It�s an outrage. An OUTRAGE, I say!

WASHINGTON, D.C. -- "American Idol" finalist Clay Aiken stopped by the Capitol to sing "Happy Birthday" for US Senator Elizabeth Dole.

What? WHAT?

Am I to understand that Clay Aiken, the man to whom I am the personal assistant bodyguard, has time to sing Happy Birthday IN PERSON to one Senator Dole, but can�t spare a few precious moments to do the same for my girl KELLY?

I will not stand for this.

Peeps, I heard this news and got on the horn immediatement, as they say in Celine�s native tongue.

I gave Mr. Aiken quite a stern talking-to, and let me tell you, if he hadn�t been in New York City when I spoke with him, he would have gotten a good little SPANKING too.

Needless to say, he was feeling pretty guilty after our conversation and promised Kelly a song of her very own for her birthday.

It gives me great pleasure to present this gift to Kelly on the anniversary of her birth.

Hey, did I tell you that I�m completely hormonal today?

Well, I am.

So here�s what I don�t get.

No, not Keepership. I already ranted about that. This is a NEW rant. Freshy fresh.

Okay, it�s kind of in the keepership rant vein, because I just don�t get the fans who think they OWN Clay Aiken and are entitled to his attention and praise, not to mention his autograph.

We all know I�m the only one who is entitled to his affections. Sheesh.

Before I go off, I just have to add one of my self-deprecating disclaimers. Yeah, I started this little Clay Aiken site thingy. Why? �Cause Clay�s my Butterblume and this is fun. I love to write, and sure, I�m a stats whore who loves knowing that people are reading my verbal diarrhea, but it ends there. In fact, I hope Clay never sees this crap because I will be ALL KINDS of embarrassed. If he ever heard I call him Downy Ball he�d probably run like the dickens. Screaming for Jerome. Ha ha ha - I said �dickens�.

That said, I wonder about the �selfless intentions� of some of these fans. Creating websites, message boards and charities with Clay Aiken�s name as their biggest marketing tool. Now I�m not dissing them completely. There was even a time when my own illusions of grandeur led me to believe that I might be the next biggest philanthropist the world has ever seen since Andrew Carnegie. Hey, if the Autism Society and the YMCA make a load of dough off Clay�s obsessed fans, more power to them. But the people who YOU JUST KNOW are doing this for some kind of twisted exposure...

Dudes, what up with that shizit?

I want to direct all y�alls attention to ONE website that truly REP�ASENTS Clay, dawg.

These people ROCK. If you don�t know about this place, RUN, don�t walk.

It works like this. You sign up. You do something kind and selfless. You tell about it. That�s called planting buttercups. People read the �garden� and connect. The world�s a better place. Brilliant.

Guess what the faboo people running this joint get from this? NOTHING. Guess what they want out of it for themselves? NOTHING.

Well, nothing except the satisfaction of knowing citizens of the human race are out there doing good deeds. The thing I love most about this site is any time someone posts something about getting the attention of Clay or people associated with Clay, the moderators politely assert that Claysbridge isn�t about getting mad props from Clay. That�s how you run a fan site, folks.

Being a fan isn�t about selling all kinds of merchandise and asking people to give you money for his charities. It�s not about calling radio stations to promote airplay or buying the most CDs. It isn�t about concerts or pictures or autographs or T-shirts. That stuff is wonderful and fun all at once.

But to me, being a fan is about admiring the example set by a person in the public eye and doing what you can in your own life to honor that individual�s talent or gift. You do what you think is good and right and you do it quietly and selflessly.

That deserves INFINITY BUTTERCUPS.

I am scared shitless.

I have been reading this new diary I found and oh my gosh, the ghost stories.

First I read this and practically crapped my pants. Then she had to go using the word "bodies" a whole bunch of times in this entry and I kept looking over my shoulder every five seconds. And if that wasn't bad enough, she had to go adding these horrifically frightening pictures here just to make sure my pants were sufficiently full.

I'm scared of evil but I love the supernatural. Ouija boards - bad. Psychic mediums - good. I remember as a child actually VOMITING from fear over movies like "Carrie" and "The Exorcist". I was terrified to sleep over at friends' houses, especially the dark, old, creaky city houses many of my friends inhabited. In short, I was a wuss.

So you'd think I'd have been terrified by what happened to me when I was around 11 or 12. Strangely, I wasn't. And I, the woman whose memory is currently a giant sieve, remember every detail of the experience as if it happened ten seconds ago.

My brother had bunk beds in his room, and I would frequently sleep in the bottom bunk while he snored up in the top after a busy night of playing Warlords or Breakout on the Atari.

Once, in the middle of the night, I awoke. I'm talking that sit-straight-up-in-the-bed kind of wide awake feeling you get when you have a startling dream or hear a loud noise. But I was awakened by neither of those.

I sat up on my elbows and looked toward the doorway. My dad was leaning against the frame with his arms folded across his chest. He was just staring at me. I said, "Dad. DAD. Stop staring at us. Go away! Dad! Stop it!" He just stood there. I couldn't really see his face in the smudgy darkness but I thought he was smiling.

Attached to the headboard was a clip-on reading light. I turned it on. Light flooded the room. No one was in the doorway. My dad was asleep in his bed in the next room.

I never met my paternal grandfather. He died when my dad was eight years old. In the pictures I've seen and the tales I've heard, my dad is the spitting image of his father. My dad isn't a psychic medium junkie like I am, but he's visited a few. Every single one has told him his father stands behind him, with his hand on my dad's shoulder.

When I turned out the light to go back to sleep, I was completely calm. No heebie jeebies, no fear. I sensed that I was safe and protected.

To a kid who barfed at sleepovers, that must have been one friendly ghost.

Everybody knows Jerome, Clay�s bodyguard, right?

Good.

It occurred to me yesterday that maybe Jerome isn�t enough protection for my sweet Downy Ball.

Certainly, Jerome is quick with the walkie-talkie, keeps the stalkers at bay and guards the lanky bod against personal injury and mobs, but is he protecting Clay from EVERYTHING? No! What about all the evil that can befall my boy on his whirlwind tour? What�s Jerome doing about THAT, huh?

I�m going to suggest that Clay�s management adds me to the staff in the position of Assistant Bodyguard. For all the times when a big burly man can�t get the job done. Sometimes protecting Sugarpiehoneybunch needs a woman�s touch.

Here�s my list of the top ten bad things that could happen to Clay while on tour and why Assistant Bodyguard Marie is the key to prevention.

All that singing could hurt Clay�s vocal chords. I will be on hand following every performance with a cup of hot tea, just the right temperature, to soothe Clay�s throat. I am not opposed to holding the cup for him.

The loud screaming, coupled with the booming sound system Clay must endure night after night could play havoc on those darling ears. Which are perfect, by the way. I�ve never seen ears that stick out juuuuust the right amount. Prior to each concert, I will fit Clay with removable earplugs, in the color of his choice. I will insert them with my mouth if required.

Signing hundreds of autographs hurts! He�s got enough crooky parts; he doesn�t need his fingers to go all crooky, too. I will provide a relaxing lavender hand massage after every 25 autographs. People can wait for the damn signature.

What if all the bus travel makes Clay sick? Oh no! Since management is obviously too CHEAP to buy Clay his very own private jet, I will be on hand to administer Dramamine if necessary and hold his head if he gets sick. Cold compresses will be applied to the forehead every thirty seconds until nausea has subsided.

If anything happens to the Tropical Green Pools because of camera flashes, I�m gonna have to open up the biggest can of whoop ass. If cameras are not confiscated, I will have to insist that sunglasses be worn at all times. We cannot risk injury to the sparkling emerald jewels.

Caking on the pancake makeup every night cannot be good for the skin. Each night before bedtime, I will cleanse the freckled countenance and moisturize for good measure. Furthermore, the flatiron can take a toll on the copper crown. A hot oil treatment will be applied prior to each shower. I will do the rinsing.

The care and protection of the face and head will culminate in lip care. It is important for the lips to remain soft and moist while singing so cracking and bleeding does not occur. Frequent special Chapstick applications and my secret overnight technique will keep the lips in working order.

Touring is a grueling and exhausting experience.

is unacceptable. I have experience with pillow fluffing and blankie tucking. Lullabies and bedtime stories at no additional charge.

Deep knee bending is my biggest concern. What if Clay tears his cartilage, cruciate ligament or muscles? Or worse, what if he develops Chondromalacia or Osgood-Schlatter�s? He might need arthroscopic surgery! I WILL NOT ALLOW THIS TO HAPPEN. As soon as Clay returns to the hotel and showers, I will begin Project Knee Care. Tiger balm will be rubbed gently into the afflicted areas. Tightly wrapped ace bandages and cool gel packs will seal the deal.

