It's that review-your-past-twelve-months-on-this-planet time of year, and tonight I've been going over my 2004 journal (sparse though it is). I think I must resolve to live, in 2005, a more interesting life:
18 March 2004
I felt like an idiot standing at the first aid cabinet in the middle of the shop, browsing for the appropriate band-aid. People here do things like fall from ladders and sever their fingers on the table saw, and what do I get? Freak hand-washing accident. How, you ask? Well apparently, when the handle of the paper towel dispenser is wet -- as it is when you are using your wet hand to pull on it, in an attempt to get the paper towels to come out so that you may dry said wet hand -- it's liable to slip and catch the skin next to your thumbnail. It's my right thumb, and it hurts, so now I'm trying to train myself to use my left thumb on the keyboard spacebar. Mr. Blech always tried to tell us to use both thumbs to move the spacebar, but somehow I never developed that good typing habit. Who's sorry now, right Mr. Blech? Yes, that's right. I am.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Thursday, December 30, 2004
HE YHE YHEY
Saw a billboard today advertising the "Fat Albert" movie. What took me by surprise was that the letters in the title, bright red capital block letters, were so poorly spaced on the billboard that I did a double take.
FAT ALBERT became FATALBERT, which my linguistically bent mind only took a split-second to see as FATAL BERT. Which, of course, made me think of Evil Bert.
FAT ALBERT became FATALBERT, which my linguistically bent mind only took a split-second to see as FATAL BERT. Which, of course, made me think of Evil Bert.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Southern California Christmas Songs
Baby, it’s 80 Degrees Outside
We Three Kings SKG
Joy to the Guy with the Ten-Minute Commute
Silent Night Except for the Occasional Gunshot
The Little Drummer Boy who Waited Tables for Rent Money While His Band Was Auditioning Hot Lead Singer Chicks
Angels We Have Seen on High-Speed Police Pursuits on Channel Nine
God Rest Ye Merry Two More Days Then We’ll Take a Look at Your New Nose
O Come, O Come Manuel
Hark, the Herald Angels Pitch the Next Hit Reality TV Show
I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In, and They’d Better Not Take That Parking Space
Up On The Unaffordable Housetop
O Little Town of Bethlehem Adjacent
What Child is This, and Does He Have Representation? Here’s My Card
We Three Kings SKG
Joy to the Guy with the Ten-Minute Commute
Silent Night Except for the Occasional Gunshot
The Little Drummer Boy who Waited Tables for Rent Money While His Band Was Auditioning Hot Lead Singer Chicks
Angels We Have Seen on High-Speed Police Pursuits on Channel Nine
God Rest Ye Merry Two More Days Then We’ll Take a Look at Your New Nose
O Come, O Come Manuel
Hark, the Herald Angels Pitch the Next Hit Reality TV Show
I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In, and They’d Better Not Take That Parking Space
Up On The Unaffordable Housetop
O Little Town of Bethlehem Adjacent
What Child is This, and Does He Have Representation? Here’s My Card
Saturday, December 11, 2004
Benefits of Volunteerism
Q: What's better than working the candy necklace craft booth at a holiday carnival for blind and/or multiply disabled kids?
A: Working said candy necklace craft booth at said holiday carnival while unannounced special guest Stevie Wonder sings an uptempo arrangement of "The Christmas Song" at a piano thirty feet away.
Now that's what I call a Christmas bonus!
A: Working said candy necklace craft booth at said holiday carnival while unannounced special guest Stevie Wonder sings an uptempo arrangement of "The Christmas Song" at a piano thirty feet away.
Now that's what I call a Christmas bonus!
Saturday, December 04, 2004
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Where Am I?
It's fifty-four degrees here. FIFTY-FOUR! Nothing is ever fifty-four here -- not a Fahrenheit measurement, not a person's age, nothing! Is Los Angeles finally being subjected to divine wrath?
I'm huddled by the semi-comforting natural gas flame of my faux fireplace, wearing two pairs of socks and contemplating the ungodly ways of our culture.
I'm huddled by the semi-comforting natural gas flame of my faux fireplace, wearing two pairs of socks and contemplating the ungodly ways of our culture.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Wartime Thanksgiving in a Deeply Divided Nation
Before any one of us was born, before there was such a thing as an organized war protest, and -- miraculously -- before the invention of FedEx, there was The Soldiers' and Sailors' Thanksgiving of 1864.
It's a great article, and it contains a link to a wonderful website that each and every one of you should visit.
Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, for whom I am deeply grateful.
It's a great article, and it contains a link to a wonderful website that each and every one of you should visit.
Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, for whom I am deeply grateful.
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Once in my (Earthly) Lifetime
One of the things I love about living in L.A. is that in one weekend, you can have a number of vastly different experiences.
Friday night I went to an incomprehensible performance art piece comprised of naked people and electricity. The usual crowd was in attendance, the usual conversation filled the air. A bunch of strangers showed up to see a performance, sat through ninety minutes of...well, you can read my last post...and then went our separate ways, possibly never to see each other again. It was a pretentious and disconnected scene.
Don't get me wrong; it was entertaining in its own special way.
But Saturday night, I went to the Billy Graham Crusade at the Rose Bowl...with about 90,000 other people. My main reason for attending was that I'd never heard the legendary Billy Graham (though he'd object to being called that) speak in person, and seeing as how he's about a thousand years old and everyone is calling this his last crusade in L.A., I figured this would probably be my last shot at the experience.
Since it was a youth-oriented night, the program started with a concert by a few popular Christian bands. Southern rockers Third Day (not just my favorite Christian group, they're one of my favorite groups of all time) sang a few of their particularly well-known hits. And, well, they're worship songs that a lot of churches have kind of co-opted for use in their own services, so a lot of people knew them.
Ever heard 90,000 people singing at once? Okay, if you were at the Depeche Mode "101" Rose Bowl show in 1988, you probably came close -- but Billy Graham actually had more seats filled. And what an amazing sound that was, 90,000 people singing to God.
Dr. Graham's message was simple, and people responded to it. Thousands of people.
We all went our separate ways after the show, too, just like the night before. But as the crowds streamed out of the stadium on the way back to the parking area, I thought to myself how strange and beautiful it is that I will see most of these people again, eventually.
Friday night I went to an incomprehensible performance art piece comprised of naked people and electricity. The usual crowd was in attendance, the usual conversation filled the air. A bunch of strangers showed up to see a performance, sat through ninety minutes of...well, you can read my last post...and then went our separate ways, possibly never to see each other again. It was a pretentious and disconnected scene.
Don't get me wrong; it was entertaining in its own special way.
But Saturday night, I went to the Billy Graham Crusade at the Rose Bowl...with about 90,000 other people. My main reason for attending was that I'd never heard the legendary Billy Graham (though he'd object to being called that) speak in person, and seeing as how he's about a thousand years old and everyone is calling this his last crusade in L.A., I figured this would probably be my last shot at the experience.
Since it was a youth-oriented night, the program started with a concert by a few popular Christian bands. Southern rockers Third Day (not just my favorite Christian group, they're one of my favorite groups of all time) sang a few of their particularly well-known hits. And, well, they're worship songs that a lot of churches have kind of co-opted for use in their own services, so a lot of people knew them.
Ever heard 90,000 people singing at once? Okay, if you were at the Depeche Mode "101" Rose Bowl show in 1988, you probably came close -- but Billy Graham actually had more seats filled. And what an amazing sound that was, 90,000 people singing to God.
Dr. Graham's message was simple, and people responded to it. Thousands of people.
We all went our separate ways after the show, too, just like the night before. But as the crowds streamed out of the stadium on the way back to the parking area, I thought to myself how strange and beautiful it is that I will see most of these people again, eventually.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Hooray for Electric Nudity
Did the title suck you in? Thought so. Let me set the scene for you:
Last night Amy and I go to see a...piece of performance art?...called "Modern Prometheus LLC," perpetrated by L.A.-based group Osseus Labyrint. I'm not typically one to pay for an event of this sort, because hey -- as a theater major, I saw plenty of it in college for free. And I've been known to make my own performance art right here at home, which is also free and far more entertaining. But since the event is taking place on our stage at New Deal, we get comp tickets.
It's difficult to describe, really. The premise is that this company, (Modern Prometheus LLC), is holding a demonstration for its potential investors (the audience). They've created "human analogues" which are "built from the atom up." Modern Prometheus LLC has "enabled humans to become the first species to acquire control of its own evolution through artificial selection."
Amy and I know, going in, basically what the evening is going to hold. Everything Osseus Labyrint does involves the two main performers being naked and hairless, doing a fair amount of writhing to otherworldly sounds against a visually interesting backdrop. But it's so creepy and freakish and (uhh, mostly) androgynous, there's really nothing overtly sexual about it. We are expecting modern dance in the extreme. We've also been told that the harsh, industrial set includes giant functioning Tesla coils, and some nifty arcing electricity. The generator for the coils is so loud, we have been told, that our stage manager "recommends ear plugs."
Naked hairless dancing people and electricity. Okay then.
So we get there early because it's general seating, but no one has yet given the comp list to the will call table. So we do what any well-connected people in Hollywood would do: we go around to the back entrance to find the people we know, and they let us in, and we grab the best (?) seats in the house. Unfortunately, this does mean that we miss part of the atmosphere of the show. Apparently, some "employees" of Modern Prometheus LLC are taking inner-cheek-swab DNA samples from random people in line (these same "employees" then hawk the DNA samples along with Osseus Labyrint t-shirts after the show, stating you can either buy back your own DNA or someone else's).
The usual artsy L.A. crowd filters in: the young hipsters; the moneyed sophisticates reeking of pre-show sushi and sake (they do share their Mochi ice cream with us though, which is nice); the creatively pierced art and theater students for whom this is probably required viewing; the artificially tightened old ladies who deem it appropriate to don knee-socks despite their, ahem, maturity; the guy (?) in the floor-length lime green and violet spotted coat seemingly constructed of carpet and/or the kind of stuffed animals you might find in one of those "grappling hook" arcade machines; and one (as Cathy Seipp would put it) "Silverlake Dad" with a cute little nine-year-old girl in tow. The house fills, the lights dim. Kenny, our stage manager, is kind enough to get us some earplugs.
Unfortunately, no one has told us to bring eyeplugs.
I'm going to try to describe this for you...but be warned, as there is virtually no dialogue in the show, the meaning and purpose of the actions I'm describing are purely my own speculation.
First, we're treated to a speech by the Big Brother-esque "CEO" of Modern Prometheus, via talking-head video projected high on the walls. Then "Dr. Pank" (no kidding, I swear) and his other jumpsuit-clad cronies bring out the analogues. One male, one female. Everyone is moving in what seems to be slow motion...slow motion, that is, as interpreted by any number of Jim Henson creations circa 1982. Seriously -- have you seen the Dark Crystal? The Skeksis in particular? (Fellow puppetry nerds will know what I mean.)
Anyway, some jumpsuit guys bring out this handtruck/dolly thing, with the analogues lying on it. Naked and wrapped in Saran wrap. They unwrap the two of them, then hang them by their ankles and move them over to a big metal contraption at center stage, where the analogues start figuring out how to move their arms and shoulders, et cetera. Then they're dipped into this...liquid? gel?...presumably to wash them. Because now they're wet and shiny.
