Oh, INXS. We really must talk.

Up until now, I have agreed with your decisions. You are, after all, a "supergroup" and I am but a lowly fan. (Not so much a fan of your band, since there are maybe three songs in your catalogue that I recognize, but a fan of music in a very general sense.)

But why, why, why would you keep the bombastic, Queen-butchering, crotch-grabbing, drama-fanning J.D. Fortune and lose Ty, who actually had a bit of talent and played well with others? Don't answer that. I know exactly why. The reason J.D. got to stick around is that you are big, huge ratings whores. The show just wouldn't be interesting if everyone got along. So the comically named J.D. Fortune lives to talk smack another week.

It will be interesting to see, once Jordis and Marty are gone (this is all conjecture, mind you -- I haven't really tapped into the minds of the supersellouts INXS), how the band plans to justify getting rid of Mig or Suzie and keeping the obnoxious but lovable ratings-booster J.D. And, quite honestly, I fail to understand how anyone could possibly find J.D. more "right for our band INXS" than ANY of the current contenders. Sure, he is cute and his hijinks are indeed hilarious, but have we forgotten the the debacle that was "We Are the Champions?" Oh, the humanity! (Or, in words you might understand better, I'm not digging his vibe.)

Dear, dear members of INXS, I can forgive you for allowing Dave Navarro to outdo Paula Abdul in both the eyeliner and compliment departments. I can even forgive you for allowing Brooke Burke to rummage through the Osbournes' trash in search of ever more tragic outfits, because next to all the dorky cliches and innovative permutations of the word "rock," they are the funniest part of the show.

I can even forgive you for keeping J.D. Fortune. But you must promise me this: He cannot, I repeat cannot win. Second place is fine. Whatever you rating whores have to do to keep people watching. But J.D. is just not right for your rock band INXS.

Normally I pride myself on being a good big sister. The kind of sister that will fix her brother up with her friends, buy platform shoes for a 7-year-old, and kick the living shit out of other kids who mess with her younger siblings (or, if they're too big to beat up, make obscene Mad-Libs-type cartoons for her brothers to color in and laugh at).

But I have been a bad big sister lately.

My baby sister is turning 13 in a few days and I have postponed calling my mom to find out what she wants for weeks now. I am the absolute worst sister, since any little girl will tell you that birthday is, importance-wise, second only to your Sweet Sixteen (or your quinceanera or Bat Mitzvah, if you celebrate those instead). Now I will have to express-post her present internationally and hope it makes it to her in five days.

Also, my little brother has had his own blog for a couple months now and I keep forgetting to link to it. This is the brother who was famously beaten up by The Queers and who wore an eyepatch to a wedding, so I don't think I need to tell you that his blog promises to have the occasional really bizarre entry (and he posts more often than yours truly). Along with anecdotes from his life as a barista/musician, he also has a link to some of his artwork.

As for my other brother, my good-sisterly deed for the day will be to say that I watched his birth and can confirm that he is neither adopted nor from outer space, and to point out that he's had a lot of head injuries.

This fall, it will be 10 years since I entered university. Tonight, after I got the baby to bed and suffered the insomnia that results from knowing you have the opportunity to sleep, I surfed around and somehow stumbled on the blogs of random people from my university days.

Now, having kept myself up pretty well the whole time, and having only stayed in contact with two people from those days -- people who also happen to be hip, hot, happenin' chicas -- it had not occurred to me that time may not be treating the rest of my peers so well. But when I followed a few links from my alma mater's alumni page, I discovered the awful truth: The people I went to school with are friggin' OLD. And therefore, so am I.

Which is really funny and karmic, as I only recently mocked my darling Chris for the "midlife crisis" he experienced as his 30th birthday approached. Being a "Sex and the City"-watching gal, I figured you're just as hot at 30 as you are at 20. But most of us don't live in New York, where vigorous sex and chemical peels apparently keep everyone looking tip-top well past 40.

Sure, there have been warning signs that I'm getting up there in years, but I ignored them. So what if Hillary Duff was born circa 1995? Madonna's, like, 60, and she's still a certifiable hottie! And maybe a lot of the kids I babysat are writing their university admissions essays now, but when Luke Perry was my age, he was playing prepubescent boys on TV. The writing on the wall was totally blurred by Hollywood, the plastic surgery industry, and my subscription to not fewer than seven fashion magazines (oh, yes, seven! Vogue, Glamour, Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, Elle, Allure, and Lucky).