To understand why I am, by far, the best person for the job of Assistant Bodyguard, you should know a bit about CARS. In a car, the clutch has one very important job...

The clutch smoothly engages a spinning engine.

If the engine stops spinning, the car will stall.

Why?

The most common problem with clutches is that the necessary friction material wears out.

Clay�s clutch must NOT be damaged.

He cannot stall.

And the engine must keep spinning.

As for the friction, I assure you this is my area of expertise.

I have references.

Hey, you wanna know why HMOs are denying claims left and right and copays are going up? Because of people like ME.

In the last twelve years, I think I have been responsible for any and all of my doctors' mortgage payments, car leases and vacations. They should be sending me a gift card for Target in appreciation, at the very least.

I'm not gonna whine and cry about all my medical crap.

But, um, try to avoid having your body sliced open from hip to hip and a bunch of your parts taken out, mmmkay? It ain't no picnic.

I have a tendency to scar in a nasty ass way. I get these things called keloids, which are basically big hard red lumps of vile scar tissue. They have invaded my torso and bikini line. For my first operation, the surgeon used this fantastic technique where the incision was closed with one long suture. To remove it, she just clipped one end and pulled, kind of like when you pull a snag out of a sweater. It was beautiful to behold. This time, I got stapled. Now my belly looks like a Dr. Frankenstein experiment. Disgusting.

To make matters worse, I have no feeling whatsoever around the incision site. It's completely numb. To the victor go the spoils. Lucky fricking me.

And holy shit, I keep doubling over. Once in a while my body will say, "Um, Marie, we're not quite done HEALING in here so if you turn or bend that way, WE'RE GONNA INFLICT PAIN ON YOUR ASS." I think my organs have Vin Diesel in there working on their behalf.

One more thing to bitch about and then I'm done. I'm nauseous. All the time. I wake up every morning and it's all I can do to brush my teeth without gagging. Why can't I have some nice old fashioned hot flashes or some sweet bone loss instead? Nooooooo, I get the nausea. I knew that surgeon was appeasing me when he told me my other ovary would take over for the one that was removed and I'd have virtually no side effects.. Bullshit, dude. You got ovaries? No? Then shut the hell up.

I'm so bitter today. Screw you, hormones.

Okay, so I am still SWOONING over the Clay Aiken Show. (The Concert Formerly Known as American Idols Live)

I took pictures and wrote my concert report, but it just doesn�t feel like ENOUGH.

For those of you who don�t know, I�m a child of the 70s who grew up addicted to television. Yeah, yeah, yeah, don�t get your undies in a bunch. I read, too. BOOKS, people, BOOKS.

Anyway, you might remember this show...

Inspired by the Electric Company�s brilliant scheme to teach kids (whose parents plopped them in front of the television for hours at a time) to read, I give you...

I wonder if I will put my children through the kind of vacations I experienced as a child.

See, we were a DRIVING family. We DROVE everywhere. Like to FLORIDA. From NEW YORK.

These were the rules of the road.

1. Pack up the car with the entire contents of the house at 4 a.m. Any left over space can be for bodies.

2. Keep all the windows rolled up so the whole family can enjoy Dad's second hand smoke.

3. Every hundred miles or so, start a huge fight in the back. Try to make it about who is taking up more of the seat. Do this until Dad has one hand on the wheel and the other one flailing toward our heads.

4. Become so annoying that Dad must pull over the car on the highway, get out and yell, "That's IT! I'm WALKING home!" (Really this was just a ploy to smoke another butt and make my mom pay for not letting us take an airplane.)

5. Beg for McDonalds' cheeseburgers.

Once we reached our destination, the rules changed dramatically. My mom, ever organized, would pretty much plan out our every move, including when we could inhale and exhale.

These were the rules of the "fun" part of the trip.

1. Always sleep with your wallet in your bra. Just in case someone breaks into your hotel room at night while you're asleep.

2. Rise for the day's events by 6 a.m. There will be no breakfast.

3. Stay on schedule for sightseeing and shows, and follow the maps of any and all theme parks in a counterclockwise rotation.

4. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT ask to rest, get a drink or deviate from the assigned itinerary. Punishment will be swift and harsh.

5. Take 5,897 pictures per hour.

Now that you are familiar with Our Family's Vacation Rulebook, you may better understand the frenzied pace at which we traveled the East Coast of the United States.

More on that another time.

For the record, my childhood vacations were some of the best times in my entire life. Thank God for the Rulebook.

Is it wrong for me to pray for Clay�s video to come out soon?

If that�s wrong, I don�t wanna be right.

Oh my gosh, have you seen the preview of this thing?

Clingy Green T-Shirt. What more can I say?

Okay, how about Black Leather Jacket and Serious Rock Star Looks.

Oh, yeah, and Deep Knee Bends and Crouches. Can�t forget about those.

�Everyone� (I�m using the term �everyone� as if I know who I�m talking about here) keeps saying how wonderful Clay is to work with, and what a genuinely nice guy he is. Awwww.

I must say, though, I am a bit disappointed that Clay hasn�t gotten a smidgen of Rock Star Attitude to go with those faces he makes on the video. Come on, Clay, WORK IT, baby! Just a little? For me?

I guess I will have to step in here and give Clay a few lessons in Rock Star Attitude. This way when he goes on his solo tour and his �people� are clamoring to make sure he has bowls of M&Ms with ALL THE YELLOW ONES REMOVED and EXACTLY 4.7 BOTTLES OF PELLEGRINO WATER WITH THE LABELS REMOVED in his dressing room, he will have me to thank.

But seriously, Clay...Don�t go changin� to try and please me. I love ya just the way you are.

I'm gonna rant, so get ready.

WHAT IS UP WITH PEOPLE TRYING TO SELL PICTURES AND VIDEOS FROM THE CLAY AIKEN SHOW (Formerly known as American Idols Live!)?

Every once in a while, I mosey over to ebay to see what kind of ridiculous prices people will pay for all things Clay.

I can see people wanting the studio recorded CDs and maybe even some of the wearable items, but CONCERT PICTURES? Come on.

First of all, you can pilfer those for free all over the damn web.

Second, and most importantly, because this is MY site and I get to give MY fricking opinions...

Good Lord, if you have the nerve to sell your crappy pictures on ebay, at least DONATE THE MONEY TO ONE OF CLAY'S CHARITIES. Greedy bastards.

There's nothing more disgusting to me than people who try to make money for themselves off the notoriety of celebrities. These vultures have the unmitigated gall to put huge words over the fruits of their selfish labor so no one can put them on their computer.

Sickening.

I need to go watch me some FREE "Invisible" downloads and calm down now.

Thanks a lot Morrigan for turning me on to your site. Now I have one more reason to sit in this chair and watch my ass spread. Greaaaaaat.

Okay, but listen. I found this on Morrigan's site.

Streetlight people.

And check out Randy Jackson at the end.

Does it get any better than this? I think not.

I want to be 6 again.

Just for the birthday party.

Yesterday I went to my friend's daughter's birthday party. Oh my gosh, if you haven't been to a six year old's birthday party in the past 27 years or so, find yourself someone with a 5 year old child and make friends.

Okay, I had birthday parties when I was a kid, but nothing like the extravaganza I attended yesterday.

Two words.

Bounce House.

Holy crap I NEED one of these. Look, look.

This is a Bounce House

This is what it looks like inside when you're bouncing.

Lobsterchick would love this shit.

When you finish jumping around in the SARS trap known as the Bounce House and you exit, your center of gravity is all off. It's like being drunk without all the vomiting.

As if the Bounce House wasn't enough, there were 400 water balloons to throw. Followed by the game called "Who Can Pick Up The Most Balloon Scraps?" Kids will do fricking anything if you call it a game. HEY KIDS! WHO WANTS TO PLAY VACUUM MY HOUSE AND PICK UP THE DOG CRAP IN THE YARD? WHOEVER PICKS UP THE MOST TURDS GETS A SUPER DUPER SURPRISE!

I brought the karaoke machine. These kids didn't even need the CD in. Just hand them a microphone and they'll make up their own freaking songs. Not much interest in the karaoke machine, though, with that addictive Bounce House set up in the yard.