Still hanging by their ankles, the analogues are lowered into a mobile vat of some sort. They're unhooked and the hatch of the vat is closed on them. My best guess is that it's a giant dryer, because after the vat shakes back and forth for a seemingly interminable period of time, the analogues are removed, and suddenly they're dry. (Of course, all I can think during this seemingly interminable period of time is "If the vat is rockin', don't bother knockin'..." and I try my best not to crack myself up laughing. I look over at Amy for a brief moment, who is subtly using her hand to "knock" on the bleacher seat between us.)
Then the analogues are removed and placed on the floor, where they're zapped (no joke) with electric prods here and there to stimulate muscle movement. More "hey look, I can move this part of my body" discovery. Aaaaaaaaagonizingly slowwwwwww discovery.
Then they're hung by their heads for no discernible reason. For a long time.
Suddenly, things take an interesting turn. The jumpsuit Skeksis wheel out this little round metal table, with three metal stools placed around it. The doctor takes a seat. Slowly and awkwardly, each analogue makes its way to one of the other stools and situates itself. The doctor "teaches" them facial expressions.
Then some other jumpsuit guy brings out a tray with a decanter full of blue-green liquid and three shot glasses. At this point I become suspicious, and rightfully so...because the analogues then proceed to learn how to get drunk, dance awkwardly and hook up.
By the time the female analogue gives birth to a ball bearing, dropping it from her nether regions into a giant metal wok, I'm pretty much done. I have a fleeting pang of sympathy for the performers when that moment brings some muffled and probably unintended laughter from the audience, but then return my pity focus to those who have spent $35 on a ticket to the birth of a ball bearing.
And believe it or not, it actually goes downhill from there in terms of anything that will hold my interest. There's more floor-writhing, more mid-air hanging-by-my-head business, and some lighting cues that suggest the analogues are receiving/growing/building/whatever their internal organs. Not quite sure why the climax (uh, sorry) of the show isn't the actual birth scene, as that seems to be the logical conclusion of the "we've created life" scenario, am I right? Toward the end, there seems to be a vague hint at something gone awry, but whatever it is, is undecipherable -- at least to anyone as ready to get the heck outta there as I am.
The electricity at the end isn't even very exciting. Based on what I've heard, I am expecting things to get all Dr. Frankenstein. Lemme tell ya, Dr. Pank is no Dr. Frankenstein. Tesla coil, zippity-zap, whoop-de-doo.
Fleeing for our lives at the end of the show lest someone actually ask our opinion, Amy and I seal ourselves safely in her car before the inevitable commentary begins...and it occurs to me: somewhere in L.A. tonight, there is a very disturbed nine-year-old girl. Scarred for life, I'll wager.
I know I am.
Last night Amy and I go to see a...piece of performance art?...called "Modern Prometheus LLC," perpetrated by L.A.-based group Osseus Labyrint. I'm not typically one to pay for an event of this sort, because hey -- as a theater major, I saw plenty of it in college for free. And I've been known to make my own performance art right here at home, which is also free and far more entertaining. But since the event is taking place on our stage at New Deal, we get comp tickets.
It's difficult to describe, really. The premise is that this company, (Modern Prometheus LLC), is holding a demonstration for its potential investors (the audience). They've created "human analogues" which are "built from the atom up." Modern Prometheus LLC has "enabled humans to become the first species to acquire control of its own evolution through artificial selection."
Amy and I know, going in, basically what the evening is going to hold. Everything Osseus Labyrint does involves the two main performers being naked and hairless, doing a fair amount of writhing to otherworldly sounds against a visually interesting backdrop. But it's so creepy and freakish and (uhh, mostly) androgynous, there's really nothing overtly sexual about it. We are expecting modern dance in the extreme. We've also been told that the harsh, industrial set includes giant functioning Tesla coils, and some nifty arcing electricity. The generator for the coils is so loud, we have been told, that our stage manager "recommends ear plugs."
Naked hairless dancing people and electricity. Okay then.
So we get there early because it's general seating, but no one has yet given the comp list to the will call table. So we do what any well-connected people in Hollywood would do: we go around to the back entrance to find the people we know, and they let us in, and we grab the best (?) seats in the house. Unfortunately, this does mean that we miss part of the atmosphere of the show. Apparently, some "employees" of Modern Prometheus LLC are taking inner-cheek-swab DNA samples from random people in line (these same "employees" then hawk the DNA samples along with Osseus Labyrint t-shirts after the show, stating you can either buy back your own DNA or someone else's).
The usual artsy L.A. crowd filters in: the young hipsters; the moneyed sophisticates reeking of pre-show sushi and sake (they do share their Mochi ice cream with us though, which is nice); the creatively pierced art and theater students for whom this is probably required viewing; the artificially tightened old ladies who deem it appropriate to don knee-socks despite their, ahem, maturity; the guy (?) in the floor-length lime green and violet spotted coat seemingly constructed of carpet and/or the kind of stuffed animals you might find in one of those "grappling hook" arcade machines; and one (as Cathy Seipp would put it) "Silverlake Dad" with a cute little nine-year-old girl in tow. The house fills, the lights dim. Kenny, our stage manager, is kind enough to get us some earplugs.
Unfortunately, no one has told us to bring eyeplugs.
I'm going to try to describe this for you...but be warned, as there is virtually no dialogue in the show, the meaning and purpose of the actions I'm describing are purely my own speculation.
First, we're treated to a speech by the Big Brother-esque "CEO" of Modern Prometheus, via talking-head video projected high on the walls. Then "Dr. Pank" (no kidding, I swear) and his other jumpsuit-clad cronies bring out the analogues. One male, one female. Everyone is moving in what seems to be slow motion...slow motion, that is, as interpreted by any number of Jim Henson creations circa 1982. Seriously -- have you seen the Dark Crystal? The Skeksis in particular? (Fellow puppetry nerds will know what I mean.)
Anyway, some jumpsuit guys bring out this handtruck/dolly thing, with the analogues lying on it. Naked and wrapped in Saran wrap. They unwrap the two of them, then hang them by their ankles and move them over to a big metal contraption at center stage, where the analogues start figuring out how to move their arms and shoulders, et cetera. Then they're dipped into this...liquid? gel?...presumably to wash them. Because now they're wet and shiny.
Still hanging by their ankles, the analogues are lowered into a mobile vat of some sort. They're unhooked and the hatch of the vat is closed on them. My best guess is that it's a giant dryer, because after the vat shakes back and forth for a seemingly interminable period of time, the analogues are removed, and suddenly they're dry. (Of course, all I can think during this seemingly interminable period of time is "If the vat is rockin', don't bother knockin'..." and I try my best not to crack myself up laughing. I look over at Amy for a brief moment, who is subtly using her hand to "knock" on the bleacher seat between us.)
Then the analogues are removed and placed on the floor, where they're zapped (no joke) with electric prods here and there to stimulate muscle movement. More "hey look, I can move this part of my body" discovery. Aaaaaaaaagonizingly slowwwwwww discovery.
Then they're hung by their heads for no discernible reason. For a long time.
Suddenly, things take an interesting turn. The jumpsuit Skeksis wheel out this little round metal table, with three metal stools placed around it. The doctor takes a seat. Slowly and awkwardly, each analogue makes its way to one of the other stools and situates itself. The doctor "teaches" them facial expressions.
Then some other jumpsuit guy brings out a tray with a decanter full of blue-green liquid and three shot glasses. At this point I become suspicious, and rightfully so...because the analogues then proceed to learn how to get drunk, dance awkwardly and hook up.
By the time the female analogue gives birth to a ball bearing, dropping it from her nether regions into a giant metal wok, I'm pretty much done. I have a fleeting pang of sympathy for the performers when that moment brings some muffled and probably unintended laughter from the audience, but then return my pity focus to those who have spent $35 on a ticket to the birth of a ball bearing.
And believe it or not, it actually goes downhill from there in terms of anything that will hold my interest. There's more floor-writhing, more mid-air hanging-by-my-head business, and some lighting cues that suggest the analogues are receiving/growing/building/whatever their internal organs. Not quite sure why the climax (uh, sorry) of the show isn't the actual birth scene, as that seems to be the logical conclusion of the "we've created life" scenario, am I right? Toward the end, there seems to be a vague hint at something gone awry, but whatever it is, is undecipherable -- at least to anyone as ready to get the heck outta there as I am.
The electricity at the end isn't even very exciting. Based on what I've heard, I am expecting things to get all Dr. Frankenstein. Lemme tell ya, Dr. Pank is no Dr. Frankenstein. Tesla coil, zippity-zap, whoop-de-doo.
Fleeing for our lives at the end of the show lest someone actually ask our opinion, Amy and I seal ourselves safely in her car before the inevitable commentary begins...and it occurs to me: somewhere in L.A. tonight, there is a very disturbed nine-year-old girl. Scarred for life, I'll wager.
I know I am.
Friday, November 19, 2004
Get Well Soon, Detective
I had a little scare a few days ago. My beloved Vincent D'Onofrio was sent to the hospital after fainting for the second time in a week. The first collapse occurred after rehearsing a strenuous scene for his show "Law & Order: Criminal Intent."
Amy, who thinks this was inevitable, attributes the fainting to "his hotness overwhelming even himself."
Amy, who thinks this was inevitable, attributes the fainting to "his hotness overwhelming even himself."
Thursday, November 04, 2004
An Open Letter to the Guy in the Orange Shirt Who Hit on Me Today at the Huntington Library
Dear Guy in the Orange Shirt Who Hit on Me Today at the Huntington Library,
As I was driving home, I felt a little guilty for blowing you off like that. You see, it's just weird. I'm not used to the "pick-up line" thing, or to random guys asking me out without knowing anything about me, including my name.
Don't get me wrong; part of me is flattered. The fact that you thought enough of my appearance alone was a highlight of this day, on which I had been feeling particularly end-of-a-cold "cloggy" and generally not very attractive. So, I sincerely thank you for the compliment.
But I couldn't deal with the weirdness, the pressure of the moment. I hope you understand that I felt it was my responsibility, knowing that I wasn't interested in actually going on a date with a perfect stranger, to be honest rather than wasting your time with smalltalk that would lead absolutely nowhere. I feel pretty strongly that it's wrong to be a tease, but I hope you didn't take my "I'm sorry, I'm just not interested" as some bitchy "I'm too good for you." Is there any truly non-damaging way to communicate non-interest?
Let's face it. If you knew me better, you probably wouldn't be interested either. It's not because I'm not intelligent, fun, or entertainingly quirky...
...it's mostly because of the celibacy.
And heck, to be honest, if I'd have thought fast enough, I would have played that card and made us both feel a whole lot better about our little "missed connection." But, Guy in the Orange Shirt Who Hit on Me Today at the Huntington Library, you caught me off guard.
So, please accept my apology for any unintended offense. I wish you well. Blessings to you, and good luck out there.
