Since last year, Memorial Day has taken on new meaning for me. A dear friend of mine passed away in February 2007, and his birthday was May 25. So every Memorial Day will be spent with thoughts of Jim, and in honor of him and his excellent and deep knowledge of music, I thought I'd share a mix he made a few years before his death. A mix that, upon first listen, I considered amazing, in that it was filled with weird and wonderful songs, half of which I had never heard.

So I've kind of been MIA lately because I've been face-to-screen for a month and a half writing my graduate thesis. Now that I've lovingly placed that mess into the hands of my advisors, I feel a sense of relief mixed with exhaustion, a dash of nostalgia, and side of blinding fear. (From what I hear, this sounds about right.) Now it's time for the rituals: thesis readings, something called a "hooding ceremony," the graduation itself.

I've been steering clear of MTV's new reality show Rock the Cradle, which is odd, because I usually eat reality TV up with a shovel. Who Wants to Marry My Dad? Check. Groomer Has It? Check. And the list goes on.

After the glory that was the recent weather in New York (74 degrees, sun full enough to get a burn, which I did, on the light-deprived skin on my shoulders, exposed to the elements for the first time in six months), I'm feeling...how should I say it.....anxious, if you know what I mean.

I'm assuming we all survived April Fool's Day this year--unless you were that poor sack I saw on The Soup last night who was blindfolded and wrapped in duct tape (sticky side out) and told by the Denver Nuggets or some other NBA organization that he was rolling around in a pile of money and that he could keep whatever he collected. The joke?

I recently found out about 33 1/3, a series of tiny little 100-page books about albums, authored by various musicologists, superfans, fiction writers, rock critics, and musicians. One, about Let It Be by the Replacements, was written by Colin Meloy of the Decemberists. There is even a cheeky little tome dedicated to Celine Dion's Let's Talk About Love.

I love weddings. I love that everyone's dressed up, that people who never dance throw down on the dance floor like it's their last day on Earth, that people get drunk and festive, that a new extended family is born on that day. I love the good will, the hope, the free champagne. I love teary speeches, drunken hookups, petticoats and nosegays, men twirling their wives around and giving them a little squeeze in front of God and everyone.

I'm a quarter Scots-Irish (pronounced "Scotch-Irish" in my household), which, until adulthood, I thought meant "descended from a particular clan of Irish folk who happened to drink a lot of Scotch." Now that I've read all about the Ulsters, I realize that it just means some of my ancestors were from Northern Ireland. But we also have some straight up Irish Bradys in the mix.

Admission: I'm a pop tart at heart. So, in case you're not glued to FOX three nights a week like me, we're smack in the middle of Season 7 of American Idol. I, like everyone else on the planet, am predicting a resounding win by that little sprite David Archuleta. He is the epitome of why I watch Idol at all: that this ball of talent and purity exists is kind of miraculous.

I woke up this morning with potential titles for this mix leaping from my brain (woah): No Leap Till Brooklyn, I Hear The Secrets That You Leap When You're Talking In Your Sleep, (Don't Fear) the Leaper, etc., which had me thinking about how lucky I am to be spending part of my Leap Day listening to music, thinking about music, and writing. What are you doing with your Leap Day?

At the very least, you can listen to this.

At last. A beautiful, quiet snow day here in New York. The trash and concrete and cars are covered in four inches of wet stuff. It's on (now-rare) days like these that I'm glad I work from home--no slippery subway steps and people with cold feet and sopping umbrellas frowning into their novels on the L train. But being out in the storm has it's own appeal, despite the hassle of wet boots and obligations. It's something brave, something primitive and exhilarating. You're an explorer, defying the elements, sloshing over snowbanks because you have to.

In honor of many things, namely: 1) yesterday was the 85th anniversary of Howard Carter's entry into King Tut's sealed burial chamber after nearly 20 years in the Valley of the Kings with only his own convictions and a pith helmet to help him, 2) a mini-reunion of sorts that took place last week of some of my darling travel companions from my trip to Egypt (Egy-pets, if you will) nearly 2 years ago, 3) the general feeling of not ever being able to repay my friend Sherief and his family for hosting me from Aswan to El Go

It's early February, and love is supposedly in the air. Egregious displays featuring shiny, heart-shaped Whitman's Samplers and creepy paper-mache cupids festoon the windows of Duane Reades and Rite-Aids all over the city.

Ok, here's the deal. I'm from Massachusetts, but I'm a Giants fan. I'm also a Patriots fan. So I've been stressing hardcore for the last two weeks, happy to see both of my teams in the big game, but kind of wishing the Giants were playing the Bengals or something, just so I could get angry. But that's not the case, so though I'll still be rooting for my Little Giants That Could (amidst a pack of Pats fans--in New York!), I'll be warding off feelings of conflict the whole game. I kind of just want it to be over.

Because so many of my friends have kids, or are about to pop, I thought I'd make a kid-friendly mix that doesn't include that insipid Barney or his evil yellow accomplice, SpongeBob SquarePants. Essentially, this mix will entertain your child while maintaining your street cred. By listening to it, even though you're sleep-deprived and busier than you've ever been before, you'll still understand the conversation in the line at the New York Muffins on Bedford Avenue.