My friends rigged a pinata on a line that went from the tree to the porch in the front yard. Damn, some kids have anger issues. You should have seen these little girls bashing the hell out of this smiley face. I bet they were thinking "SCREW YOU BARNEY FOR ALL THE YEARS I WASTED WATCHING YOU ON TV! UP YOURS THE WIGGLES! BITE ME TELETUBBIES, I DON'T KNOW WHAT I EVER SAW IN YOU!"

Once they broke that baby open, they converged on the candy and toys like a pack of wild jackals on fresh kill. Some of these kids had pieces of gum in their mouths the size of a porterhouse steak.

And holy shit, did this kid clean up with the presents.

I want a birthday party! Can I have one? Huh? Can I? Huh?

Check out this snippet from a news article I found.

CELEBRITIES DELIVER: The third annual Durham Bulls Youth Athletic League (DBYAL) Charity Auction was held during Friday's game against the Indianapolis Indians.

Among the items for sale were autographed memorabilia from Baseball Hall of Famers Ernie Banks, Joe Morgan and Jim Palmer, probable future Hall of Famers Cal Ripken and Wade Boggs, former North Carolina basketball coach and hall of famer Dean Smith, American Idol runner-up and Rock & Roll Hall of Fame wannabe Clay Aiken.

The DBYAL is a non-profit organization dedicated to enhancing the lives of Durham's inner-city children by providing sports recreation programs for free. This year, the league has been active with a $500,000 pledge drive for "Field of Dreams", a plan to renovate two baseball fields in Northeast Central Durham.

WANNABE? WANNABE? Eat my shorts, dude. Whoever you are.

The only time we should hear the words WANNABE and CLAY AIKEN in the same sentence is like this:

I would also like to know whose memorabilia brought in the most CHEESE. I would bet my left arm that it was My Downy Ball. FO SHIZZLE.

Perhaps this journalist, or as I like to call him, NEW YORK TIMES WANNABE should provide us with that information. I sure would like to know.

AND NOW I DO KNOW. LOOK WHAT I FOUND...

�The Durham Bulls today announced the 3rd Annual Durham Bulls Youth Athletic League (DBYAL) Charity Auction raised $6,745 on Friday night at the Bulls game against the Indianapolis Indians. That total was a gain of nearly $1,000 over last season.

The items that went for the most money were a Dean Smith autographed baseball and a Clay Aiken autographed baseball.�

THAT�S WHAT I�M TALKING ABOUT.

CLICK HERE TO READ ASSHAT JOURNALISM

CLICK HERE TO READ WORTHY JOURNALISM

I need my personal diary back.

First the Clay Aiken obsession wormed its way into my brain, and now it has invaded my blog.

OUT! OUT! DAMN OBSESSION!

Clay O' The Day has moved. It will no longer appear on joeparadox.

INSTEAD, I GAVE CLAY HIS VERY OWN SITE! YAY!

If you have been "Clayverted," you can keep up with my obsession here:

From now on, this diary will be all me. Don't think I can't hear that collective sigh of relief, people.

Ladies and gentlemen, Clay has left the building...

Okay, so.

I'm moving Clay O' The Day from my diary to here.

YAY! My very own Clay Aiken website.

I feel like I just gave birth to Clay's baby.

I don't know how he does it, but Clay Aiken makes every song sound great with that fricking voice of his.

Here�s a perfect example. (Don�t go running away because you think this is going to be one of those diary entries where someone quotes LIKE TOTALLY KEWL LYRICS THAT RULE THE WORLD 4EVR. I promise to deliver snark.)

Clay�s first full length CD will be released sometime this fall, so management has him testing out this HORRIBLE song called "Invisible" on the American Idols concert tour to see how it will be received.

Are these asshats for real?

Of course people are going to love this piece of crap song. CLAY AIKEN IS SINGING IT.

I thought The Suits had focus groups for this kind of thing where they round up folks on the street who have never heard of Clay Aiken, have them listen to his music and then give them free CDs and tee shirts for their time. I guess it makes sense that the concert audience IS the focus group, because these are the fans who are going to buy the CD. Probably multiple copies, too.

But I digress..

Now, you would be hard pressed to find two more obsessed, I mean, dedicated Clay fans than Kelly and myself, but we both agree that this song is HOOEY. Thank goodness Clay had the good sense to add all the shirt grabbing and deep knee bending to his concert performance of it, or he would have had a fricking revolt on his hands. My Downy Ball is so smart. Me likey.

Despite the song�s mediocre melody, I find the song perpetually stuck in my head. And it might not even be due to the million gajillion kazillion times I watched the concert videos of it.

BUT THE LYRICS. OH MY GOD THESE LYRICS. THIS SONG MAY VERY WELL HAVE THE WORST LYRICS EVER WRITTEN.

This song is downright creepy. Check it out.

UM CAN YOU SAY STALKER?

And now, the chorus...

WHAT THE HELL IS THIS SHIT? "I WOULD BE THE SMARTEST MAN?" WHAT IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN? SINCE WHEN ARE VOYEURS SMART?

AND WHERE DO YOU STAND, BY THE WAY? APPARENTLY OUTSIDE MY BEDROOM WINDOW. I SMELL A RESTRAINING ORDER.

Is it possible for this song to get any weirder? Apparently so...

OKAY, THIS IS THE PART CLAY�S FANS DO NOT NEED TO HEAR. IT�S GONNA GIVE THEM IDEAS, MAN! NOT GOOD!

AND WHAT EXACTLY ARE THE COLORS OF YOUR LIFE? CAN THEY ACTUALLY TOUCH SOMEONE? DO COLORS HAVE ARMS AND HANDS FOR TOUCHING? CAN I SPECIFY WHICH PARTS I WANT TO TOUCH?

How about this bridge before the final chorus?

AAAAAAAAHHHHHH! THIS SOUNDS LIKE A SERIOUS PSYCHOLOGICAL DISORDER.

BE AFRAID, BE VERY AFRAID.

I can�t WAIT for this CD to be released!

I got mocked tonight. In a funny way. But mocked nonetheless.

I may have mentioned that I don't drink much. It makes me violently ill and goofy.

Unless red wine is around. Red wine, teasing me with its smooth, velvety texture and rich flavor. Red wine makes me want to move to Sonoma and use terms like "simple, yet voluptuous" and "cinnamon on the palate with a long finish of chocolate covered coffee beans."

Damn you, red wine.

I went to Doug's tonight. Doug is a long time member of the book club I recently joined. We decided to cancel our July and August book club meetings because too many members had conflicts, so Doug the Social Coordinator organized a lovely evening of cocktails followed by an excursion to an outdoor foreign film festival.

Three of us showed up, including Doug.

Doug fed us shrimp and cheese and crackers and he MADE me drink red wine. I didn't drink much, only three glasses, but for me, that is quite enough.

The film festival was ASS. The screen was tiny and we couldn't see the green subtitles over the mammoth head of the guy in front of us. The best part of the entire festival was the pseudo-karaoke contest they had prior to the film.

This is when I got mocked.

Now, I pride myself on being the Queen of Song Lyrics. I know almost every song ever written. By heart. But remember, I DRANK RED WINE.

So my memory wasn't so good. Doug and I were singing along with the people trying to win free crap and coming up with our own little ditties in our folding chairs. Actually, Doug had the folding Barcolounger, complete with foot and head rest. Hmph.

I was using my very best lounge lizard voice but I was screwing up all the fricking words. During our rendition of "Mack the Knife" I do believe I sang "never a TASTE of red" instead of "never a TRACE of red." See what I mean about the wine?

Doug and Robin found this quite amusing and decided the best course of action when we got in the car to leave would be just to turn the CD player up as loud as possible to drown me out.

Doug won't sing with me again until I get my act together and straighten out my lyrics. As long as he's not pouring red wine down my throat, I should be able to comply.

I am pretty tired from all the wine and song, so I think I'll just sing myself to sleep.

"Oh the shark has...pretty feet dear...and he shows them...pearly thighs..."

I think everyone is aware of my Clay Aiken obsession by now. Am I right?

Ummmm, yeah.

There are two factions of people who read my diary.

1. My friends and fellow diarylanders

2. Die hard Clay Aiken fans

If I have it my way, the twain shall one day meet.

My goal today is to enlighten Faction #1 and amuse Faction #2.

As for the Clay Aiken fans, I am very particular. There are a million fricking Clay Aiken fan sites out there, and I am not going to out myself publicly to just any old group. My site of choice must perfectly blend devotion and good old fashioned snark. Obsessed adults like myself preferred. No rules to speak of. People should be able to monitor their own behavior. So I started searching.