Sincerely,
(Not that you would know this but my name is) Jenny
As I was driving home, I felt a little guilty for blowing you off like that. You see, it's just weird. I'm not used to the "pick-up line" thing, or to random guys asking me out without knowing anything about me, including my name.
Don't get me wrong; part of me is flattered. The fact that you thought enough of my appearance alone was a highlight of this day, on which I had been feeling particularly end-of-a-cold "cloggy" and generally not very attractive. So, I sincerely thank you for the compliment.
But I couldn't deal with the weirdness, the pressure of the moment. I hope you understand that I felt it was my responsibility, knowing that I wasn't interested in actually going on a date with a perfect stranger, to be honest rather than wasting your time with smalltalk that would lead absolutely nowhere. I feel pretty strongly that it's wrong to be a tease, but I hope you didn't take my "I'm sorry, I'm just not interested" as some bitchy "I'm too good for you." Is there any truly non-damaging way to communicate non-interest?
Let's face it. If you knew me better, you probably wouldn't be interested either. It's not because I'm not intelligent, fun, or entertainingly quirky...
...it's mostly because of the celibacy.
And heck, to be honest, if I'd have thought fast enough, I would have played that card and made us both feel a whole lot better about our little "missed connection." But, Guy in the Orange Shirt Who Hit on Me Today at the Huntington Library, you caught me off guard.
So, please accept my apology for any unintended offense. I wish you well. Blessings to you, and good luck out there.
Sincerely,
(Not that you would know this but my name is) Jenny
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Anchoring the Long Haul
Most of you, I imagine, have the luxury of cable TV. Since I don't, I have to rely on the "big three" for my election returns and commentary. Living on the west coast makes this especially entertaining, because we have the Time Zone Coherency Factor Advantage.
After about midnight PST tonight, when Amy and I began speculating as to whether George Will was the victim of an entire can of AquaNet or simply sportin' a 'piece, the broadcast anchors started falling apart. I remember watching this happen in 2000 as well, and things haven't changed much.
Peter Jennings gets downright pissy. He cuts off his statisticians in mid-sentence, condescends to his people in the field, and tends to smirk when projecting a state in favor of John Kerry. Dan Rather gets a bit punchy. The drawl's a little more pronounced, there's the occasional chuckle, and if you're paying close attention, you might even catch a goofy down-home Texan idiom or two. But my favorite just might be Tom Brokaw, who sounds more with every passing hour as though he's enjoying his own behind-the-anchor-desk electoral college drinking game ("Somebody said 'Too close to call' -- pass the tequila!").
I hope you exercised your rights and voted today. As of this hour, we don't yet have official word on who will be our president for the next four years. We might know in the morning, we might not know for days or weeks. Whatever the outcome, though, I hope you'll join me in respecting the office, and respecting the man who holds that office, regardless of his party affiliation or your own personal feelings. President of the United States is the toughest job in the world, and it's 100% guaranteed to be held by a fallible human being.
(Of course I'm not saying "don't make jokes." Who are you talking to, here, anyway?)
After about midnight PST tonight, when Amy and I began speculating as to whether George Will was the victim of an entire can of AquaNet or simply sportin' a 'piece, the broadcast anchors started falling apart. I remember watching this happen in 2000 as well, and things haven't changed much.
Peter Jennings gets downright pissy. He cuts off his statisticians in mid-sentence, condescends to his people in the field, and tends to smirk when projecting a state in favor of John Kerry. Dan Rather gets a bit punchy. The drawl's a little more pronounced, there's the occasional chuckle, and if you're paying close attention, you might even catch a goofy down-home Texan idiom or two. But my favorite just might be Tom Brokaw, who sounds more with every passing hour as though he's enjoying his own behind-the-anchor-desk electoral college drinking game ("Somebody said 'Too close to call' -- pass the tequila!").
I hope you exercised your rights and voted today. As of this hour, we don't yet have official word on who will be our president for the next four years. We might know in the morning, we might not know for days or weeks. Whatever the outcome, though, I hope you'll join me in respecting the office, and respecting the man who holds that office, regardless of his party affiliation or your own personal feelings. President of the United States is the toughest job in the world, and it's 100% guaranteed to be held by a fallible human being.
(Of course I'm not saying "don't make jokes." Who are you talking to, here, anyway?)
Monday, November 01, 2004
Apologies, Maladies & Awards
Please forgive my recent blog hiatus. During periods of unemployment, my inner slavedriver kicks in and prevents me from doing "fun" things, like writing or reading or...well, anything that isn't directly related to pounding the virtual pavement for my next steady gig...or, apparently, cleaning my apartment.
But it's past midnight on this chilly October Sunday night/November Monday morning, and owing to the raging headcold that has sucked the life out of a potentially fun-filled Halloween weekend, I am still conscious. My muscles, it seems, are angry: "NO MORE BED!!!" Apparently, there's only so much sleep a girl can take.
While a head full of mucus typically renders most non-Kleenex-and-drug-related thoughts vastly unimportant, I have managed to find humor in a little game Amy and I play during election time. It's called "The Riordan Award." You fellow Californians, and some non-Cali lovers of politics, may remember former Los Angeles mayor Richard Riordan's campaign for governor in the recent ousting of Gray Davis (which brought the title of Governator to our beloved Ahnold).
Well, it seems good ol' Dick Riordan really wanted our vote, because we received more phonecalls from him than from anyone we knew in real life. Seriously, when two of the three messages on your answering machine are recorded messages from the candidate -- and the third is from his wife -- it's a heated campaign. So we've created this dubious award to honor the candidate, not restricted to any party affiliation or specific office, who tries his darndest to convince us he's the man for the job...by any means necessary.
This year, local politician (and alleged telemarketer!) Mike Gordon is running against Redondo Beach mayor Greg Hill for state assembly. Oddly enough for an alleged telemarketer, there were no phonecalls this time. Instead, we've been bombarded with paper. I don't know what the history is between these two, but a mere peek into our mailbox every day is enough to suggest that things are nasty.
We take the count every day. Two Mike Gordon mailers, one Greg Hill. Three Gordon, three Hill. I think our single-day record is actually five to two, in favor of Gordon. This has been going on for weeks.
And they're getting weirder by the day. A cute, fluffy, bowtie-sporting rabbit in a magician's hat: "Political Telemarketer Mike Gordon knows all the tricks." A filthy elephant, spewing a shower of brown muck out of his trunk: "Republican Greg Hill sure throws a lot of mud...." A doe-eyed little boy, his cherubic visage twisted into the disappointed skepticism of the innocent: "When we were young, it wasn't called 'spin.'"
But the grandaddy of them all is the one that trumpeted "Republican Greg Hill will say anything to win!" This one was our favorite because it made such grand use of comic book art. On the front cover, an astonished Mary Worth-esque blonde woman stares wide-eyed at the headline, "Mike Gordon causes earthquakes in California!" A redhead graces the back cover, similarly shocked at "Another attack mailer from Greg Hill!" that reads "Mike Gordon Kidnapped Elvis!"
Well, that was the deciding vote. So, in recognition of the sheer volume and strangeness of his printed campaign materials, Amy and I proudly bestow this election's Richard Riordan Award upon Mike Gordon. Better luck next time, Greg Hill.
But it's past midnight on this chilly October Sunday night/November Monday morning, and owing to the raging headcold that has sucked the life out of a potentially fun-filled Halloween weekend, I am still conscious. My muscles, it seems, are angry: "NO MORE BED!!!" Apparently, there's only so much sleep a girl can take.
While a head full of mucus typically renders most non-Kleenex-and-drug-related thoughts vastly unimportant, I have managed to find humor in a little game Amy and I play during election time. It's called "The Riordan Award." You fellow Californians, and some non-Cali lovers of politics, may remember former Los Angeles mayor Richard Riordan's campaign for governor in the recent ousting of Gray Davis (which brought the title of Governator to our beloved Ahnold).
Well, it seems good ol' Dick Riordan really wanted our vote, because we received more phonecalls from him than from anyone we knew in real life. Seriously, when two of the three messages on your answering machine are recorded messages from the candidate -- and the third is from his wife -- it's a heated campaign. So we've created this dubious award to honor the candidate, not restricted to any party affiliation or specific office, who tries his darndest to convince us he's the man for the job...by any means necessary.
This year, local politician (and alleged telemarketer!) Mike Gordon is running against Redondo Beach mayor Greg Hill for state assembly. Oddly enough for an alleged telemarketer, there were no phonecalls this time. Instead, we've been bombarded with paper. I don't know what the history is between these two, but a mere peek into our mailbox every day is enough to suggest that things are nasty.
We take the count every day. Two Mike Gordon mailers, one Greg Hill. Three Gordon, three Hill. I think our single-day record is actually five to two, in favor of Gordon. This has been going on for weeks.
And they're getting weirder by the day. A cute, fluffy, bowtie-sporting rabbit in a magician's hat: "Political Telemarketer Mike Gordon knows all the tricks." A filthy elephant, spewing a shower of brown muck out of his trunk: "Republican Greg Hill sure throws a lot of mud...." A doe-eyed little boy, his cherubic visage twisted into the disappointed skepticism of the innocent: "When we were young, it wasn't called 'spin.'"
But the grandaddy of them all is the one that trumpeted "Republican Greg Hill will say anything to win!" This one was our favorite because it made such grand use of comic book art. On the front cover, an astonished Mary Worth-esque blonde woman stares wide-eyed at the headline, "Mike Gordon causes earthquakes in California!" A redhead graces the back cover, similarly shocked at "Another attack mailer from Greg Hill!" that reads "Mike Gordon Kidnapped Elvis!"
Well, that was the deciding vote. So, in recognition of the sheer volume and strangeness of his printed campaign materials, Amy and I proudly bestow this election's Richard Riordan Award upon Mike Gordon. Better luck next time, Greg Hill.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Things I Have Learned From Ohana
1. Toilet paper makes for a delicious between-meal snack.
2. Humans are not the only ones who snore.
3. Male dogs are not the only ones who...ahem..."assert dominance."
4. Labrador is just another name for Landshark. No kidding, I wouldn't be surprised if someone were to find an entire license plate in her stomach.
5. Rain is very exciting. We must find a way to bite and conquer it.
6. If guide dog work is not in her future, Ohana would make an excellent drug-sniffing dog -- she seems very excited about my neighbor's apartment door every time we go into the hallway.
2. Humans are not the only ones who snore.
3. Male dogs are not the only ones who...ahem..."assert dominance."
4. Labrador is just another name for Landshark. No kidding, I wouldn't be surprised if someone were to find an entire license plate in her stomach.
5. Rain is very exciting. We must find a way to bite and conquer it.
6. If guide dog work is not in her future, Ohana would make an excellent drug-sniffing dog -- she seems very excited about my neighbor's apartment door every time we go into the hallway.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?
"What's wrong, Jenny? You've been so distant...."
I know I haven't posted much in a while; it's primarily because my computer's been in the shop (new hard drive -- hooray!). But now that little Gordon has returned to me with a clean bill of health and is once again restored to his place of honor on my desk, ready to blog like there's no tomorrow, it seems I'll have something new to keep my attention this week.
Her name is Ohana.
