My guess? Vampire bats. My apartment building's guess? Some kind of weather phenomenon, like hail. But the building admits it's not totally sure on that one yet. So… vampire bats stay on the table.

Whatever ripped into my apartment and others chose the right time to hit: a summer Friday night. Like I learned a long time ago from either the Hardy Boys or a Choose Your Own Adventure book, if you used ice at night for a summer crime, the evidence was gone by morning. The culprit in The Case of Old Cooper's Studio was able to slash my screen, crack a window and do far more damage to neighbors. Glass covered our sidewalk and lot, and a team arrived to begin repairs. Damn bats.

Unless you're the one particular dude with a suburban Detroit improv joint who won. His essay got him $100k and, as mentioned in this blog previously, a role in introducing the new Edy's flavor, "Red, White & No More Blues." The flavor has strawberry and blueberry swirls mixed in vanilla ice cream, with a "Recovery never tasted so good" badge on it.

Slayer of all beasts, the Minotaur meets the new girl in her corner at the computer, apparently lost in distraction with the screen, and in the Labyrinth the fear is both mutual and hidden between a mix of old and new social excuses. Stephen O'Connor's fiction piece in this week's New Yorker builds simply, the incorporated telling of one myth fueling exposure of another, one obvious but important. In the middle:

The Minotaur was a novice of arc and swell and dip, a new-minted connoisseur of smooth and tender and sway. That little snippet of bird-peep that entered the new girl's voice whenever she got excited, or when she thought something she had done was stupid–he wanted to put that in a box, tie it up with a leather thong, and keep it around his neck. That way she had of elbowing him in the ribs, rolling her eyes, slapping herself on the top of her head and saying, "Only joking!"–why did his cobblestone feet always do a shuffling dance when she did that? Why did his shoulders squinch together and his floppy lips twist up at the corners? To his embarrassment was added shame, and the Minotaur found that he could bear his message of ultimate truth only on the sly, when the new girl was asleep, or when she was looking the other way. He took to wearing a kerchief and giving his lips a hasty wipe after every meal. Then, one day, the new girl was gone, and the Minotaur worried that, in a moment of thoughtlessness, he had gobbled her up. When he didn't see her for several weeks, he could think of no other explanation. A year passed, and then a century, and new-girllessness became a fact–as simple and discrete as other facts. In a way, life became easier for the Minotaur, as easy as it had been before the new girl's arrival. But only in a way. In another way, the Minotaur began to wonder if he was getting too old for his job. His vocabulary increased. To "embarrassment" and "shame" he added "joyless." He added "regret." He added "lost."

In a different issue — my beach catch-up is well underway (halfway catch-up, at least, only feeling comfortable bringing so many issues) — there's Dean Young's poem "Delphiniums in a Window Box." Insta-sad opening line's internal rhyme, "Every sunrise, even strangers' eyes."

Casey writes a solid response to the Weingarten rant. In part:

A professional critic believes only he can listen to rock, electronica and hip-hop and have something interesting to say about all three. But you know who else can do that? Everyone on earth. Read your friends' musical interests on Facebook or MySpace — half of them say they like 'everything.' I've yet to meet one of these straw men Weingarten describes, the ones that listen only to metal or hip hop or bands that play exclusively on a three-block stretch of Williamsburg. To be alive today is to sing Grizzly Bear in the shower, blast T-Pain on the ride to work, hum Coldplay in the grocery store, rock Jay Z at the gym, and have Jose Gonzalez sing you to sleep. And we do it all without Rolling Stone's help.

NYT lede: "IT'S an odd happenstance when chocolate cake inspires a recipe for deviled eggs, but so it went a few weeks ago…" More.

Too awesome. Good for them. The song: The '59 Sound. The place: Today/tonight in Glastonbury, via SPL. "Ain't supposed to die on a Saturday night now, ain't supposed to die on a Saturday night…"

This is how you begin a vacation.

You wake at 5:30 and are out the door at 6:30. You make it from D.C. to the island side of the Wright Bridge in five hours. Your drive includes clear skies, the usual peach frozen yogurt by roadside, a talking Exxon gas pump, no real traffic, and few speed traps. The one pull-over you see on the highway involves a cop in an undercover black Challenger.

Arriving, you and your little brother get burgers at Five Guys, fast even. You find a quality bluesman playing outside K-Mart. You see The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3, and you believe Denzel redeems it. You hear from the manager at your apartment building that crazy weather has attacked your windows, but they're having them replaced today. You hear from Comcast that they care about your appointment in a week. On the car radio, you find the island alternative station, the one that turned you on last year to that Wilco song you'd never before, and you hear the voice of that really amazing girl who lived in your dorm freshman year and who's famous now. You drive 30 down the beach road with the windows and roof open. You find the old go-kart place is still around.

