Yeah, I know it's Hagar. Still.

So crazy Britney has been placed on "mental health evaluation hold," or "5150 hold."

All I know is, in the 8th grade I spent a lot of time on 5150 hold, too. I loved "Love Walks In."

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.

Inexplicable sausage eating

Yesterday, on the way back from a wedding in the Finger Lakes region of New York, we stopped in Buffalo to visit our cousins. It was a lovely day, and we were enjoying their beautiful backyard and wonderful patio. They suggested that we stay for lunch, and fired up the grill to char some kielbasa. Sister and I had not had kielbasa in at least 15 years, as we "don't eat meat" -- well, at least red meat and pork.

But I mean to tell you, we SCARFED that kielbasa, eating two sandwiches each.

We do not know what came over us.

Partying like it's 1996

The CD changer in my car broke a few weeks ago. I'm sure that it can be repaired, but because my commute to work is so much shorter than it used to be it's not nearly as high a priority as it would have been at this time a year and a half ago.

My console holds a few mix-tape treasures from the mid- to late-1990s, that period of time spanning college and the immediate post-graduation years. As you might imagine, these mix tapes are bitchin'. Though they contain some songs that I can't stomach in 2007 ("Moondance," by Van Morrison and "Because the Night" [the 10,000 Maniacs MTV Unplugged version -- not the Boss/Patti Smith version]), most of what I hear when I get in the car are delightful little surprises, tunes I haven't heard in years for no particular reason.

Some of them are quality compositions: today I enjoyed Morphine's "All Wrong" and the Beastie Boys' "Shake Your Rump" (Paul's Boutique being one of the most brilliant and fabulous albums of all time). Also, "The Dreaming," by Kate Bush, which I admit maybe not everyone loves but I do because it is the sonic equivalent of Australia, an entire Southern continent condensed into song.

Some songs are guilty pleasures: "One Night in Bangkok," from the Chess soundtrack, is AWESOMELY cheesy; "Does Your Mother Know," by Abba, is the campiest song about statutory rape that I can name. But taking the cake this morning: "You Oughta Know," by Alanis Morissette. I feel compelled to mention this song because when it came out, it was every woman my age's motivating fuck-you to those guys who had wronged us (as if life was so difficult). It perfectly captured the angst of rejection from the female perspective; its rage was significant, harsh, simultaneously profound and petty. Whoever she wrote that song about had to have been one bad-ass motherfucker.

But then I learned that the song is quite possibly about "Full House" "star" Dave Coulier. WTF?!? Every time she scratches her nails down someone else's back she hopes this guy feels it?!?


Knowing its potential subject removes a little of the song's credibility. I suppose it's possible that Dave is a raging beast of a lover; perhaps he is also an incredible actor whose "Full House" purity masks his white hot sexuality. But that doesn't really make sense and, as Judge Judy says, when something doesn't make sense, usually it isn't true. So thanks a lot, Alanis, for getting a generation of women all revved up about...Joey Gladstone.

Anyway, nothing I've written here is new or particularly relevatory. It's just what I was thinking about while I careened mindlessly to work this morning.