I'm puppysitting for a Guide Dogs volunteer, and I'm nearly beside myself with excitement. The impending layoff brings much more free time, and I am finally able to host a four-legged wonder, even if just for a little while. Ohana (her name means "family") is a five-month-old black Lab, and I'll be working with her until Wednesday. We have plans to go to dinner and the theater on Saturday night, church on Sunday morning, and we're going to arrange some playdates with the whippet next door for early in the week.
I'll let you know how it goes.
I know I haven't posted much in a while; it's primarily because my computer's been in the shop (new hard drive -- hooray!). But now that little Gordon has returned to me with a clean bill of health and is once again restored to his place of honor on my desk, ready to blog like there's no tomorrow, it seems I'll have something new to keep my attention this week.
Her name is Ohana.
I'm puppysitting for a Guide Dogs volunteer, and I'm nearly beside myself with excitement. The impending layoff brings much more free time, and I am finally able to host a four-legged wonder, even if just for a little while. Ohana (her name means "family") is a five-month-old black Lab, and I'll be working with her until Wednesday. We have plans to go to dinner and the theater on Saturday night, church on Sunday morning, and we're going to arrange some playdates with the whippet next door for early in the week.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
The Jester Really IS Unemployed
Whaddaya know. It occurs to me that the New Deal website was the Winchester Mystery Project. I had said many a time, "I'll see that thing launch if it's the last thing I do!"
And, as it turns out, it was.
Anyway, I've posted my online resume. Tell a friend, as they say. Referrals that actually get me some work will win you a signing bonus! I'm afraid cash is out of the question, but how about cookies? Great big bearhug? My undying gratitude? Signed poster of Evel Knievel? (I know where to get one, but if your name isn't "Matthew," you might want to reconsider).
And, as it turns out, it was.
Anyway, I've posted my online resume. Tell a friend, as they say. Referrals that actually get me some work will win you a signing bonus! I'm afraid cash is out of the question, but how about cookies? Great big bearhug? My undying gratitude? Signed poster of Evel Knievel? (I know where to get one, but if your name isn't "Matthew," you might want to reconsider).
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Free Agency
Oh, I know I promised I'd be funnier today than in my last post, so...gosh, this is a tough one. I've got Neil Diamond's "Desiree" stuck in my head today, which I suppose is funny in sort of a "funny-strange, if not funny ha-ha" sort of way.
Anyway, the point of today's entry is to spread the word that I'm getting the boot from work. Things have been slow, ergo, it's layoff time...which is not entirely unexpected. (I knew the launch of the website would mean the end of my tenure! It's the thread that was keeping my whole employment universe tied together! Aigh!)
So, I guess I'm officially looking for work now (October 15 is my last day here, at least for a while). All-a-y'all can feel free to refer me to anyone you know who may be in need of a good copywriter with an excellent sense of humor and a penchant for proper punctuation (and, apparently, alliteration). Freelance, full-time and part-time are all very attractive options at this point!
Anyway, the point of today's entry is to spread the word that I'm getting the boot from work. Things have been slow, ergo, it's layoff time...which is not entirely unexpected. (I knew the launch of the website would mean the end of my tenure! It's the thread that was keeping my whole employment universe tied together! Aigh!)
So, I guess I'm officially looking for work now (October 15 is my last day here, at least for a while). All-a-y'all can feel free to refer me to anyone you know who may be in need of a good copywriter with an excellent sense of humor and a penchant for proper punctuation (and, apparently, alliteration). Freelance, full-time and part-time are all very attractive options at this point!
Thursday, September 30, 2004
I'll Have the Truth, Please, With a Side of Reason
For those of you who've yet to encounter it, there's a new trend within Christianity called the "emergent church" movement. I think its intentions are well-meaning enough: change the way people, especially non-Christians, look at church. Evaluate our culture and use it to reach out to those who would never in a million years consider Jesus if doing so necessitated wearing a suit or pantyhose on Sunday morning.
Fine with me. There's nothing wrong with changing some things about church. Nothing wrong with contemporizing the trappings of a service -- the music, the look of the space, the order of things. Nobody who's a genuine follower of Christ has any reason to complain about that. I, for one, like being able to roll into church on Sunday morning in my jeans and flip-flops, with a latte in my hand. I like attending an Easter sunrise service on the beach. I like that I never see my pastor in a necktie (furthermore, I like that he surfs and collects vintage denim). I like hearing a conga drum in the worship band. I like that nobody's telling me whether or when to stand up or sit down or raise my hands in ecstasy or adopt a somber countenance during the music.
There are lots of people out there who, like me, were not raised in the church. I understand why somebody wouldn't be comfortable in a traditional worship setting; I'm not always a fan of the full formal gig myself, to be honest. If you weren't raised in the tradition, chances are you won't feel the same loving affinity for it as those who were.
But church is not, and never has been, about what you wear or where you sit or when during the service you take communion. The Church -- capital "C" -- is just another name, like the "Body of Christ," for the worldwide group of people who believe in the message of the gospel. A church -- lowercase "c" -- is the gathering of a local group of people who belong to that larger group of people.
There are apparently two "emergent" camps. The first is composed of those who want to change the trappings of church -- to empty the church of cookie-cutter ritual, reignite in the believer a sense of God's powerful mystery, and get rid of meaningless "Christianese" terminology that has become a cultural and communicative barrier to many non-Christians in this jaded generation. When that's done properly, I'm all for it.
Granted, there's a certain silliness to the method when it's taken too far. At a recent youth ministry conference here in Southern California, one "emergent" proponent spoke proudly of how his "community" (they don't even want to use the word "church") meets "not on a schedule, but on a rhythm" of every 6 to 8 weeks or so, at random places. "I don't know where or when until I get the e-mail," the spiritual-leader-don't-call-me-pastor said, chuckling as he noted that he'd missed the last one because he somehow hadn't been told where and when it was to occur. Personally, I fail to see how not applying for 501(c)(3) non-profit status will give you more credibility in the eyes of the people you allegedly want to reach, but if you think that's really going to work, then by all means give it a try.
The movement is credible and valuable when it seeks to shift perception while maintaining the core elements of the faith. Far more disturbing to me, however, is the camp full of those who want to change the trappings AND the message. A representative of this second camp spoke condescendingly of the first: "We need to change our message because our theology needs to continue to evolve."
When it comes to "evolving our theology," we have to ask on whose authority that mandate has presented itself. The gospel is a hard message, a hard truth...but the idea is that it IS the truth. And once you get away from that, once you change the message, it's no longer capital-C Church, or even Christianity. It's about how you can have the best possible experience that will fulfill you and make you happy and comfortable. And experience becomes your god. It's the Church of the Pretty Candles and Non-Offensive Buzzwords. It's the Church of the Culturally Hip. And ultimately, it is the Church of Me.
The message is insidious: "Don't worry about what your so-called 'better judgment' might tell you about the truths of the Bible."
Postmodernists often try to remove the concept of truth from the discussion. When you get down to the nitty-gritty elements of the Christian faith (what we like to call "essential doctrine"), what do the "change the message" proponents say? Let's take the concept of absolute truth as an example -- this is at the very core of classical Christianity (and what's more, at the very core of reason). When asked whether the deity of Christ was an absolute truth, one speaker said, "No -- my community believes in it, but another one might not, and that's okay." And there it goes; the concept of truth becomes relative, despite all evidence to the contrary.
According to that mindset, one can never claim something is better, right or true -- only different. The problem is, it's impossible to live your life that way. The words they use indicate, on the surface, that there's no value judgment, but they imply, by way of manipulative emotional appeals, that the old way, the "modern" or "traditional" way, is inferior. Without coming right out and making the accusation fairly and honestly, they judge us to be "judgmental." Postmodern relativists do the very thing of which they accuse the moderns...but when you call them on it, they say, "Why are you judging and arguing? We don't judge and argue. We don't say our way is right, so stop saying your way is right."
How do you argue, or even come to an agreement, with someone who believes that 2 plus 2 might equal chicken? No meaningful discussion can be had, and that's just what they want.
Anyway, if you're interested in learning a little more about this "emergent church" phenomenon, Amy has written an excellent critique of a book by one of the influential leaders of the movement (who appears to be leading the charge of the "change the message" camp). If you're a Christian, I encourage you to read Amy's review and familiarize yourself with the vocabulary of the postmodern movement and the faux logic of relativism.
(And if you're not a Christian, but you somehow find yourself still reading and thinking to yourself that I must be insane, or worse, please accept my apologies for the murky depths of this entry -- I promise I'll be funnier tomorrow.)
A word to the wise: seek the truth of God, conform the desires of your heart to His, but keep your thinking cap squarely fitted to your head. If you really want to be like Jesus, you'll follow HIS heart, with your heart and your head working together in search of the truth that transforms lives. Beware any church that quotes more from the Matrix movies than from the Bible. Beware any church that proclaims itself "relevant." If the ultimate revelation of God Himself, in the person of Jesus Christ, isn't relevant enough for you...all the pretty candles and non-offensive buzzwords in the world aren't going to solve your biggest problem.
Fine with me. There's nothing wrong with changing some things about church. Nothing wrong with contemporizing the trappings of a service -- the music, the look of the space, the order of things. Nobody who's a genuine follower of Christ has any reason to complain about that. I, for one, like being able to roll into church on Sunday morning in my jeans and flip-flops, with a latte in my hand. I like attending an Easter sunrise service on the beach. I like that I never see my pastor in a necktie (furthermore, I like that he surfs and collects vintage denim). I like hearing a conga drum in the worship band. I like that nobody's telling me whether or when to stand up or sit down or raise my hands in ecstasy or adopt a somber countenance during the music.
There are lots of people out there who, like me, were not raised in the church. I understand why somebody wouldn't be comfortable in a traditional worship setting; I'm not always a fan of the full formal gig myself, to be honest. If you weren't raised in the tradition, chances are you won't feel the same loving affinity for it as those who were.
But church is not, and never has been, about what you wear or where you sit or when during the service you take communion. The Church -- capital "C" -- is just another name, like the "Body of Christ," for the worldwide group of people who believe in the message of the gospel. A church -- lowercase "c" -- is the gathering of a local group of people who belong to that larger group of people.
There are apparently two "emergent" camps. The first is composed of those who want to change the trappings of church -- to empty the church of cookie-cutter ritual, reignite in the believer a sense of God's powerful mystery, and get rid of meaningless "Christianese" terminology that has become a cultural and communicative barrier to many non-Christians in this jaded generation. When that's done properly, I'm all for it.
Granted, there's a certain silliness to the method when it's taken too far. At a recent youth ministry conference here in Southern California, one "emergent" proponent spoke proudly of how his "community" (they don't even want to use the word "church") meets "not on a schedule, but on a rhythm" of every 6 to 8 weeks or so, at random places. "I don't know where or when until I get the e-mail," the spiritual-leader-don't-call-me-pastor said, chuckling as he noted that he'd missed the last one because he somehow hadn't been told where and when it was to occur. Personally, I fail to see how not applying for 501(c)(3) non-profit status will give you more credibility in the eyes of the people you allegedly want to reach, but if you think that's really going to work, then by all means give it a try.
