I admit it: I watch entirely too much TV. At least I don't watch stuff like The Hills (not that there's anything wrong with that), American Idol, America's Top Model or anything involving Rachael Ray. My tastes run more towards the esoteric side; I can get sucked into shows like Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern, Destination Truth, Survivorman, the entire "Adult Swim" oeuvre, and before I know it, there goes my entire evening.

Stephen Colbert is a god to me. Jon Stewart, not so much. But lately, the show that's been cracking me up the most is something called Cheap Seats.

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Dear lord, no! Roger Clemens and Mindy McCready? This has to be grossest athlete/musician hookup since that greasy hack Rick Fox married Vanessa Williams. That Clemens, an alleged steroid fiend and confirmed uber-dick and a blonde country singer with a taste for Oxycotin and a hit song called "Guys Do it All the Time" broke the commandments is not surprising. The wonder is that we didn't hear about this earlier since the affair reportedly lasted ten years, starting when Clemens was in his late twenties and McCready was fifteen. Fifteen, dude, fifteen. Anyway, as I recoil with horror, here is a short list of couples who should never have been allowed in a sporting arena holding hands:

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EXCLUSIVE

Must credit The Capri Lounge

Vice-President Dick Cheney this afternoon expressed his "deep embarrassment" by the topless photograph of him scheduled to appear in an upcoming issue of Vanity Fair magazine.

"At the time, I was led to believe that this photograph was an artistic expression," Cheney said. “However, in seeing it now, I can only conclude that I received bad intelligence. I am full of deep embarrassment and I apologize to my fans. All two of them."

A spokesperson for Vanity Fair said the magazine's photograph "speaks for itself."

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Long before I spent most of my waking hours at Rolling Stone, I spent my teenage summers working at a large amphitheatre in New Jersey. While my peers were serving greasy chicken fingers at the concession stands and ripping ticket stubs at the front gate I was lucky enough to work backstage. Working there, I was assigned some really bizarre tasks like helping Britney Spears' assistant track down a nail salon in central Jersey that would cater to Brit's gel acrylic manicure habit (it's harder than you think) and picking blue M&Ms out of a bowl for a band I won't mention (I swear I did this). And while I missed out on the experience of actually attending a show as a patron, I thought I'd seen and heard it all at PNC. Until now, that is.

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As an online editor at Rolling Stone, I get a lot of pitches. Most of them are for up and coming bands, while sometimes a random celebrity will be presented to me. Every once in a while I'll get a pitch for somebody that I love but know I can't use for any sort of content on the site. Luckily, the invention of this blog has thrown the doors open for all sorts of people who otherwise would be excluded from the Rolling Stone universe. That's why I got super-excited when somebody called me and asked if I wanted to talk to Jonny Fairplay. Normally I would have to say, "I'm not sure we could do anything with him," but this time I got to say, "Fuck yes." Fairplay, who will be appearing with Billy Corgan-approved wrestling promotion Ring of Honor in New York on May 10, talked about wrestling, Survivor, his fight with Danny Bonaduce and his incredibly strange brand of fame.

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After reading the past "From The Intern Desk" posts, I had the urge to tell the world that interning at Rolling Stone isn't all transcribing and rick rolling. As a photography and video intern for RollingStone.com, I am lucky enough to get out of the office and venture to the occasional loft space, concert hall, or swanky hotel in order to assist with our copious amounts of video interviews, as well as photographing concerts and events. Sure, I sit around in the office on most days, uploading and editing various photos and video clips for the website. Those "Idol Countdown" posts you see every week? Painstakingly captured, edited and uploaded by yours truly, a conscientious objector to the soul crushing world of Idol (and let me tell you, Michael Johns' rendition of "Dream On" was certainly nothing to write home about). Or I spend my morning perusing our Media Grid program, which displays hundreds upon hundreds of paparazzi, live concert, and random photos. Imagine an unfiltered Perez Hilton (sans the Photoshop fluids of course) with extremely snarky captions like, "Lindsey Lohan went grocery shopping this morning. She wasn't wearing makeup and was looking uglier than normal."

However, the true highlight of my internship is being able to photograph concerts at night.

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Greetings from the Frehsee abode in West Bloomfield, Michigan, where I came to celebrate Passover (i.e. argue about politics around the Sedar plate) with my beloved family.

One of my favorite things to do at home is rummage through my closet and uncover long-hidden, often groan-worthy relics from my past: a diary entry detailing my first kiss ("ewww!"); three Marlboro Reds I stashed back in '94; and my seventh-grade notebook, which holds the transcribed lyrics to LL Cool J's "Doin' It." (I wanted to impress my eighth-grade crush, who, despite his suburban whiteness, recited the line, "I represent Queens, she was raised out in Brooklyn" quite convincingly.)

As this is my first trip home since Thanksgiving, a scavenging mission was way overdue. But this time, I didn't cringe upon uncovering the goodies: a box of mixtapes that my high school boyfriend and I had exchanged.

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When I'm not writing record reviews or pseudonymous articles for Cat Fancy, I like to peruse baseball blogs. A quick scan of them this morning reinforced something that occurred to me a few years back: When it comes to baseball commentary, I vastly prefer bloggers and web-only writers to their print-journo counterparts. (Unsurprisingly, I don't feel the same way about rock criticism. But that's another post entirely.)

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Appearing in the office a couple days ago: Speidi! As in Spencer and Heidi, the blond-haired hydra from MTV’s The Hills and the bane of poor Lauren Conrad's nightmares. Heidi is soon to appear with Lauren and her Hills castmates on the cover of Rolling Stone (next cover stunt: Kim Jong-Il and Dick Cheney!), but she and her beau/svengali were in NYC for a fun week of snuggling, shopping and publicity — Tyra Banks' show, Nightline (yes, that Nightline), and Live with Regis and Kelly. In between, they joined us for a conference room snack and a Q & A with staff. Heidi wore (of course) Heidiwood, her new fashion line that made its debut last week. Spencer wore a suit and a sly grin.

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Seriously, are there any dream interpreters out there? I've been on vacation in Spain for the past few days, and I've been having the strangest dreams. I can't tell if there's something in the water, or something in the absinthe, or what the fuck's going on.

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