I realize that with Catherine gone these little blog-related agenda tidbits — I like to think of them as "stalkable moments" — are much less intriguing. But I'll go ahead and mention this anyway: DCist Happy Hour! Yeah! Woohoo!

Friday, 6PM. 51st State. Map! Hope to see you there.

Allow me to direct you to Charles' post about our new favorite weekday morning music video act, Coheed & Cambria. They've been around for a while, I guess, but this is my first encounter with them. "The Suffering" is a genuinely great metallish pop song, but the rest of the album seems pretty lackluster. Still, check out Charles' recounting of their backstory. These guys don't make concept albums — they're a concept band. When their lyrics say "until the stars go out", it's meant literally — the stars going out is a plot point in their bizarre scifi epic.

I'm sure it will end with one or more band members on a rooftop screaming at the assembled police below, but at the moment their multimedia spectacle is pretty damn entertaining — even if most of the music isn't.

ALSO: speaking of good pop songs embedded in otherwise regrettable albums, I heard Liz Phair's "Why Can't I" over a box-store PA last weekend, and you know what? It's a pretty good song. We were all too busy (justifiably) yelling "Judas!" when it came out to notice. But if Kelly Clarkson had released that track, we'd all have revelled in its ironic catchiness.

UPDATE: A dozen or so listens later, "The Suffering" is still pretty great. You can listen to it here. But listen to it on a decent set of headphones — there's a surprising number of backing vocal lines that are easy to miss.

I don't know who has decided to create the inevitable Butterstick blog, but I find the early signs encouraging. I particularly like the tagline, "I'm a panda, and I've got things to say." Tell 'em, stick.

All in all, a satisfying episode of Lost. There was, of course, one major piece of fanservice for both the misogynist and seething proletarian demographics.

But more importantly, there was undeniable haunting! That's right, g-g-g-ghost Walt could be seen by Sayid, confirming that Shannon isn't crazy, just kind of a bitch. I can't remember the last time pop culture has had a solid, unambiguous ghost. A reliable ghost. The kind of ghost they had in the fifties. An American ghost, goddammit. Perhaps ivory tower liberal academia's tyrannical influence on our supernatural entertainments is finally coming to an end. Screw ghost relativism, I say.

Sure, it's fine for the lone hauntee to descend into paranoia as a menace unseen by everyone else draws closer and closer — but only as an excuse for making everyone's eventual deaths that much more grisly. If folks realize they're under otherworldly assault, they won't just naturally wander under that ill-conceived chandelier, after all. Allowances for that sort of thing can be made.

What's not okay is using spectral subjectivity as an excuse for "was it all a dream?"-isms. Nuts to that. Up yours, Henry James! Ghost Walt is now clearly the objective advance guard for something heavy-duty-spooky, and I'm pretty happy about it.

titles are hard, okay?

it had to happen. last night, around 11:15 p.m., i came face-to-face with the dreaded NUN.

it'd been a long day. hell, by wednesday, it'd already been a long week. in class, even though it's a print and reporting lab, we're working on broadcast stuff this week, which means writing scripts for radio and tv, and then actually getting in front of a camera, nicely dressed, and talking, which is basically every non-broadcast journalist's nightmare. i would prefer to stay in my jeans and pumas and mumble and type away at my computer, thanks very much. anyway, after that totally draining and creepy episode of lost, i just needed some sleep. so around 10:30 i fell into bed.

around 11, the typical noises started. the running, the leaping, the dropping of boulders, the elephants performing ballet, etc. it was worse than it'd ever been. after about 15 minutes of shoving my earplugs ever deeper into my ears and tossing around making stab-kill motions, i got of out bed, threw on some clothes, and stomped upstairs, fully intending to bring hell.

except i'm a pussy. so i tapped gently on the door, and when somebody, after obviously assessing me through the peephole and deciding i looked like a crazy homeless lady with bedhead, said, "uh, YES?" obnoxiously, i was sheepishly like, "um, oh, hi, it's your neighbor from downstairs, the one without any balls, because if i'd any sense, i would have knocked your ass from here to kansas by now?" you know, except for that last part.

a nice, normal-looking guy opened the door, and i said, "oh, i'm so sorry to bother you, but, um..." at this point my eye drifted downwards to the strange red feather duster/tickle thing he held in his hand, and i was like, either i am interrupting some very kinky sex or some very vigorous cleaning, but, well, must press on! "...i'm not sure exactly what is going on up here, but the noise you're making, well, it's kind of, uh, incredible." i actually said the noise was incredible. i'm not sure why i chose that adjective. i should have said it was murder-inducing, but whatever.

the guy, who seems very nice, apologized profusely. "oh, i'm so sorry, but i was just messing around with my cats, and you know how it gets."

uh. no, actually. i don't know how it gets to the point where you're messing around with your cats that it makes the sounds you've been making, unless you are STRAPPING ANVILS TO THEM AND STANDING ON A LADDER AND DROPPING THEM REPEATEDLY ON THE FLOOR MOTHERFUCKER WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO THOSE POOR ANIMALS?

at this point a tiny, sleek gray cat escaped through the door and raced down the stairs, obviously desperate to escape whatever this guy had been doing to him and his cat colleague, like, dressing them in suits made of stone and then launching them out of slingshots straight into the floor above my head. NUN raced past him, still apologizing, and i went back down to my apartment, saying, "oh, yeah, well...thanks for listening."

and that was that. frankly, i'm disappointed to learn that the reason for all the noise is two poor kitties. i had hoped he had at least chained a hippo up there, or was harboring a 250 lb. fugitive who liked to do aerobics in the middle of the night. ah well. the disappointing facts of reality.