The movement is credible and valuable when it seeks to shift perception while maintaining the core elements of the faith. Far more disturbing to me, however, is the camp full of those who want to change the trappings AND the message. A representative of this second camp spoke condescendingly of the first: "We need to change our message because our theology needs to continue to evolve."
When it comes to "evolving our theology," we have to ask on whose authority that mandate has presented itself. The gospel is a hard message, a hard truth...but the idea is that it IS the truth. And once you get away from that, once you change the message, it's no longer capital-C Church, or even Christianity. It's about how you can have the best possible experience that will fulfill you and make you happy and comfortable. And experience becomes your god. It's the Church of the Pretty Candles and Non-Offensive Buzzwords. It's the Church of the Culturally Hip. And ultimately, it is the Church of Me.
The message is insidious: "Don't worry about what your so-called 'better judgment' might tell you about the truths of the Bible."
Postmodernists often try to remove the concept of truth from the discussion. When you get down to the nitty-gritty elements of the Christian faith (what we like to call "essential doctrine"), what do the "change the message" proponents say? Let's take the concept of absolute truth as an example -- this is at the very core of classical Christianity (and what's more, at the very core of reason). When asked whether the deity of Christ was an absolute truth, one speaker said, "No -- my community believes in it, but another one might not, and that's okay." And there it goes; the concept of truth becomes relative, despite all evidence to the contrary.
According to that mindset, one can never claim something is better, right or true -- only different. The problem is, it's impossible to live your life that way. The words they use indicate, on the surface, that there's no value judgment, but they imply, by way of manipulative emotional appeals, that the old way, the "modern" or "traditional" way, is inferior. Without coming right out and making the accusation fairly and honestly, they judge us to be "judgmental." Postmodern relativists do the very thing of which they accuse the moderns...but when you call them on it, they say, "Why are you judging and arguing? We don't judge and argue. We don't say our way is right, so stop saying your way is right."
How do you argue, or even come to an agreement, with someone who believes that 2 plus 2 might equal chicken? No meaningful discussion can be had, and that's just what they want.
Anyway, if you're interested in learning a little more about this "emergent church" phenomenon, Amy has written an excellent critique of a book by one of the influential leaders of the movement (who appears to be leading the charge of the "change the message" camp). If you're a Christian, I encourage you to read Amy's review and familiarize yourself with the vocabulary of the postmodern movement and the faux logic of relativism.
(And if you're not a Christian, but you somehow find yourself still reading and thinking to yourself that I must be insane, or worse, please accept my apologies for the murky depths of this entry -- I promise I'll be funnier tomorrow.)
A word to the wise: seek the truth of God, conform the desires of your heart to His, but keep your thinking cap squarely fitted to your head. If you really want to be like Jesus, you'll follow HIS heart, with your heart and your head working together in search of the truth that transforms lives. Beware any church that quotes more from the Matrix movies than from the Bible. Beware any church that proclaims itself "relevant." If the ultimate revelation of God Himself, in the person of Jesus Christ, isn't relevant enough for you...all the pretty candles and non-offensive buzzwords in the world aren't going to solve your biggest problem.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
And the Winner Is...
The aforementioned New Deal Studios website won the prestigious "Site of the Day" award today from Macromedia (makers of Flash). Pretty nifty, eh?
We're trying not to break our arms patting ourselves on the back, but seriously, we're very proud. A hearty "good job" shout-out to my homies here at NDS! And, of course, to our Web designer, who is no doubt thrilled to finally be rid of us.
Now it's not just sci-fi nerds looking at us...we've got the Web design nerds, too!
We're trying not to break our arms patting ourselves on the back, but seriously, we're very proud. A hearty "good job" shout-out to my homies here at NDS! And, of course, to our Web designer, who is no doubt thrilled to finally be rid of us.
Now it's not just sci-fi nerds looking at us...we've got the Web design nerds, too!
Friday, September 24, 2004
Ladies and Gentlemen, New Deal Studios!
You might know where I work, but have you seen what we do?
I am elated to announce that after the longest, most painful and oft-"deprioritized" design phase in the history of the Web, we have finally launched (insert Hallelujah Chorus here) the New Deal Studios website!
Five excellent reasons to check it out:
1. You just can't get enough of my writing.
2. Film buff? Fanboy? Sci-fi geek? Like blowin' stuff up? Lots of pretty pictures for you to see in the "Gallery" section.
3. The "Frequently Asked Questions" (FAQ) section includes some "Not So Frequently Asked Questions" (NSFAQ). Try the "Employment" and "Internship" links on the FAQ page....
4. Treasure hunt! Find Jenny in five of the seven "Crew Photos" in the "Fun" section (and no, I know it looks weird, but that is not my own arm behind my head).
5. For the love of all that is holy, we've been working on this *&$^%#@ thing for two years now, and I want SOMEBODY to see it.
I warn you, it's a pretty image-heavy site, so if your bandwidth sucks then you might not fully experience the magic that is the New Deal Studios Website Experience. But if you got the highspeed hookup and you're down with Flash, enjoy:
http://www.newdealstudios.com
Whaddayathink? Whaddayathink? Cool, huh?
I am elated to announce that after the longest, most painful and oft-"deprioritized" design phase in the history of the Web, we have finally launched (insert Hallelujah Chorus here) the New Deal Studios website!
Five excellent reasons to check it out:
1. You just can't get enough of my writing.
2. Film buff? Fanboy? Sci-fi geek? Like blowin' stuff up? Lots of pretty pictures for you to see in the "Gallery" section.
3. The "Frequently Asked Questions" (FAQ) section includes some "Not So Frequently Asked Questions" (NSFAQ). Try the "Employment" and "Internship" links on the FAQ page....
4. Treasure hunt! Find Jenny in five of the seven "Crew Photos" in the "Fun" section (and no, I know it looks weird, but that is not my own arm behind my head).
5. For the love of all that is holy, we've been working on this *&$^%#@ thing for two years now, and I want SOMEBODY to see it.
I warn you, it's a pretty image-heavy site, so if your bandwidth sucks then you might not fully experience the magic that is the New Deal Studios Website Experience. But if you got the highspeed hookup and you're down with Flash, enjoy:
http://www.newdealstudios.com
Whaddayathink? Whaddayathink? Cool, huh?
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Apologies in Advance
Slow news day. Apparently, Americans are eating record amounts of cheese.
Why? It's gouda for you. For one thing, it'll gruyere kids up to be big and strong!
So when the little muensters complain about those big slices of calcium-rich, Atkins-approved goodness in their lunchboxes, you just say, "Listen here, Jack -- you'd better enjoy the privilege of even HAVING those pre-packaged wonders! There are starving curd children in this world who'd appreciate those slices and edam up quick."
And if that doesn't work, try the creative approach -- if your kids javarti or Kraft-y tendencies, reward the most creative use of cheese in a sculpture. Have them build a cottage! Or a car! (May we suggest a late-model chevre-let?) Take points away for use of non-cheese items in the artwork; cheddars never prosper, after all.
Why? It's gouda for you. For one thing, it'll gruyere kids up to be big and strong!
So when the little muensters complain about those big slices of calcium-rich, Atkins-approved goodness in their lunchboxes, you just say, "Listen here, Jack -- you'd better enjoy the privilege of even HAVING those pre-packaged wonders! There are starving curd children in this world who'd appreciate those slices and edam up quick."
And if that doesn't work, try the creative approach -- if your kids javarti or Kraft-y tendencies, reward the most creative use of cheese in a sculpture. Have them build a cottage! Or a car! (May we suggest a late-model chevre-let?) Take points away for use of non-cheese items in the artwork; cheddars never prosper, after all.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Desperate Hope vs. The Immovable Object
Have you ever longed for something so much -- even something that means work and sacrifice -- that it's all you can do to function in your daily life without obsessively thinking about it? And maybe there's just one stupid, seemingly insurmountable factor in your way. One lousy thing between you and the fulfillment of this dream that you're certain will be joyous and worthwhile and possibly lifechanging. And you spend moments of contemplation squeezing every last creative solution out of your mind in an attempt to get around that one obstacle...still, nothing you can do to change things. Have you ever experienced that?
Indescribable, the level of frustration I am feeling right now. What could be keeping the last piece of the puzzle from falling into place?
The months crawl by, and despite my best efforts, I'm still bound by circumstance. Somewhere out there, he is waiting for me to make a place for him in my life.
Indescribable, the level of frustration I am feeling right now. What could be keeping the last piece of the puzzle from falling into place?
The months crawl by, and despite my best efforts, I'm still bound by circumstance. Somewhere out there, he is waiting for me to make a place for him in my life.
Friday, September 17, 2004
Lightning Bolt! Lightning Bolt!
Yes, I wear my geekiness on my sleeve. Admittedly, I've done some rather silly and potentially embarrassing things. But at what point do you just throw all better judgment to the wind, and...? Well, turn up the sound on your computer and join me in a rousing chorus of "That'll Never Be Me."
I feel a catchphrase coming on....
I feel a catchphrase coming on....
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Photophobes
My boss's aunt came to visit the shop today, and she felt compelled to take pictures of every little thing she saw. Even me, sitting in my darkened corner of the office.
Amusing, that she wanted such a photographic record of someone she just met today. She noted the irony of everyone here being so camera shy when we work in the film business. "That's why we work on THIS side of things," we told her.
Now, I normally don't mind having my picture taken, if it's a candid shot. Posed photos are a different matter. You know they're coming. You obsess on having to smile, to stand or sit unnaturally in that nearly eternal moment of waiting for the framing/focus/flash. Is there spinach in my teeth? Is my skin freakishly shiny? At the angle I'm standing, will this shirt make me look enormous? Why did I wear this color today? If I knew it was going to take this long, I would have at least run a brush through my hair...*CLICK* ohhhh, crap. I think I blinked. Or maybe, if I'm lucky, my eyelids will be half open, and I'll simply look drunk. Fabulous.
Better still are the photos of The Giant White Hand. You know the Hand -- the Hand likes to come out at Christmas time and other early-morning holidays and occasions where mom's not quite dressed suitably for a Kodak moment. The Hand is like another member of my family; always ready to jump into the picture, always in the foreground.
My favorite photo of The Giant White Hand? Giant White Hand With Super Long Nails, just barely obscuring Mom in her red robe and 5:00a.m. Christmas Morning Hair. The scowl is barely visible and the profanities best left to the imagination.
Amusing, that she wanted such a photographic record of someone she just met today. She noted the irony of everyone here being so camera shy when we work in the film business. "That's why we work on THIS side of things," we told her.
Now, I normally don't mind having my picture taken, if it's a candid shot. Posed photos are a different matter. You know they're coming. You obsess on having to smile, to stand or sit unnaturally in that nearly eternal moment of waiting for the framing/focus/flash. Is there spinach in my teeth? Is my skin freakishly shiny? At the angle I'm standing, will this shirt make me look enormous? Why did I wear this color today? If I knew it was going to take this long, I would have at least run a brush through my hair...*CLICK* ohhhh, crap. I think I blinked. Or maybe, if I'm lucky, my eyelids will be half open, and I'll simply look drunk. Fabulous.
