on Steve Harvey's radio show. Harvey told Irwin that he was "officially a brother" for his speed and agility, ostensibly in the service of bad-ass croc wrestling. A lesser man would have worked very hard to come up with a witty, clever, ironic response. With a gravitas and sincerity that is probably not often heard on Steve Harvey's radio show, Steve Irwin said something like, "I'm just a regular bloke from Australia. Your acceptance of me just goes straight to my heart."

Then, a message from Kevin Costner. Now, I am not normally in the habit of quoting Kevin Costner -- or believing in his words as somehow transcendent. However, he perfectly articulated what's been bothering me so much about the loss of Steve Irwin. He said that of all the fearless things Steve had done, the bravest was letting people see who he was. Because letting people see who you are opens you up to criticism and mockery. But he didn't care, because he knew that his truth was much bigger than whatever jokes people could make of him. Well put, Costner. And well executed, Steve. That's the kind of perspective you need to really make a difference amid the static and choas of this world.

Perhaps that's why people liked him so much, because he wasn't afraid to be honest, positive and enthusiastic in a world where cynicism and bitterness reign. There's a dorky little kid inside all of us who still secretly loves snakes or geology or butterflies, though we may not get the opportunity to explore or exclaim that passion because we are too busy peppering our daily conversations with measured mixtures of detachment, irony, cleverness and wit. Steve was that dorky little kid, and he didn't have to hide anything behind anything. Imagine how liberating that must be; is it any wonder he was so happy? And what does it say about us that many of us thought he was too happy, too gushing?

The worldwide outpouring of emotion following Steve's death has been an "acceptable" chance for the mirthful reptile geeks in all of us to let loose. For example, check out these University of Florida students:

Maybe they only like him because he liked crocodiles and they are Florida Gator fans; I don't know if they are even the ones who put the sign there. Still, this photo strikes me as particularly poignant. If you had asked those kids two weeks ago how they felt about Steve Irwin, they might have been too cool to give you a straight answer. But that poster had to get there somehow. I imagine those fine students waking up early at their fraternity house to go to Kinko's and pick up their Steve Irwin tribute poster, then trekking to the hardware store for a few roles of electrical tape to affix it to the stadium wall. Really, they ought to be hungover or something instead. But that's the thing about true blue honesty -- people understand it; people celebrate it. They are relieved that someone has put aside the affectation and artifice to be real, even if it is just for a moment.

I haven't even touched on my pride in a nation for seeing Steve off in style and with the kind of dignity and love that only Australian mateship can provide. John Howard wasn't exaggerating when he told Terri and her children that there are "20 million pairs of Australian arms reaching out to you today." Good on all of you.

And Steve, good on you, too.

*Though I would like to state that Justin Timberlake taped a video message that was played during the memorial service. And he is bringing sexy back! So I can't be that uncool....

Why I am upset about Steve Irwin (even though I did not particularly like him)

As everyone from Cairns to Surfer's to Hobart to Torquay to Adelaide to Kalgoorlie to Perth to Darwin to Alice already knows, the Crocodile Hunter died Monday in a freak diving accident involving a stingray's barb and an unimaginable level of accuracy.

My heart just sank when my husband told me the news. And I didn't even really care for Steve Irwin, especially after that crocodile feeding/infant dangling incident in 2004. Yet....

My reasons for feeling so awful are seven-fold:

(1) He left behind those little kids.

(2) He is Australian and therefore would have been my mate if I had ever met him.

(3) People are idiots and will claim that he harassed the stingray, and/or people are idiots and will think that stingrays are evil villains -- a perception of "dangerous" animals that Steve Irwin spent his life trying to change.

(4) The animal kingdom lost a high-profile advocate. I can't think of many other people who could look at a snake and see "beauty." Yet there is beauty in every animal. Steve Irwin understood this.

(5) It's always extra-pointless when someone dies in a freak accident. It would have been "better" if he had been killed by a crocodile.

(6) Australians rally around their own and I just feel bad for the whole country.

(7) Like him or hate him, he was passionate. I've read that he was passionate about the big stuff (his wife, his family, his work, reptiles) as well as the small stuff (a delivery of mulch to the Australia Zoo). I totally get people who are passionate about things; a few months ago, I was totally excited about a mulch delivery to my house.

(8) The world needs larger-than-life personalities who are working for good.

The whole thing really has been bothering me. And although I am surprised to be typing these words, I will miss Steve Irwin. My heart goes out to his family and his little ones.