AND OH MY GOD. YOU CANNOT BELIEVE THE CRAP OUT THERE.

Disclaimer: I am not bashing or dissing Clay fan sites. I love them all in their own �special� way. United we stand.

BUT COME ON PEOPLE. SOME OF THIS STUFF IS OVER THE TOP.

Some sites have rules upon rules upon rules about who can post messages, when you can post messages, how long the messages can be, and what the messages can say.

Other sites have caste systems where members are ranked. It�s like a big ass popularity contest. If you�re not one of the cool kids, you get the shaft.

And what�s up with numbering members? Are we fricking cattle or human beings? I have a name, thanks, and it�s not 2,014.

Most sites encourage graphic creativity, which results in these mile long signatures and huge pictures at the end of every message. It takes an hour to scroll down one page.

Don�t even get me started on the smilies.

BUT THERE IS SOMETHING EVIL OUT THERE. SOMETHING THAT IS CREEPING INTO THE MINDS OF CLAY AIKEN�S FANS AND EATING THEIR SOULS.

IT IS CALLED...

KEEPERSHIP

This is a phenomenon I will never understand, no matter how hard I try.

The basic theory of keeperships goes like this...

Clay is great. Everyone loves him, like, SOOOOO much. Just like me, they long to be...close to him.

But stalking is illegal, not to mention uncool.

So here�s an idea! Let�s all make a list of shit Clay says, does, thinks, eats, sings, owns and wears. Then, to avoid a giant cat fight, we will CALL DIBS on this shit. First one to call something gets to be the KEEPER.

Let me give you an example.

I love the way Clay shakes his hips during his performance of �Grease.� So I would have to say, �I would like to be the Keeper of Clay�s Hip Shake in Grease, please.� I would have to be polite and use my big girl manners or my request might be denied and I might even be banned from the website completely. So I CANNOT say, �GIMME THE GREASE HIP SHAKE OR I WILL POKE YOUR F�N EYES OUT WITH A STRAW!� That would be frowned upon.

Now here�s what happens. The Boss of all Keeperships has to see if anyone else has already claimed your request. If so, you�re screwed. Find something else to keep. If not, you have a shot at being approved and MAYBE, JUST MAYBE you will even get ((((HUGS)))).

I am not going to begin to explain the rules of Keepership selection. If you don�t know about it and you really want to, just google �Clay Aiken� and you will find the mother lode. It�s all too complicated to explain.

Here�s my big question. WHY? WHY KEEP? What do you get out of it? Do you feel closer to Downy Ball with a keepership? Does it make you feel superior to keep something of Clay�s (that doesn�t exist in the real world) that NO ONE else can EVER HAVE? I guess I could understand it being fun and all, but when I read pages of Keepership rules on multiple sites and lists of hundreds of people who Keep, I worry just a little. Can someone explain this all to me? Please? OR I WILL POKE YOUR F�N EYES OUT WITH A STRAW! Sorry, sorry, force of snarky habit.

I don�t want to alienate myself completely from other Clay Aiken fans out there, so I have come up with a list of Keeperships that I am pretty sure have not been taken yet. No takebacks. Infinity.

If anyone has a problem with my keeperships, they can be The Keeper of My Middle Finger.

That�s for you, lbfca.

I was thinking today that it's a good thing I get invited to bridal showers and weddings and dinner dates with friends, because it's the only time I get my daily servings of vegetables.

Also, it occurred to me that my favorite beverage can be used to remove and prevent rust buildup on a car.

Today I ate almost a whole plain bagel, a bowl of macaroni salad and I drank three Cokes. And that's it.

Carbs, sweet carbs.

FULL CONCERT REPORT

PREPARATIONS

I prepared for Clayfest 2003 in true Drama Queen style. First, I spent WAY too much money on my tickets. Then I spent WAY too much money AGAIN on a really up close floor seat, immediately followed by massive bouts of buyer�s remorse. Next I HAD to have a red leather jacket to wear. Said jacket was ordered in compulsive haste, incorrectly. Thus, said jacket arrived mere days before the concert in BLACK. The Holy Red Jacket of Grease was delivered on the day of the concert at 7:30 am, thanks to the good vibrations of good friends everywhere.

The aforementioned dramatics were tempered by the sweet and lovely Kelly, who would be the recipient of one extra ticket to the Cleveland Clayfest. Planning this trip with Kelly restored balance to my majorly screwed up obsessive chi.

THE DRIVE

I picked up my friend and travel companion, Wendy, and we were Cleveland bound. The drive was uneventful and hilarious all at once. Wendy was subjected to my top-of-the-lungs �homages�, as I like to call them, to Downy Ball�s American Idol performances. Lucky girl.

THE PICK UP

...Can-Can music plays...

�Hello?�

�Marie?�

�No, this is Wendy. Hang on. Here�s Marie.�

�Hello?�

�Where are you?�

�In front of the CSU Convocation Center. Where are you?�

�IN FRONT OF THE CSU CONVOCATION CENTER! Are you in your car or on foot?�

�On foot. You?"

�In my car. I am picking you up NOW. Where are you? I don�t see you or your hair or your shoes.�

�I am walking...�

�There you are! OH MY GOD!�

�YAY!�

I pulled over, jumped out of the car and ran to embrace Kelly. We are yelling and making a big spectacle of ourselves, which is the first of many times this will happen throughout the course of the evening, so get used to it. Kelly gets in car aaaaaaaand...THEY�RE OFF LIKE A PAIR OF PANTIES AT A CLAY AIKEN CONCERT.

THE DRIVE AROUND

5 hours to concert time. 5 hours to get completely hyped up and rewind our biological clocks 10 to 15 years. Yep, 5 hours ought to do it.

Rewinding one�s biological clock is not an easy task. Mostly it involves driving dangerously in circles looking for a gas station and playing music full blast with all the windows open. It helps if you can sing filthy dirty lyrics as loud as possible and scream, �OH MY GOD I AM GOING TO BE BREATHING THE SAME AIR AS CLAY!� every 5 to 7 minutes.

DINNER

A piece of advice for anyone traveling long distances for a shot at seeing Kleine Butterblume... DO NOT MAKE A HYPOGLYCEMIC TRAVEL COMPANION ENDURE THE DRIVE AROUND. We had to find a restaurant, pronto. If pronto means circling metropolitan Cleveland 7,892 times, then we succeeded. I won�t get into the details of my parallel park, but let�s just say there was much gasping and sucking air through teeth heard from the chick in the back seat. My parallel parking skills would have been more impressive if the blind spot and entire back window weren�t obscured by pictures of Package Boy taped all over them.

Dinner was lovely. Kelly and I chatted up a storm, as if we�d known each other forever. She says she is the yin to my yang, and she is absolutely right.

PARKING

Fueled for the next round, we began what I am calling PROJECT MARIE LOOKS LIKE A HO. Sitting in the parking lot, I applied approximately 84 layers of makeup to my face. My lips stood out like a turd in a church. Oh my gosh they were RED. I�m not sure, but I think Kelly and Wendy were getting a wee bit annoyed with my constant queries of �How�s my hair?� and �How�s my lipstick?� I needn�t have bothered since I kissed off my lipstick in a matter of minutes inside the arena. I�ll just leave the details of that for later...

On our way to Kelly�s car for a quick touch-up, we met two darling young girls and their mom who had just come from a meet and greet with the Idols. The inside scoop is...CLAY, RUBEN and KIM CALDWELL are THE nicest and most generous of spirit, RICKEY is hyper, CHARLIE is a doll, and CARMEN is...and I quote...A BRAT. These women were our new best friends.

THE LINE UP

Here comes the part when Marie and Kelly turn into total bitches and their heads spin all around. We are about 2 hours to show time, and we hear all this SCREAMING coming from the front of the arena. We are not stupid broads. We deduce that there may be Idol Sightings going on, a peek from a window, perhaps, and we hightail it over to the concourse. No idols. Just a second rate DJ and his overly zealous interns causing a pointless frenzy. Feh.

Marie turns Queen Bitch first, mostly because my hair got messy in the aforementioned rush. Furthermore, NO ONE IS NOTICING MY FRICKING OUTFIT OR COMMENTING ON MY SIGN. It was a huge poster with red metallic borders and lettering which read �CLAY�S GOT THE MOVES!!� The poster was decorated with two large pics of Grease Clay. I duplicated that whole look quite nicely, if I do say so myself. I mean, here are all these people, SO-CALLED Clay fans in homemade T-shirts and painted on jeans, and NO ONE notices that I am Grease Clay? Whatever.