Better still are the photos of The Giant White Hand. You know the Hand -- the Hand likes to come out at Christmas time and other early-morning holidays and occasions where mom's not quite dressed suitably for a Kodak moment. The Hand is like another member of my family; always ready to jump into the picture, always in the foreground.
My favorite photo of The Giant White Hand? Giant White Hand With Super Long Nails, just barely obscuring Mom in her red robe and 5:00a.m. Christmas Morning Hair. The scowl is barely visible and the profanities best left to the imagination.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Things I've Learned from Lyle Lovett
An evening at the Hollywood Bowl brings enlightenment. Today's lesson, courtesy of Lyle Lovett:
1. It's okay to love your truck.
2. Cowboys can make even Irish music sound like it came from Texas.
3. The world's homeliest man, when he picks up a guitar (piano/mandolin/cello/fiddle/triangle/whatEVER) and sings to me, becomes the world's most attractive man.
1. It's okay to love your truck.
2. Cowboys can make even Irish music sound like it came from Texas.
3. The world's homeliest man, when he picks up a guitar (piano/mandolin/cello/fiddle/triangle/whatEVER) and sings to me, becomes the world's most attractive man.
Seriously, Nebraska, Here I Come
It took me one hour and fifteen minutes to get to church this morning. I live four miles away.
It was like an hourlong cycle of road rage and road repentance.
It was like an hourlong cycle of road rage and road repentance.
Friday, September 10, 2004
Things That Make Me Want to Move to Nebraska
It took me thirty minutes to get to work this morning. I live three miles away.
I'm thinking it's time to find a wealthy benefactor to finance my work-from-home-as-an-otherwise-starving-creative-writer plan. This is a good plan. And there may just be something in it for you!
Let's say that you're:
A.) a wealthy benefactor, and
B.) an upstanding gentleman and God-fearing individual between the ages of, say, 29 and 35, looking for a creative and comedic wife who will happily stay at home writing and cooking and exercising and taking care of dogs and kids and whatever other animals or humans happen by the house during the day.
Clearly, the benefits for you in this scenario are legion: wife, kids, dogs, food (did I mention the cookies?), comedy. Also, I could write a best seller or a million dollar screenplay, and you could become an even WEALTHIER benefactor. We like this plan, no?
No? Okay, let's say that you're:
A.) a wealthy benefactor, and
B.) not at all interested in any romantic entanglements, real or imagined.
Just want to give me money? I'm fine with that, too. You still have the potential to become the aforementioned even wealthier benefactor. Also, I would talk you up to everyone -- EVERYONE -- as the most generous, philanthropic person I know. Your good name would become an even better name. I hear that's valuable, in the benefactor world.
Also, I understand that Los Angeles is a little pricey, even for a wealthy benefactor. If you would prefer to move me to Nebraska, it would definitely take some adjustment, but I think I could get used to it. It might even help me to focus more on the writing, not having any friends or family in the immediate vicinity to serve as distractions. Maybe I could write vast epic poems about cows, or wheat. I'm just sayin' I'm open to change, is all.
So, I'm ready to embark on this little adventure. Any takers out there? Anyone? Anyone?
I'm thinking it's time to find a wealthy benefactor to finance my work-from-home-as-an-otherwise-starving-creative-writer plan. This is a good plan. And there may just be something in it for you!
Let's say that you're:
A.) a wealthy benefactor, and
B.) an upstanding gentleman and God-fearing individual between the ages of, say, 29 and 35, looking for a creative and comedic wife who will happily stay at home writing and cooking and exercising and taking care of dogs and kids and whatever other animals or humans happen by the house during the day.
Clearly, the benefits for you in this scenario are legion: wife, kids, dogs, food (did I mention the cookies?), comedy. Also, I could write a best seller or a million dollar screenplay, and you could become an even WEALTHIER benefactor. We like this plan, no?
No? Okay, let's say that you're:
A.) a wealthy benefactor, and
B.) not at all interested in any romantic entanglements, real or imagined.
Just want to give me money? I'm fine with that, too. You still have the potential to become the aforementioned even wealthier benefactor. Also, I would talk you up to everyone -- EVERYONE -- as the most generous, philanthropic person I know. Your good name would become an even better name. I hear that's valuable, in the benefactor world.
Also, I understand that Los Angeles is a little pricey, even for a wealthy benefactor. If you would prefer to move me to Nebraska, it would definitely take some adjustment, but I think I could get used to it. It might even help me to focus more on the writing, not having any friends or family in the immediate vicinity to serve as distractions. Maybe I could write vast epic poems about cows, or wheat. I'm just sayin' I'm open to change, is all.
So, I'm ready to embark on this little adventure. Any takers out there? Anyone? Anyone?
Monday, September 06, 2004
Pondering the Slippery Slope
I've been in a contemplative mood this weekend, and thinking a lot about this quote my pastor used in a sermon several weeks ago. It won't leave me. I've already shared it with a few dear friends; maybe you'll benefit from it too:
"People do not drift toward holiness. Apart from grace-driven effort, people do not gravitate toward godliness, prayer, obedience to Scripture, faith, and delight in the Lord. We drift toward compromise and call it tolerance; we drift toward disobedience and call it freedom; we drift toward superstition and call it faith. We cherish the indiscipline of lost self-control and call it relaxation; we slouch toward prayerlessness and delude ourselves into thinking we have escaped legalism; we slide toward godlessness and convince ourselves we have been liberated." -- D.A. Carson, "Reflections" (Christianity Today, 7/31/00)
I know some of you out there don't believe the same things I believe. And I don't know what your preconceived notions are about Christians, or about Christ. But let me assure you, no matter what you may think about the silliness of "Christian culture" or the attitude of those who would tell you that a simple "yes, I believe in Jesus" is a panacea for life's many ills...there's more to it than that.
A genuine life of faith is nothing to be taken lightly. So-called shortcuts and glittering alternatives do nothing to move you closer to deep peace and profound joy. Likewise, an incidental and compartmentalized faith will not bring your purpose, your desires or your usefulness into sharper focus or to completion. God will not do it for you just because you believe in Him. A genuine life of faith requires attention and perseverance, discipline and sacrifice.
"People do not drift toward holiness. Apart from grace-driven effort, people do not gravitate toward godliness, prayer, obedience to Scripture, faith, and delight in the Lord. We drift toward compromise and call it tolerance; we drift toward disobedience and call it freedom; we drift toward superstition and call it faith. We cherish the indiscipline of lost self-control and call it relaxation; we slouch toward prayerlessness and delude ourselves into thinking we have escaped legalism; we slide toward godlessness and convince ourselves we have been liberated." -- D.A. Carson, "Reflections" (Christianity Today, 7/31/00)
I know some of you out there don't believe the same things I believe. And I don't know what your preconceived notions are about Christians, or about Christ. But let me assure you, no matter what you may think about the silliness of "Christian culture" or the attitude of those who would tell you that a simple "yes, I believe in Jesus" is a panacea for life's many ills...there's more to it than that.
A genuine life of faith is nothing to be taken lightly. So-called shortcuts and glittering alternatives do nothing to move you closer to deep peace and profound joy. Likewise, an incidental and compartmentalized faith will not bring your purpose, your desires or your usefulness into sharper focus or to completion. God will not do it for you just because you believe in Him. A genuine life of faith requires attention and perseverance, discipline and sacrifice.
Friday, September 03, 2004
Nothing to Do This Weekend?
WAYS TO USE YOUR TELEPORTATION POWERS FOR THE GOOD OF HUMANITY
Teleport to the local elementary school and kick the crap out of schoolyard bullies
Teleport old ladies across the street
Teleport to the store, buy groceries, teleport to a random person's house in the middle of the afternoon when no one's home, fire up the oven, leave behind a pile of chocolate chip goodness, that fresh-baked cookie smell and a charming handwritten note of encouragement
Teleport cats out of tall trees (bring leather gloves)
Teleport crazy enviroactivists out of tall trees (bring synthetic leather gloves)
Grandma feeling a little down? Teleport her to Vegas!
Become an organ transplant courier
Teleport to Alanis Morrissette's performance venue on every stop of her North American tour, remove all the sound equipment just before each concert begins, leave behind a professionally printed manifesto regarding the proper use of irony
Grab some co-workers by the hand and beat the traffic on Teleportpool Tuesdays
Save lives this Friday night -- be your group's designated teleporter
Teleport to the local elementary school and kick the crap out of schoolyard bullies
Teleport old ladies across the street
Teleport to the store, buy groceries, teleport to a random person's house in the middle of the afternoon when no one's home, fire up the oven, leave behind a pile of chocolate chip goodness, that fresh-baked cookie smell and a charming handwritten note of encouragement
Teleport cats out of tall trees (bring leather gloves)
Teleport crazy enviroactivists out of tall trees (bring synthetic leather gloves)
Grandma feeling a little down? Teleport her to Vegas!
Become an organ transplant courier
Teleport to Alanis Morrissette's performance venue on every stop of her North American tour, remove all the sound equipment just before each concert begins, leave behind a professionally printed manifesto regarding the proper use of irony
Grab some co-workers by the hand and beat the traffic on Teleportpool Tuesdays
Save lives this Friday night -- be your group's designated teleporter
Thursday, September 02, 2004
An Oldie but a Goodie
For those of you who missed it when it was on McSweeneys.net back in April:
ICE CREAM FLAVORS AT THE NAJAF BASKIN-ROBBINS
Donald Rumraisin
Dubya Dutch Chocolate
Freedom Vanilla
Iraqi Road
Pumpkin Occu-Pie
Camel Pecan
Chocolate of Mass Destruction
Fallujah Almond Fudge
German Chocolate Indifference
Peanut Butter 'n' Snipers
Pralines & Regime
Osama Mint Laden
ICE CREAM FLAVORS AT THE NAJAF BASKIN-ROBBINS
Donald Rumraisin
Dubya Dutch Chocolate
Freedom Vanilla
Iraqi Road
Pumpkin Occu-Pie
Camel Pecan
Chocolate of Mass Destruction
Fallujah Almond Fudge
German Chocolate Indifference
Peanut Butter 'n' Snipers
Pralines & Regime
Osama Mint Laden
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Fall is in the Air
So I was waiting for my turkey burger at lunch today, when I spied on the counter at Fatburger a bunch of free "2004 Southern California Football Guide" brochures. And it began.
It's Fall. It may be only September first, not yet even Labor Day, and still a blindingly sunny 100 degrees in some parts of Southern California, but it is FALL. I picked up the football guide -- with a photo of Pete Carroll right there on the front, holding aloft his "national championship" trophy -- and casually flipped through it, scanning the schedules and commentaries and ads. And there it was. I felt it. That slight, barely perceptible, eensy-weensy rise in blood pressure that occurs just about this time of year, at my first notice of the cardinal and gold.
Now, you people know I don't deeply care about sports. I follow virtually no professional sports teams or events, and the Olympics barely held my attention long enough to get me to cheer for Michael Phelps and express my righteous indignation at the federation's "Please surrender the gold medal we gave you because we screwed up" letter to Paul Hamm. But when it comes to USC....