Waiting for the rental keys, you park and walk through the wooden mall by the dunes, past the waveboards, past the badass kites and cheap flip-flops and branded island merchandise until you find the new store out back where you buy the shirt that says, "Optimism can take you anywhere," and the design is weirdly good enough to pull it off. You find your brother buying lemonade down the way at The Fudgery, and a kid hands you a sample. You take this as a sign to buy fudge.

You pull in the driveway at the house, unload bag after bag over the sand, greet the ocean on the porch, and alternate between drinking a Blue Moon and trying to capture the drive before you forget it.

Have liked the radio turning me onto some great Jackson deep cuts.

So many people have tweeted and updated about hearing Michael on the radio last night. The best thing to me about the moment was how far across the radio you could hear him. In Washington, the adult R&B station, Majic 102.3, was the best place to listen, and I got chills when they announced the death and went into Never Can Say Goodbye. But the tributes continued across the city's two hip-hop stations, the Top 40 station, the rock station, the contemporary hits station, and the easy listening station. Even the DJ-less "fresh" station threw various Jackson into the robot playlist. On each of the formats, his songs fit.

Couple other thoughts: Last night reminds us how wrong the Justin-as-the-next-Michael notions are. Justin makes good music, but he is not off the wall, bad nor dangerous. Also, I think the L.A. Times wins the obit lede competition. Hard to beat this on greatness/oddness:

Michael Jackson was fascinated by celebrity tragedy. He had a statue of Marilyn Monroe in his home and studied the sad Hollywood exile of Charlie Chaplin. He married the daughter of Elvis Presley.

Jackson met his own untimely death Thursday at age 50, and more than any of those past icons, he left a complicated legacy. As a child star, he was so talented he seemed lit from within; as a middle-aged man, he was viewed as something akin to a visiting alien who, like Tinkerbell, would cease to exist if the applause ever stopped.

It was impossible in the early 1980s to imagine the surreal final chapters of Jackson's life. In that decade, he became the world's most popular entertainer thanks to a series of hit records – "Beat It," "Billie Jean," "Thriller" …

Time now for the annual collection of the June 25 birthday horoscopes.

From last year's crop, high marks go to Linda Black ("This year is about changes, and there will be a lot of them"), Eugenia Last ("You may not be looking for change but it will find you this year") and Phil Booth ("It's easy to look back with 20/20 vision and chide ourselves for our mistakes. This year, however, will bring many penetrating insights.")

How is age 29 going to fare? And lucky number 13, twice, really? …

Jeraldine Saunders: "You are certain to have plenty of fun in the sun during the next several months because your romantically inclined heart is willing to paint a pretty picture of even the most mundane situations. In October you have a firmer grip on reality and can be successful in business pursuits, so that is a good time to set your plans into motion or look for a new job or position. Don't let your ambitions get the best of you between December and February and don't make major decisions or investments because your judgment and luck aren't at their best."

Phil Booth: "You will see the importance of something that seems irrelevant. A plan will emerge that can provide the inspiration to extricate yourself from a tricky situation. Happy birthday to Ricky Gervais, 48."

Eugenia Last: "You may want to take a risk or entertain the thought of trying something new, but before you do, secure what you already have. Be smart and refuse to be railroaded or misled. Be careful, frugal and set a budget that will enable you to feel less stress next year when you have far greater opportunities come your way. Your numbers are 1, 13, 19, 26, 33, 39, 46."

Holiday Mathis: "You will live daringly. When afraid, you'll summon the courage to push past your fear. July brings friendship and fun. Travel in October. There's financial luck in January. Gemini and Pisces adore you. Your lucky numbers are: 8, 50, 41, 4 and 13."

Linda Black: "Stash away as much as you can this year, for best results. The trick is in figuring out where to stash it. You can make wise investments, where your money increases quite nicely. Or, you can throw it away, with little or nothing to show. This part is up to you. Don't fret, you're up to the challenge."

Georgia Nichols: "Singer George Michael (1963) shares your birthday today. Your relationship with life and your surroundings is highly original. You march to your own drummer. You're skillful at making the most of opportunities that come your way. Because of this, it appears as if you're capable of making your dreams come true. Your year ahead will be social and fun-loving with partners and friends."

Sally Brompton: "Your head may be full of wonderful ideas but what's the point if you never do anything with them? That's an observation rather than a criticism but deep down you know it's time to turn inspiration into action. Aim high. Act now."