Kelly was bitchverted upon seeing people standing in A LINE in front of the arena for NO APPARENT REASON WHATSOEVER. This was the part of the day when we spent an inordinate amount of time huffing and puffing and making fun of the people walking by.

I think we were subconsciously trying to make sure we didn�t use up all our positive energy B.C. (Before Clay) and be all empty and dry when he hit the stage. I�m psychological that way.

PRE-SHOW JITTERS

Once in the arena, I think the discussion went something like this...
�Omigod, omigod, omigod, omigod, omigod, omigod, omigod, omigod! How�s my lipstick?�

SITTING DOWN

Wendy and Kelly went happily to their seats in the lowers. I sauntered with great arrogance and glee to my seat in the third row. I was a freaking peacock, people. Like I was THE ONLY ONE down on the floor or something. Since it was a bit more than an hour to show time, that was pretty much the case. I spent the next 30 minutes waving frantically to Kelly and sticking out my tongue at her. I told you about the biological clock thing, right?

Early arrival gave Queen Marie ample time to view her subjects. A lovely lot they were. Men, women, drag queens. More on that later. Signs and posters galore, but none to rival that of King Clay�s fair queen. More on that too, in a minute. Sheesh!

My humongous sign was getting some mad attention by this time, and along came the American Idol videographer. I was holding the sign and laughing up a storm and she stood there with her big ol� camera and light in my face and taped my shenanigans for about five minutes. I wanted to think she kept the camera on me because of my extremely photogenic visage and presence, but really, it was probably because I didn�t look right at her and start screaming into the lens. I was au naturel. Now I can fantasize that this clip will show up on the Official Concert DVD or next season�s concert tour recap or Clay�s VCR in his bedroom.

AUDIENCE CONDITIONS

Scanning the audience is one of my favorite things about concerts. The people of Cleveland came out in droves. The CSU Convocation Center is smaller than many of the arenas the Idols are playing, so it was small enough to be intimate but big enough to be wild.

I made buddies immediately with the people all around me, and began whoring out my sign as soon as possible. One K Lo Fan and I waved our signs at each other and it was apparent that I�d better put my masterpiece down before a riot ensued, sparked by mad jealousy.

The folks in my row were as bold and brassy as any self-respecting Clay fan should be and we had a blast moving our way up to the front row. I would not recommend trying this as my neighbor was sent back by security. YAY NEIGHBOR! BOO HISS SECURITY!

Clay�s bodyguard Jerome stood in front of me for the duration of the show and it was pretty amusing to watch people sucking up to him and other security guards for backstage passes. Not gonna happen, unless you are 18 and have big perky boobs popping out of your demicut halter top.

Throughout the show, I was completely oblivious to the audience, except to note that Clay�s fans are deafening. The adorable little girls in front of me dancing on their chairs had earplugs. That was a good move on the parents� part. There were tons of kids in the audience and Clay does a PRETTY decent job of trying to keep the family atmosphere intact. I SAY PRETTY DECENT BECAUSE YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE YOUR EARS WHEN YOU HEAR WHAT HE SAID ABOUT SOME PANTIES THAT WERE THROWN. More on that later.

ACT ONE

Okay, here�s the thing. Everything I�ve read in all the great concert reports on the net about all the Idols� performances has been true. I am hereby validating all prior concert reports for accuracy and depth of perception.

Here�s how it went down for me.

Everyone sings. That�s a blur.

Clay Rises.

INTERMISSION

I lumbered over to Kelly and Wendy�s section. They were staring at me, wide-eyed.

I thought, �Why are they staring at me like that? Is my lipstick smudged? Do I have toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe?�

Wendy asked, �Are you okay? Did something happen down there?�

I replied, �Wha? Huh? Um, no, um, holy shit. Um, you guys!�

I think they understood what happened to me.

ACT TWO

Finally, I got it together. Extreme Whoring is my sport of choice at this point in the show.

DO NOT ask me about the songs or the order, because frankly, I didn�t pay attention. The rule was: If Clay Is On the Stage, PAY TOTAL ATTENTION TO HIM. If Clay Is Off Stage, Fool Around With Your Digital Camera�s Functions And Goof Off With The Girl Next To You.

Okay, so.

Clay hits the stage in white. Guess what? He�s not wearing leather like everyone is saying. I hate to burst bubbles, but that�s the ding dang truth. Don�t worry, he looks fabulouso anyway. The boy could drape himself in a burlap sack and I would say he�s got it goin� on. But I digress...

He�s singing something and starts skipping over to my side of the stage. LET THE WHORING BEGIN.

I begin giving him bedroom eyes and COME HITHER arms replete with beckoning fingers. And it worked! WHORING WORKS.

He sees me, directs his attention, and I blow him about a million kisses.

He looks me square in the eyes, cocks his head, points at me, winks, giggles and waves.

Oh yeah, baby. Eye FRICKING contact. A definite eye f*ck. The locking of the eyes was most certainly long enough and the look was such that it can be described as eye f*cking.

The girl next to me grabbed my arm and started screaming, �OH MY GOD. DID YOU SEE HOW HE JUST LOOKED AT YOU? HE TOTALLY LOOKED RIGHT AT YOU!�

Um, yes. I am aware. I think I know a good eye f*ck when I get one. So I tell her, �Yeah, he wants me.�

The rest of the show was faboo and had some absolutely classic moments. Here are the highlights:

1. Panties Galore The first pair thrown is a yellow thong, followed by boxer shorts covered in chili peppers. Clay put the boxers on OVER HIS PANTS and told Ruben to put on the thong.

Mad laughter and woowoos from the crowd. Ruben picks up the thong and Clay proceeds to do his now standard line, �Wait, gimme that! There�s a phone number on it!� followed by the pocketing of said number. Now, get ready for what Clay says next. Before I tell you, I would like to refer you to my earlier musings about Clay being PRETTY decent about keeping the show in the family way. Okay, here it comes. CLAY TELLS RUBEN TO SMELL THE PANTIES. What? OH NO, HE DIDN�T! Oh yes, he did. I quickly turned to the girl next to me and yelled, �DID HE JUST TELL RUBEN TO SMELL THOSE PANTIES???� I thought I liked Clay. Now I f�n LOVE HIM. If that is not snark at its finest, I DON�T KNOW WHAT IS. Family show, my ass.

2. Nachos During the Clay/Ruben banter, Clay noticed someone in the audience eating nachos. He remarked that they don�t get snack breaks during the show, and the nacho lady must have offered some to him and Ruben. Clay invited her down to the stage and asked her a bunch of basic questions. Ruben was all about the nachos. I imagine he was thinking, �YO CLAY STOP WITH ALL THE FRIENDLY TALK AND BRING THOSE NACHOS UP HERE NOW.� And that�s basically what he said. And then he chowed on the nachos. And the nacho people got backstage passes.

3. Drag Queens There was a dude dressed up like Kim Caldwell. She fricking LOVED him. He got a backstage pass. I was thinking, �HEY! I AM A DRAG QUEEN IN REVERSE! A WOMAN DRESSED LIKE A MAN! WHERE IS MY BACKSTAGE PASS???� My entire section tried to whore me and my ensemble out to Clay and Kim C. when they were nearby, but no such luck. They can�t hear a thing you say from the stage, no matter how loud you scream or how close you are. Believe me, we were LOUD. AND CLOSE. At one point, Kim got the drag queen up on the stage to demonstrate some dance moves. She was adorable. They hugged and kissed and he danced and sang. She said, �Oh my god, you�re so PRETTY!� I was completely LOVING HER, and I will tell you why.

Moments before Kim brought the drag queen to the stage, she and Trenyce were center stage flanking Clay. They were doing the schtick about Clay�s ability to dance. You know how it goes. So they get to the part where Clay is all NO NO I AM A TERRIBLE DANCER and they are all WHO THINKS CLAY IS A GOOD DANCER? And my sign is up. High.

Kim C. says, �See! Look, Clay! It says, �CLAY�S GOT THE MOVES�!� All eyes turn to me and my sign. Cameraman dude whirls around and zooms in on me. I am all over the big screen, jumping up and down. Boobs ahoy. THANK YOU KIMBERLY CALDWELL!

I was too jazzed to even LOOK at what Clay�s reaction was but I imagine it was something like, �Why, is that the sensuous and beautiful woman I eye f*cked earlier? I do believe it is. Could someone get her name and number for me?�

Damned Kelly and Damned Wendy were screaming so loud for me, even THEY didn�t check out Clay�s reaction. Thanks a lot. So we�re all going with the reaction I imagined.