My apologies, first of all, for any of you out there who may be Trojans. If you even know about the existence of this humble weblog, that means I either already love you OR you are an associate of someone I already love. I respect that USC has a fine entrepreneur program and a fine film school. I realize that I work for someone who has a degree from USC. I know there are fine upstanding Christian apologists who teach there. I understand that there are probably just as many individual jackass Bruins as Trojans out there (well...almost as many). So please, please, PLEASE don't take it personally when I say that I hate you people.
Will the Trojans once again stomp the crap out of their gridiron opponents this season? Probably. Will they beat us again? Maybe. Will I use words on December 4th that I would not use in front of my pastor? Definitely. Will I be repentant in church on December 5th? Depends -- did we win?
Does any of this really matter? Not at all, in the grand scheme of things.
But I can't help it. I have four years of investment in the (solid gold sound of the) UCLA Bruin Marching Band. I have been (okay, voluntarily) brainwashed, and I would violently rail against the Trojans regardless of the event. Football. Basketball. Women's lacrosse. A pie-eating contest for charity. It just doesn't matter. Seriously, were there some Midwestern holiday bowl game starring the Trojans vs. the Al Qaeda All-Stars, I would have a serious moral dilemma on my hands. They just rile me up.
Why? For one thing, there's the 400-year-old man in his moth-eaten 'SC varsity sweater who starts shuffling from his side of the stadium an hour before kickoff just so that by about the third quarter, he can cross in front of the UCLA band (within beatin' range of the drummers, I might add, who are best described as criminally insane on a good day), taunting them with his wheezy cackling laugh and his obnoxious, arthritic "V-for-victory" sign, which he vainly attempts to time to the sloppy, ear-violating brilliance of the Trojan "band" as they blatt and shriek their way through the thousandth playing of their three-note fight song.
But I digress.
It's Fall. I love Fall. Bring it on, '$c.
It's Fall. It may be only September first, not yet even Labor Day, and still a blindingly sunny 100 degrees in some parts of Southern California, but it is FALL. I picked up the football guide -- with a photo of Pete Carroll right there on the front, holding aloft his "national championship" trophy -- and casually flipped through it, scanning the schedules and commentaries and ads. And there it was. I felt it. That slight, barely perceptible, eensy-weensy rise in blood pressure that occurs just about this time of year, at my first notice of the cardinal and gold.
Now, you people know I don't deeply care about sports. I follow virtually no professional sports teams or events, and the Olympics barely held my attention long enough to get me to cheer for Michael Phelps and express my righteous indignation at the federation's "Please surrender the gold medal we gave you because we screwed up" letter to Paul Hamm. But when it comes to USC....
My apologies, first of all, for any of you out there who may be Trojans. If you even know about the existence of this humble weblog, that means I either already love you OR you are an associate of someone I already love. I respect that USC has a fine entrepreneur program and a fine film school. I realize that I work for someone who has a degree from USC. I know there are fine upstanding Christian apologists who teach there. I understand that there are probably just as many individual jackass Bruins as Trojans out there (well...almost as many). So please, please, PLEASE don't take it personally when I say that I hate you people.
Will the Trojans once again stomp the crap out of their gridiron opponents this season? Probably. Will they beat us again? Maybe. Will I use words on December 4th that I would not use in front of my pastor? Definitely. Will I be repentant in church on December 5th? Depends -- did we win?
Does any of this really matter? Not at all, in the grand scheme of things.
But I can't help it. I have four years of investment in the (solid gold sound of the) UCLA Bruin Marching Band. I have been (okay, voluntarily) brainwashed, and I would violently rail against the Trojans regardless of the event. Football. Basketball. Women's lacrosse. A pie-eating contest for charity. It just doesn't matter. Seriously, were there some Midwestern holiday bowl game starring the Trojans vs. the Al Qaeda All-Stars, I would have a serious moral dilemma on my hands. They just rile me up.
Why? For one thing, there's the 400-year-old man in his moth-eaten 'SC varsity sweater who starts shuffling from his side of the stadium an hour before kickoff just so that by about the third quarter, he can cross in front of the UCLA band (within beatin' range of the drummers, I might add, who are best described as criminally insane on a good day), taunting them with his wheezy cackling laugh and his obnoxious, arthritic "V-for-victory" sign, which he vainly attempts to time to the sloppy, ear-violating brilliance of the Trojan "band" as they blatt and shriek their way through the thousandth playing of their three-note fight song.
But I digress.
It's Fall. I love Fall. Bring it on, '$c.
Monday, August 30, 2004
October 2003 Sucks for Somebody
Still re-reading some old journal entries. I wonder what these people are doing right now....
26 October 2003
I think I witnessed a breakup on the Third Street Promenade this evening.
It was dark. I was on my way back to the parking structure after dinner and a movie with David, when I passed the fountain across the street from the entrance to the mall. I heard sobbing, so I glanced over. There was a couple sitting on the edge of the fountain. Her hands covered her face as she wept, and he had his arms around her, awkwardly.
If not a breakup, what makes a person cry out loud like that in the middle of the Promenade, without care or concern for the thoughts of the dozens of people passing by every second? Not a fight, surely. A fight usually involves anger at first, and this was definitely a sorrowful session of tears. And it didn't hold the same timbre as the tears of someone who's just lost a loved one to accident or disease. This was a mournful sound of a different kind.
It was evident in the way he attempted to hold her. He was fully engaged in the effort physically, but I could see his heart wasn't in it. There was no warmth. He looked slightly guilty, as though he knew he no longer really had the right to comfort her, yet he felt it was his duty. And she -- elbows glued to knees, face buried in hands -- was an island of sorrow unto herself. She didn't lean in; she couldn't even look at him.
There was a Pottery Barn bag sitting at her feet. I wondered if he had been considering breaking up with her, and had been waiting for just the right time. And I wondered if, while he was distractedly looking at watches or shirts or athletic shoes, she had ducked into Pottery Barn to purchase the vase that she knew would look great on the dining room table at his place, which was about to become their place. He saw what she had done, and what she was thinking, and he knew he had to do it then and there, in public.
And now Pottery Barn is ruined for her forever. She won't even be able to go in to return the vase, choosing instead to give it to her sister, her neighbor, anyone who will take it just to get it out of her apartment.
26 October 2003
I think I witnessed a breakup on the Third Street Promenade this evening.
It was dark. I was on my way back to the parking structure after dinner and a movie with David, when I passed the fountain across the street from the entrance to the mall. I heard sobbing, so I glanced over. There was a couple sitting on the edge of the fountain. Her hands covered her face as she wept, and he had his arms around her, awkwardly.
If not a breakup, what makes a person cry out loud like that in the middle of the Promenade, without care or concern for the thoughts of the dozens of people passing by every second? Not a fight, surely. A fight usually involves anger at first, and this was definitely a sorrowful session of tears. And it didn't hold the same timbre as the tears of someone who's just lost a loved one to accident or disease. This was a mournful sound of a different kind.
It was evident in the way he attempted to hold her. He was fully engaged in the effort physically, but I could see his heart wasn't in it. There was no warmth. He looked slightly guilty, as though he knew he no longer really had the right to comfort her, yet he felt it was his duty. And she -- elbows glued to knees, face buried in hands -- was an island of sorrow unto herself. She didn't lean in; she couldn't even look at him.
There was a Pottery Barn bag sitting at her feet. I wondered if he had been considering breaking up with her, and had been waiting for just the right time. And I wondered if, while he was distractedly looking at watches or shirts or athletic shoes, she had ducked into Pottery Barn to purchase the vase that she knew would look great on the dining room table at his place, which was about to become their place. He saw what she had done, and what she was thinking, and he knew he had to do it then and there, in public.
And now Pottery Barn is ruined for her forever. She won't even be able to go in to return the vase, choosing instead to give it to her sister, her neighbor, anyone who will take it just to get it out of her apartment.
Women Think About These Things
I occasionally read over old journal entries, just to see what I was thinking about a year ago, or to mine them for bits of funny I can use in short stories or what-have-you. Some days, as it turns out, I'm thinking about some pretty stupid stuff. Here's an entry from last October:
It's all about hair today. Lame and girly, I know, but it's all about hair.
So three weeks ago I got my hair cut, as it was way overdue. Ixie asked me, "What are we doing this time?" I said, "More of the same, I guess." I don't think about it much.
I asked her what was going on in the world of hair, as I always do. I like to be INformed, whether or not I CONform. She tells me the eighties are back, which I already knew from the sudden horrifying reappearance of such "have we learned nothing?" styles as trucker hats and sundress-plus-pants.
Suddenly, post-shampoo, I just kind of said, "What would you do if you had my head?" The answer was "collar-bone length, some layers, flip it out a little." Sounded easy enough, so I said okay.
"Really?"
"Sure. Why not?"
And before I knew it, there was my hair, on the floor, in little four-inch pieces. Didn't think much of it, to be honest; I'm not too freaked about these things. Ixie knows what she's doing, and for the price I pay her to cut my hair at the chichi salon (featured in "Legally Blonde," thank you very much, which may be why they raised their prices), it's even kind of nice to feel like she had to do more work. It was cute enough when she was done.
But then it was my turn.
Turns out, short hair is a lot more work than long hair. This defies human logic, and yet it is so. Like the Trinity.
So now, every morning, I struggle with the styling spray. The hair dryer. The round brush. And for what? Now that we have reached the Santa Ana time of year, no cosmetic wrestling match and no amount of product will save me from the agony of flyaway, static-charged, volume-free, straighter-and-flatter-than-Olive-Oyl hair. And the more I play with it to try to fix it, to get it out of my face, to get it to *do* something for the love of all that is holy, the oilier and flatter it becomes.
On top of that, today I have a spontaneous cowlick that defies even a get-it-wet-and-fix-it-again attempt. Odd. Spiritual warfare, I tell you.
Perhaps a wig is the solution. I'll shave my head and wear bad wigs and tell people it's from the chemo. This will bring sympathy, at least. "The poor dear. The bad hair isn't her fault. Let's give her a hug and buy her lunch."
It's all about hair today. Lame and girly, I know, but it's all about hair.
So three weeks ago I got my hair cut, as it was way overdue. Ixie asked me, "What are we doing this time?" I said, "More of the same, I guess." I don't think about it much.
I asked her what was going on in the world of hair, as I always do. I like to be INformed, whether or not I CONform. She tells me the eighties are back, which I already knew from the sudden horrifying reappearance of such "have we learned nothing?" styles as trucker hats and sundress-plus-pants.
Suddenly, post-shampoo, I just kind of said, "What would you do if you had my head?" The answer was "collar-bone length, some layers, flip it out a little." Sounded easy enough, so I said okay.
"Really?"
"Sure. Why not?"
And before I knew it, there was my hair, on the floor, in little four-inch pieces. Didn't think much of it, to be honest; I'm not too freaked about these things. Ixie knows what she's doing, and for the price I pay her to cut my hair at the chichi salon (featured in "Legally Blonde," thank you very much, which may be why they raised their prices), it's even kind of nice to feel like she had to do more work. It was cute enough when she was done.
But then it was my turn.