Those guys who were, at 18, strapping young studs are now fat and balding. The girls whose daily treadmilling and impeccable wardrobes made me feel like a fat, lazy slob (at 110 pounds, no less) have been ravaged by time, babies and -- most serious of all -- the utter lack of current fashion magazines.

For so long, I insulated myself from the horrors of aging with religious readership of Vogue, frequent trips to the mall, and cool, beautiful friends. But this horrifying trip down memory lane made me realize that I am now of a generation that has gotten old enough to be uncool if we let ourselves. We're talking about people who wear what they wore 10 years ago. People who haven't seen the inside of a salon since the "Friends" haircut. People who (shudder) think hunter green is a viable color.

Does this make me shallow? You bet it does. Although they are hopelessly uncool now, all these people seem very fulfilled. Not that I'm not fulfilled, mind you. I'm just vain and shallow and incredibly lucky that I didn't gain a lot of baby weight (although I have an appointment at the gym in 7 hours that I most DEFINITELY won't miss after checking up on the old schoolmates!).

I have no idea how I managed to ONLY keep in touch with the two people from school who actually look the same now as they did back when (or better, even). It's not like it's a matter of the cool, pretty people staying cool and pretty, because while my friends and I are smokin', so were some of the people who are now sporting combovers or wearing matronly high-waisted jeans.

Here I've been blithely failing to spaz about being just two years away from the big 3-0, because after all, "life begins at 30," when I should have been absolutely freaking out! These people are fossils, and that means I am old, old, old!

I don't personally have a problem with getting older, but the idea aging badly -- or even being old enough to age badly -- makes me a tad squeamish. If it wasn't for my classmates, I'd be fine with the prospect of 30 candles on my birthday cake, but now instead of seeing the number "30" and thinking of Drew Barrymore and Angelina Jolie, my mind conjures up images of women with unhighlighted hair pulled into a scrunchy as they accompany little Colton to soccer practice. Possibly the same scrunchy they wore in 1995, when scrunchies were socially acceptable. Instead of thinking of Ryan Phillippe and Tobey Maguire when I think of 30-year-old men, I envision guys with man boobs wearing ugly plaid dress shirts and matchy-matchy slacks to the church potluck, where they are now deacons. Deacons! The guys who used to do keg stands!

Now I know why so many women lie about their ages. After seeing what time has done to my contemporaries, I am giving it some serious thought myself.

Damn you, insomnia!!!

Me in my university days



Me this summer -- thank you, Vogue!

When I first heard about "American Idol" back before anyone knew who Kelly and Justin were (ahh, such innocent times!), I thought it was a great concept. That was before I heard the music and watched the wild gesticulations and dorky choreography.

Now, the promise "American Idol" made has finally been realized in "Rock Star: INXS." Instead of bubblegum pop that nobody over the age of 14 would enjoy, we are finally hearing actual entertainers. Some sucky ones, to be sure, but not an 'N Sync cover to be heard. It's "Idol," only with half the pain.

Late to the game as I was, I have no idea whether they replicated the only part of "AI" I can bring myself to watch -- the auditions in which the delusional subject themselves to the criticism of Simon and then are shocked to hear that their off-key karaoke won't get them into a nationwide contest featuring slightly better off-key karaoke artists.

"Rock Star" still features off-key (or, better yet, the vague "pitchy") singing, but now -- since these are "rockers" we're talking about -- with obscene gestures and pelvic gymnastics. Cheesy like Poison rather than cheesy like a cruise ship entertainer.

And if "Rock Star" is "Idol" all dressed up in leather and a studded belt, then Dave Navarro is Paula Abdul with a soul patch.

Oh, yes. I went there. He may have legitimate rock 'n' roll cred, but deep inside, Dave Navarro is just a big softie who can't say anything bad even about the worst performances. Who knew?

If I was still into booze, I'd make a "Rock Star: INXS" drinking game: One shot every time the word "rockers" is used to refer to the karaoke singers. One shot when J.D. Fortune makes an ass of himself. A shot whenever Deanna Johnston says "Thank you" in an Elvis voice. One shot every time Navarro says something positive about a performance. The whole bottle when Navarro says a performance was the best rendition of that song he's ever heard.

Obviously this show won't be easy to replicate for subsequent seasons, so I'm enjoying the Mariah-free goodness while I can.