Now my sign had been all over the big screen a bunch of times before, but THIS WAS DIFFERENT. My sign was the only sign at the entire concert that was read aloud. Yep. Mine. Me. It�s all about ME. I was having a good time up until then, but this really put me over the edge into The Land of Frenzy. I was the resident celebrity of my section and the sole representative of the Cleveland sign makers. On our way to the car after the show, I got plenty of �hey isn�t that the broad with the sign?� looks. Yeah, baby.

The rest of the show was great, fine, whatever. All the microphones could have gone out for all I cared.

ENCORE

All I can say is TRIPLE CLUTCH AND MAJOR TUCK ACTION. That boy knows EXACTLY what he is doing. Tucking JUST THE FRONT of his jersey into his pants to provide maximum package display and easy clutch accessibility.

GENERAL CLAY IMPRESSIONS

A few moments I want to share...

Right before the last note of TITN, Clay stopped. He closed his eyes and listened to the crowd screaming and cheering and clapping and yelling. He opened them, smiled his big perfect smile and broke out into the last haunting note. He is equally awestruck of his fans as his fans are of him.

During God Bless the USA, Clay took out his earpiece and held his microphone out to the audience. I don�t know what he could hear from his vantage point, but his downcast eyes and face showed powerful emotion. It was clear to me at this point that the Idols do love one another so much and are having the Time of Their Lives.

During the curtain call, Clay whispered something to Ruben. He then walked over to Charles Grigsby and grabbed his hand, pulling it up into the air. �Give it up for Charles Grigsby, Cleveland!� yelled Clay. He mentioned Charlie�s celebrity status in his hometown of Cleveland several times during the show, and directed the cameras to Charles� mom and Trenyce�s mom (who I chatted with a bit - it�s easy to see where her daughter gets her loveliness) in the audience. Ever selfless, my Buttercup.

Oh, yeah, one more thing. I want to have about 14 of Clay�s babies.

SAYING GOODBYE

WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

THE DRIVE HOME

I would not recommend driving long distances following this concert. Stay in a hotel. Thank goodness for Coca Cola.

KELLY and WENDY

3:00 am. Run to computer. IM Kelly and discuss our concert reports. Here�s my final word.

Aside from THE VOICE and for giving me an outlet for my obsessiveness, I want to thank Clay for something else. Thanks, Clay for bringing people together, whether on line or in line at the grocery store. In our �crazy lonely world� we must not underestimate the power of friendship and love. Had it not been for Clay, I never would have met this amazingly funny, incredibly intelligent, absolutely gorgeous and equally obsessed new friend. Wendy was the best travel companion any girl could ask for. Who else would replay Tenacious D songs for hours and sing them at full voice with me? Or sit with a virtual stranger at a concert so I could practically throw myself on the stage? Today my throat feels like I chain smoked three packs of cigarettes, and I don't even smoke. Our friends and the people we love are our greatest source of wealth, surpassing our bank accounts and stock options and mutual fund by leaps and bounds. Cherish the people in your life. You will be repaid tenfold.

Hey, Clay....SMOOCH!

I only have time for a quick Clay O' The Day, so here goes...

In a few short hours, I will be seeing

THIS

AND THIS

AND OHMYGOD, THIS

AND LET US NOT FORGET ABOUT THIS

AND IF I SEE THIS, I MAY PASS OUT

YAY!

I am absolutely useless today.

Use. Less.

Tomorrow is the American Idols concert and my obsession is in FULL FRICKING FORCE.

I cannot think about anything else.

Lobsterchick is on vacation, so I don't even have her around to mock me and remark on the finer points of my dorkitude.

Fortunately, my new bud Gump is on hand to encourage my adolescent behavior.

Here is a portion of an IM exchange from this evening. I have edited out all intelligent conversation and post-high school vocabulary words.

Prepare yourselves for extreme foolishness and hyperactivity...

M: dude, your entry today was so good
G: which one?
M: about the want ads
M: can i just say i feel like a 12 year old right now
M: i made these huge ass posters to hold up at the show
G: are you hahahahahahahhaha
M: i have third row
G: I love it
G: WHAT
G: wow
M: yeah
G: throw your underthings on stage
M: i was gonna
M: but nah
M: i may tape the one song clay sings
M: my dig. camera has the capability
M: OMG
M: i am so fricking excited
G: wowo
G: I bet
M: my posters are ridiculous
M: they are red white and blue with big huge metallic letters
M: and pictures
M: and a metallic border
M: oh my god, i better get backstage passes for all this
M: tee hee hee
M: how old am i again?
M: ah, yes 33
M: almost 34
G: hahah
G: I would think you were 25
M: talk about peter pan
G: ...going on 12
M: lost boys
M: never grow up
M: hahahahah
M: going on 12 hahahahhaa
M: i am going to take pics of my posters and put them up on my site after the show
G: well
G: some singers do that
M: yep they do
M: some singers named CLAY AIKEN
M: did i tell you about my whole ensemble?
M: i am such a loser
M: but i love it
M: i just don't care about looking like an ass
M: ASS CITY, POPULATION ONE
M: that is me
M: i am the mayor of ass city
M: la la la la la
M: i need to charge my cell phone
M: be right back
G: okay
G: wow
G: you are hyped due to the typeing
M: ok
M: no kidding
M: i am a fast typist to begin with but i think i am setting records tonight
M: gotta love catholic school for the typing class
M: we typed to these records that played a guy's voice saying letters to the beat of a tango
M: lasdkjfalutroweinvkjh
gowihnlw/ncfaiwury0w jiorgnm
M: jksdowiyrownlfasjt9p35
M: this is how i feel right now
M: HOLY CRAP I AM HYPER
M: too much caffeine today - not a good combo with the clay excitement
G: I guess so ..
M: i am calming down
G: hehehe
G: I like it
G: I like to see you happy

...many minutes later...

M: hahahaha
M: holy crap i am so excited
M: i am drinking a coke, which may or may not be a good thing

...followed by...

M: really good looking guys don't hold a girl's interest for long
M: unless they are CLAY AIKEN
M: hahahahahaha

...and I really hit rock bottom with this...

M: hahahahahhahahahhahahahahhahahahad
lkfjasldkaslkfdvnxcvj
hoawirt0weu9fjiodsl
M: ldksjflkdjsflsakdjvgns
cnvlskhdowiefjoweijfwpoijf
G: hehehe
M: yep hehehe
M: what do i need to bring tomorrow
M: cell phone
M: money
M: camera
M: tickets
G: panties
G: hahahaha
M: panties
M: depends
M: for when i pee myself
M: pacemaker
M: big sign that says DO ME CLAY
M: ummmm
G: ummm
M: cell phone
M: ummmm
G: backstage pass
M: kidding about the sign
M: sort of
M: a little
M: not at all
M: no, my sign says CLAY'S GOT THE MOVES
G: the bend
M: and it has pics of him dancing
G: ...I am aware
M: he thinks he' s a sucky dancer
M: and he is
M: but that's okay
M: who am i stuart smalley?
G: thats why you like it
M: yep
M: i like a man with no moves to speak of
M: hahahaha
M: people say he's a virgin, too
M: i will be fixing that tomorrow
M: hahahahahhahaha
M: i am sick
M: sick in the head
G: hehehe
M: sick and demented
M: and i like it
G: I'm sure he won't be by the end of tomorrow

See how I spend my time?

This is all Gump's fault. He lets me go on and on, not letting him get a word in edgewise. He encourages me with all his "hehehe"s.

I promise after this concert I will get back to reality and start writing some decent stuff again.

Yeah, right. Who am I kidding?

Tomorrow is the day I see my little Downy Ball up close and personal. I am all kinds of hyper.

The level of my excitement is ridiculous. Ridiculous, I tell you!

Which is why THIS ARTICLE actually ticked me off. Allow me to quote the specific part...

"So what do Idol's fellow experts think about a slimmer, trimmer Jackson? No reaction yet, but Simon Cowell will no doubt approve, judging by his recent comments to Us Weekly about next season's contestants. 'I would like better-looking people this time. I don't want this to turn into American Ugly Idol,' opined the acerbic Brit."

Normally, I would scoff and laugh this off in an arrogant French accent. Haw haw HAW.

BUT NOT ON THE EVE OF THE CLAY AIKEN SHOW.

Clearly, Simon is referring to My Sweet And Talented Bundle when he makes this comment. It's his passive-aggressive way of repeating what he said on American Idol; he thinks Clay is ugly.

HEY SIMON, HAVE YOU LOOKED IN THE MIRROR LATELY? I KNOW AN ADONIS WHEN I SEE ONE, AND LET ME TELL YOU...YOU ARE NO ADONIS!

I want back up here.

Is it me, or is CLAY AIKEN EMPIRICALLY FAR SUPERIOR IN THE LOOKS DEPARTMENT TO MR. MAN BOOBS COWELL?

Look at the pics, take the poll, leave me a comment, yadda yadda yadda, you know the drill...

CLAY AIKEN

SIMON "MAN BOOBS" COWELL

Thanks again for supporting Project Degradation of Marie's Mind.

I was reviewing a diary today, and I stumbled upon a lovely little personality test.

I answered the questions truthfully, ready for the door to be broken down by the nice men in white coats the moment my results appeared on the screen.

Here's what THE TEST says about me.

Disorder Rating

Histrionic: High

Narcissistic: High

Obsessive-Compulsive: Moderate

Here's what it means. I copied this directly from the test site.

I would like to mention that I had to go through this and correct several spelling errors before pasting this on my page.

I TAKE TOTAL OFFENSE TO THIS!

I AM MORE THAN MODERATELY OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE, DAMMIT!

Back in The Day, I had two posters hanging on my bedroom wall.

Shaun Cassidy

and

Donny Osmond

My friends and I used to take turns making out with them. Yeah, thaaaaat's sanitary.

I thought I'd give it a whirl, for old times sake.

Hey! What the...? How did THESE get in here???

I'm so embarrassed! Oh, who am I kidding?...I am NOT.

Success!

Holy crap, that took FOREVER!

I decided, like a fool, to redesign my entire site around cereal boxes of the 1970s.

I should mention that I am a bit obsessive and require immediate gratification at all times.

People like me should not start projects like these. We should be stopped.

The biggest obstacle I encountered was how to get the fricking Schoolhouse Rock wallpaper up as my background. The easiest job in my mind turned out to be the hardest.

I am so happy right now I ALMOST don't care if I get my red leather jacket this week. ALMOST.

I think I'm gonna go figure out how to get "What A Feeling" from Flashdance to start playing when this entry loads.

I fricking love myself right now.

I hope everyone is proud of me. I have managed to find yet another way to express my admiration for Kleine Butterblume. Admiration, yeah, that's it...that's the ticket.

I was goofing around on googlefight yesterday, having quite the time with myself.

I am still trying to figure out why a woman my age and with my IQ is so easily amused.

My first googlefight of the day. I know Downy Ball doesn't like all the competitive talk, but I can't help it. I'm bitter. Old and bitter.

Now I'm in a pretty good mood. Here's my next search. This one is my all time favorite. You'll see why.

Here's the beginning of the silly searches. I enjoy the silly searches best.

At this point, I started thinking about American Idol in general. I just love Randy Jackson.

Paula's critiques are always entertaining.

Then I wondered what Paula would have said to THESE GUYS if they made it past the first round.

Despite my high opinion of myself, I do believe these are the words Simon would use when criticizing my performance on American Idol.

TAKE THAT SIMON!

AND TAKE THAT!

Regarding my own behavior, I'd like to quote Clay Aiken...

"Do they have medication for that?"

I am in a retro kind of mood. All this week, I've felt like the clock has been turned back about 15 years.

I've spent several nights this week hanging out with old friends. I've been friends with every one of them for no less than 17 years, and some I have known for almost 30.

Whenever we get together, it's like no time has passed and we are kept apart not by miles, but by mere steps.

Tonight was especially wonderful. We sat by the lake, talking and laughing.

And the seaweed on the shore smelled like an elephant's ass.

I overheard someone make this analogy tonight and it's right on the money.

This odor is permanently etched in my brain. In fact, I can smell it right now.

It's a good thing my friends were there to take my mind off the stench.

Hey Joe Paradox, if you're reading this, I just want you to know there's no one on this planet I'd rather smell elephant ass seaweed with than YOU.

I have a new favorite toy.

My friend SillyRed introduced it to me.

It's an online translator. If you are a big dork like me, this will be FUN for you.

I spent precious moments yesterday translating sentences from English into other European languages.

Of course the sentences were about Clay Aiken.

It's funny how universal truths can be easily understood in any language. Check it out.

Italian: L'argilla Aiken � dang di ding sexy.

Spanish: La arcilla Aiken es el Idol americano.

French: L'argile Aiken est le boule duveteuse.

German: Lehm Aiken ist eine kleine Butterblume.

My favorite part is that it actually TRANSLATES the word CLAY!

And I couldn't pass up an opportunity for this translation:

Italian: Che cosa � in su con i boobs dell'uomo del Simon?

Spanish: �Cu�l est� para arriba con los boobs del hombre de Simon?

French: Qu'est vers le haut avec les boobs de l'homme de Simon?

German: Was ist oben mit boobs Mann Simons?

See what I mean about those universal truths?

Click here for translator fun!

I copied this from Lobsterchick who copied it from Gump.

I'm only doing this so my whole diary isn't all Clay O'The Day crap and because my brain is pretty much emptied of all original thought.

Appetizer of Choice: Bruschetta.

Best Friend: Amy

Choice of Meat: No Comment

Dream Date: Alan Rickman (surprised I didn't say Clay, huh?)

Exciting Adventure: A week at a really good spa.

Favorite Food: Rice. With Coke.

Greatest Accomplishment: I'll let you know when it happens.

Happiest Day of your life: I'll let you know when it happens.

Interesting Fact: I can shoot spit about 5 feet from under my tongue.

Kool-Aid: Um, yuck.

Jeans: My summer pair. Cropped leg.

Lover: Clay Aiken. Happy now?

Marriage: someday

Name: Danielle Marie

Obsession: I think we all know the answer to this one. I'm going to write Clay Aiken because it's my personal goal to end up as a google search result for Clay Aiken. To do that, I think you have to have the words Clay Aiken appear frequently on your site. Clay Aiken. Clay Aiken. Clay Aiken.

Pizza toppings: I pick them all off. Even the cheese.

Question Asked to you the most: What the hell is wrong with you?

Radio Station: NPR (This American Life)

Sex: Female.

Television Show: American Idol.

Underwear: plain white cotton

Video: Waiting for Guffman.

Winter: I love hibernation. And sparkly naked trees in the morning.

X-ray: Age 13 to check for scoliosis. That was the first and really the only one I can remember. I was terrified because I had just finished reading the book "Deenie" by Judy Blume, and I thought I was going to have to wear a back brace. I didn't.

Year born: 1970

Zodiac sign: Capricorn

American Idol is nominated for five Emmy awards. Count 'em. Five. I don't recall them being nominated for five Emmy awards when THIS GUY

was the show's runner-up.

It seems to me that Emmy nominations are in order when THIS GUY

is in the competition. Notice I refuse to call him the runner-up.

Coincidence? I think not.

Click here to read the article on vh1.com

I was one badass preteen.

Bad. Ass.

I had a friend named Lisa who lived down the street. We didn't go to the same school, but we hung out together in the hood. Her house was a fricking pigsty and there were about 15 kids living in the place. I had to hold my nose just to step foot over the threshold. I mean, it smelled like a rotting corpse in there. The beds were all sagging and pee-stained, and the kitchen sink was filled with dishes encrusted with unidentifiable brown matter at all times.

But Lisa was badass like me, so we hung out in the hood.

Suburban preteen badass life is like this...

You wear tight Jordache jeans. If there is a big orange comb sticking out of your back pocket with the word NICE written on it in bubble letters, you are definitely badass.

You ride your bike to the corner where the Parish Hall meets the church parking lot. If you have a ten-speed, turn the handlebars UP to be badass. Ride with no hands. When you get there, you let your bike fall directly to the ground. Using a kickstand is NOT badass.

You sit on the corner and spit. Spitting is very very badass if you are a suburban preteen. Making hocking noises prior to spitting is NOT badass; that's just trashy.

You watch Brian O'Neill and his friends play hockey in the street. Yelling "Hi Brian!" knowing he has no clue who on earth you are is badass. Badass suburban preteen DANGER.

You act like you don't care if he looks your way or waves in a confused fashion. You are a badass suburban preteen, so you can't act like he matters to you.

If you are asked on a date by another badass suburban preteen with a mullet, decline. Tell the mullet boy that he is ugly, he smells, he dresses funny and you wouldn't go out with him if he was the last boy on earth. Then go home and make out with your Shaun Cassidy poster. That is totally badass.

Catholic school girl by day, BADASS SUBURBAN PRETEEN by night. That was me, dude. That was me.

I don't drink.

Well, that's a bit of a white lie. I like a glass of wine now and then. Generally speaking, however, alcohol and I do not mix. So I steer clear of most beverages that include the word "proof" on the label.

I probably should have learned this lesson much much earlier in my life. But I wanted to be able to hold my booze like my friends who could suck vodka and tequila down by the gallon and function like Madeline Albright the day after. So I gulped the stuff and gave my pound of flesh.

It's amazing I never ended up in the hospital. I probably should have had my stomach pumped a few times, but my friends were all too drunk to remember how to dial 911. Good medical care involved laying me gingerly on a bathroom floor with a pillow under my head.

My hangover is not the hangover of the average bear. No. My hangover is punishment for all my evil deeds and thoughts. I stopped going to confession after my first hangover because I knew eternal penance had found me. The hangovers of my youth would incapacitate me for a day or so. They could not prepare me for the grown up hangovers I would suffer on three separate occasions.

Once, I tried to keep up with my younger brother and his friends by slugging shots of vile black raspberry schnapps. I broke all the blood vessels in my face from throwing up so violently.

Another severe hangover involved red wine and Bailey's Irish Cream. Pink vomit, folks. I did not know vomit could be pink.

My last and most recent hangover took place at Disney World. Good clean family fun turned ugly. My best friend and I took a girly vacation together in 2000 to the Land of Mouse. One night we went to a dueling piano bar and guzzled 32 ounce margaritas with the local yokels at the table next to us.

Mrs. Yokel had bleached blonde hair with the darkest roots known to mankind and wore electric pink lipstick. She had a husky voice that indicated she had smoked about 1,130 cigarettes that day. Since noon. Mr. Yokel mainly grunted. He reminded me of the guy who played Cher's husband in the movie "Mask." And I do mean the character, not the actor.

At this fine establishment, you write song requests on little napkins and bring them up to the piano men to sing. The audience sings along. I was so loaded the piano players actually crumpled up my requests and threw them on the floor. My request for "What Would Brian Boitano Do?" sung by Eric Cartman from South Park is what I think disgusted them. I did not take their musical talent seriously enough in my drunken stupor.

The next day we were supposed to go to a water park. We didn't go because I was tethered to the toilet until late afternoon. I was further punished by going on one of those simulator rides that takes you on a journey through the human body. It's a miracle the people in front of me didn't end up with the contents of my human body all over the backs of their heads.

And I am an ASS when I am drunk. If you think I am an ass now, you should see me inebriated. It's ASS CITY, population ONE.

I slur and giggle and stumble and make obnoxious remarks. I am embarrassing to myself and everyone around me. I am a blathering idiotic fool.

Here comes my big disclaimer. I have a theory. My theory is that I am, in fact, ALLERGIC TO ALCOHOL. This theory can be supported by my friends and family who have seen me in a state of drunkenness. This theory explains and excuses all past, present and future behavior of myself under the influence of alcohol. I can assert that FUTURE exhibitions of such behavior will not be likely.

If you need a designated driver, I'm your girl. Believe me, it's for your own good. And mine.

After receiving a message from my new friend Gump, I realized something.

I have not and will not talk about my job on this diary. Ever.

I'm not trying to be secretive or anything, it's just that my job tends to devour me physically, mentally and emotionally. This diary is an outlet for me to escape total consumption.

I can be my attention-seeking dork-ass self on this one page. Without reservation or censorship. It's wonderful.

However, I am curious about one thing. I know there are some people who read my diary on a regular basis (thanks so much for contributing to my stats addiction) and have read a bunch of my past entries. I was wondering...

What do you think I do for a living?

You can leave your answer in the comments section at the end of this entry. I know this is a vain request, but come on, it's ME.

Those of you who do know, just don't answer or, better yet, make up something funny. Any excuse to be snarky...

Thanks for indulging my foolish pride.

So my good friend Lobsterchick and I have these daily conversations about validation and approval.

This username I've chosen seems to be exceptionally appropriate. On one hand, I fill this blog with my verbal diarrhea just for fun. My kind of fun. Stupid ass loser fun that amuses me and my friends. Conversely, I love when people read my diary and leave me a comment somewhere (anywhere, please!) saying they liked what they read.

I asked myself, "Where and when did the prostitution of my thoughts and actions for a pittance of attention begin?"

And I did, indeed, find the answer.

When I was a very young child, probably no more than two, I could read. And sing. And dance. Now this was in the pre-JonBenet Ramsay era, so instead of parading around in public like a miniature whore, I was an endless source of entertainment for my incredibly tight-knit family. Every Sunday at dinner, I would stand on the dining table and perform "Just a Gigolo" and "Daddy's Little Girl" for my grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles. They would coo and laugh and applaud and I was hooked. Attention, yep, that's for me.

My grandparents lived in the flat below us and I was the apple of my grandpa's eye. We would sit for hours with a tape recorder on the floor before us; he requested improvised songs and I was only too happy to oblige. I absconded with those tapes one night when we were reminiscing at my grandma's table one evening. I don't know if anyone in my family would appreciate them the way I do. Not just because they are the chronicle of a shared experience, but because I didn't get to go to my grandpa's funeral. I placed him on the kitchen floor and watched him take in his last breath some Novembers ago, but I wasn't granted complete closure when he passed. Instead the mask of anaesthesia was being placed over my face for the first time.

I danced most of my life. Tap was my most prodigious talent and is to this day. Painfully shy in the dressing room (I remember we weren't allowed to wear underwear during recitals, and I costumed myself nearly pressed in the corner of the shower room of the high school where we performed.), I was a complete exhibitionist on stage. I relished the "woowoo" yelling that was appropriate and expected from sequin-clad dancers and felt like I won the lottery when I graduated from plain black tights to fishnet stockings. Ironically, my mom practically had to DRAG me to my lessons each week.

Gymnastics, though it provided less of an opportunity for stagey me to emerge, was just show-offy enough to keep me satisfied. Floorwork, bars, horse, balance beam. I could exhibit my prowess in all areas proudly. Watch me flip! Watch me swing! It's a miracle I didn't end up in the fricking circus. The love affair with gymnastics ended in my preteen years when I decided it was unnecessary for me to wear a bra to practice. My classmates didn't, so why should I? My shirt flew up during a handspring and out popped my chest. The instructor made a comment to me that literally made me BURST into tears. I ran to the locker room, refused to hear his apology, left and never went back. Isn't it amazing how hurtful words spoken by a trusted adult can stick with a child for life?

In high school, my attention seeking ways were halted somewhat as I became increasingly insecure about myself. I was terrified of boys at the time and protected myself with a wicked sense of humor. Cute, funny Marie. That was my M.O. I was a fairly talented flutist and regularly played solos in chamber and pit orchestra. A few attempts at plagiarized stand-up comedy in front of people I knew would laugh even if I bombed.

My insecure days ended during my senior year, when, after my first audition ever, I landed the lead role in the school musical. Oh. My. God. This was HEROIN to me. I thought I knew what praise and attention felt like before this, but I was wrong. I was a superstar in my own mind. Holy crap, did I love myself.

A few plays and films (no, not FILMS, gutter minds) and MANY years later, the person who craved attention and approval began to settle down. I started thinking more of my role in the lives of others. I desperately desired motherhood. Don't get me wrong, I still pull out all the stops when that fricking karaoke machine makes its appearance, and I look at my stats here on diaryland about a million times a day.

But really, I'm tired of being so selfish. As vain and conceited as I appear to be (and I am to a degree), I really do want to give part of myself to someone else. Someone tiny and soft. Someone who will have the world before her to seek the attention of others or give freely of herself to enrich the lives of others.

Until then, I'll let it be all about me and I'll enjoy every fricking minute of it.

I am declaring this The Summer of Me.

The summer in which I indulge my most vain and immature obsessions.

I am pleased to announce the cast list for the newest and hottest soap opera soon to be aired on MarieTV.

Apparently the folks over at Pledge have heard about the Clay Aiken Sh...I mean, American Idols Tour.

Did you know they created an ENTIRE line of cleaning products based on Clay's latest "move" that drives the ladies slowly out of their minds?

THE GRAB IT LINE

I plan on purchasing the "wet floor wipes" myself to bring to the concert. I feel it's only right to clean up my own drool.

So, which of Clay's "moves" will put the money in the bank account of Pledge's CEO? Look at your choices, take the poll and let's find out!

THE CLUTCH

THE BEND

THE POLL IS CLOSED! THANKS FOR VOTING!