Turns out, short hair is a lot more work than long hair. This defies human logic, and yet it is so. Like the Trinity.
So now, every morning, I struggle with the styling spray. The hair dryer. The round brush. And for what? Now that we have reached the Santa Ana time of year, no cosmetic wrestling match and no amount of product will save me from the agony of flyaway, static-charged, volume-free, straighter-and-flatter-than-Olive-Oyl hair. And the more I play with it to try to fix it, to get it out of my face, to get it to *do* something for the love of all that is holy, the oilier and flatter it becomes.
On top of that, today I have a spontaneous cowlick that defies even a get-it-wet-and-fix-it-again attempt. Odd. Spiritual warfare, I tell you.
Perhaps a wig is the solution. I'll shave my head and wear bad wigs and tell people it's from the chemo. This will bring sympathy, at least. "The poor dear. The bad hair isn't her fault. Let's give her a hug and buy her lunch."
Jesus Had Friends
I don't have a perennial favorite verse or passage of scripture. I don't have what some people call a "life verse." But I am always deeply moved by the story of Lazarus (John chapter 11).
Yes, I'm astonished by the miracle itself, of course, and touched by the hope for my own eventual resurrection that is so beautifully foreshadowed by the passage. But more than that, I am struck by Jesus' tenderness upon encountering Martha and Mary on his return to Bethany.
Perhaps the fact that Martha and Mary are mourning their brother, as I once did my own, is what grabs my attention. Regardless, it is his reaction that makes me cry every time.
Mary falls at Jesus' feet, weeping. He sees this and is "deeply moved in spirit and troubled." Verse 35 -- the shortest verse in the Bible -- just says "Jesus wept."
This man who is God, wept. This deity incarnate, in whose ownership and employ is the very omniscience and omnipotence of the Trinity, wept. He knew that "absent from the body" equals "present with the Lord," and that Lazarus, Mary and Martha were all believers. He knew why he was walking the earth, what his role as Savior of the world meant, that death -- which he was soon to defeat -- was not an end to the lives of his followers. He knew he had the power to raise Lazarus, or anyone else he chose. Still, he wept. Why?
Was it out of compassion for Mary and Martha's suffering? Was it his own grief over losing a friend? Was it an emotional reaction to "the last straw" in a series of difficult and exhausting days? Was it sadness over the fact that Lazarus would only die again someday, would possess a miracle this time but eventually go on to experience another "end" to his life? Or was he weeping because he was grieved over the fact that death itself, brought about by sin, shouldn't even exist?
Jesus had friends. The Son of Man may have had "no place to lay his head," but he had friends who loved and cared for him, just as I have friends. And I often try to imagine that moment of tenderness when Mary collapses at his feet in the depths of her sorrow, and Jesus asks her, "Where have you laid him?" I wonder if he put his hand on top of her head. I wonder what his voice sounded like, if it wavered or broke.
It is tempting to think of God as being somehow beyond grief. It is easy to read that our high priest understands what we go through in our trials and tribulations -- but do we believe that, really, so many centuries removed from his physical presence on Earth? We see Jesus as wise and humble and powerful in the pages of scripture, and it becomes so familiar a portrayal that we are -- or at least, I am -- shocked to see him in a state of human vulnerability.
He is grieving with his friends. He is weeping with them, sharing in their despair even though he knows he is also bringing them hope. He is not just fully God. He is also fully man.
Yes, I'm astonished by the miracle itself, of course, and touched by the hope for my own eventual resurrection that is so beautifully foreshadowed by the passage. But more than that, I am struck by Jesus' tenderness upon encountering Martha and Mary on his return to Bethany.
Perhaps the fact that Martha and Mary are mourning their brother, as I once did my own, is what grabs my attention. Regardless, it is his reaction that makes me cry every time.
Mary falls at Jesus' feet, weeping. He sees this and is "deeply moved in spirit and troubled." Verse 35 -- the shortest verse in the Bible -- just says "Jesus wept."
This man who is God, wept. This deity incarnate, in whose ownership and employ is the very omniscience and omnipotence of the Trinity, wept. He knew that "absent from the body" equals "present with the Lord," and that Lazarus, Mary and Martha were all believers. He knew why he was walking the earth, what his role as Savior of the world meant, that death -- which he was soon to defeat -- was not an end to the lives of his followers. He knew he had the power to raise Lazarus, or anyone else he chose. Still, he wept. Why?
Was it out of compassion for Mary and Martha's suffering? Was it his own grief over losing a friend? Was it an emotional reaction to "the last straw" in a series of difficult and exhausting days? Was it sadness over the fact that Lazarus would only die again someday, would possess a miracle this time but eventually go on to experience another "end" to his life? Or was he weeping because he was grieved over the fact that death itself, brought about by sin, shouldn't even exist?
Jesus had friends. The Son of Man may have had "no place to lay his head," but he had friends who loved and cared for him, just as I have friends. And I often try to imagine that moment of tenderness when Mary collapses at his feet in the depths of her sorrow, and Jesus asks her, "Where have you laid him?" I wonder if he put his hand on top of her head. I wonder what his voice sounded like, if it wavered or broke.
It is tempting to think of God as being somehow beyond grief. It is easy to read that our high priest understands what we go through in our trials and tribulations -- but do we believe that, really, so many centuries removed from his physical presence on Earth? We see Jesus as wise and humble and powerful in the pages of scripture, and it becomes so familiar a portrayal that we are -- or at least, I am -- shocked to see him in a state of human vulnerability.
He is grieving with his friends. He is weeping with them, sharing in their despair even though he knows he is also bringing them hope. He is not just fully God. He is also fully man.
Sunday, August 29, 2004
Jenny's Flamin' Hot Social Scene
You know what's sad? Getting all excited because I have e-mail ("1 New Message!"), only to read the subject line "Don't Miss Mary J. Blige!" Yeah. Bite me, Ticketmaster.
Monday, August 23, 2004
World War III
These are desperate times. Bodies strewn across the East and West battlefields...the bathroom, the vanity. I was driven to decisive action, I'm sorry to say. While the baiting seems risky (do I really want to attract thousands more of them?), I'd rather do something than try to negotiate.
The ants must die.
I did become injured in the process. Some might point at my wound and declare it self-inflicted. But the horror of this day will be seared -- SEARED -- into my memory. Also, I'm just pretty grossed out. But unfortunately, they don't give medals for gross-out.
The ants must die.
I did become injured in the process. Some might point at my wound and declare it self-inflicted. But the horror of this day will be seared -- SEARED -- into my memory. Also, I'm just pretty grossed out. But unfortunately, they don't give medals for gross-out.
Friday, August 20, 2004
Laminate Love Affair
I love laminating things. And I love things that have been laminated. I never tire of this, for some reason. It's as though every laminated sign is the first laminated object I've ever experienced. I can't get enough of it. I pick it up and marvel at the smoothness of the planes, the sharpness of the edges, the satisfying "wooble-wooble-wooble" sound it makes when I shake it in the air. The semi-permanence of it all. What is it? What IS it?
True Confessions
I like to ask people, "What's the nerdiest/geekiest thing you've ever done?" I get a number of interesting responses, my favorite of which is probably the story of my brilliant and supernatural-powered friend James, who rigged the edges of his college graduation cap with remote-controlled red LED lights so his mom could find him in the crowd.
Me? Role-playing games. Well into my twenties, with a group of other "adults" and nary a controlled substance to be found.
Yes, I was that eleven-foot-tall ancient minotaur with the psionic powers and the penchant for primitive weapons as a means of protecting and/or avenging the innocent.
Please don't judge me.
Me? Role-playing games. Well into my twenties, with a group of other "adults" and nary a controlled substance to be found.
Yes, I was that eleven-foot-tall ancient minotaur with the psionic powers and the penchant for primitive weapons as a means of protecting and/or avenging the innocent.
Please don't judge me.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
More CraigsList Adventures
I enjoy reading the "Missed Connections" listings in the "Personals" section of www.craigslist.org. There's always something poetic or sorrowful or romantic or wistful written there. And then there are some posts (in cities like L.A., many) that are, well, tacky at best. The author of "hot girl in an M3 on wilshire blvd - m4w - 24," for example, writes: "HEY, WE BOTH PAST EACH OTHER IN IDENTICAL M3'S TODAY AROUND 2:30PM, THOUGHT YOU WERE REALLY FINE GIRL. LETS MEETS UP FOR A DRINK" (sic, by the way, and that's one of the "Rated G" ones).
But seriously, if you're ever stuck at home with the flu or taking a break from something important to surf the Web, take a look at all the MC listings from the different cities. All across the country, it's the same human drama.
A lonely woman searching for a lost childhood friend. An adoptee, hopeful for contact with biological family members. A new guy in the big city, wishing he'd said something to the girl who kept catching his bashful eye contact across a crowded Starbucks. A haunted man whose only remaining step in the Get Over Her process is to post a self-accusatory and apologetic "what I did wrong and why I now realize I'm a jerk who will rue our breakup 'til the end of this geological age" message. People desperately trying to correct mistakes, salvage relationships, reconnect with their past and beautify their future.
I wonder how many people will actually find what they think they're looking for as a result of these obscure little personal ads. How many of the intended recipients of these messages will actually end up reading them.
Human longing fascinates me. Are we made this way -- designed to yearn? Do even the laziest and most complacent among us find deep within themselves an unfulfilled desire that won't unseat itself?
But seriously, if you're ever stuck at home with the flu or taking a break from something important to surf the Web, take a look at all the MC listings from the different cities. All across the country, it's the same human drama.
A lonely woman searching for a lost childhood friend. An adoptee, hopeful for contact with biological family members. A new guy in the big city, wishing he'd said something to the girl who kept catching his bashful eye contact across a crowded Starbucks. A haunted man whose only remaining step in the Get Over Her process is to post a self-accusatory and apologetic "what I did wrong and why I now realize I'm a jerk who will rue our breakup 'til the end of this geological age" message. People desperately trying to correct mistakes, salvage relationships, reconnect with their past and beautify their future.
I wonder how many people will actually find what they think they're looking for as a result of these obscure little personal ads. How many of the intended recipients of these messages will actually end up reading them.
Human longing fascinates me. Are we made this way -- designed to yearn? Do even the laziest and most complacent among us find deep within themselves an unfulfilled desire that won't unseat itself?
Monday, August 16, 2004
Adventures on CraigsList
Love that craigslist.org! Here is -- no joke -- a selection of actual postings from the "Et Cetera Jobs" section of Craigslist Los Angeles Online Community. They're from a few weeks ago, but I collected them all in one day. Enjoy, then weep for my city:
Dive with Great White Sharks
Vodka Focus Group
Male Model Type Needed to Clean Houses
Pole Dancing Teacher
Affairs? We will pay you!
Women with muscular thighs, calves, quads for photos
Writing Teahcer
Are you obsessed with strange and unusual things?
Special F/X - Decapitated head(s)?
WHITE RAPPERS NEEDED for Museum Video
Dive with Great White Sharks
Vodka Focus Group
Male Model Type Needed to Clean Houses
Pole Dancing Teacher
Affairs? We will pay you!
Women with muscular thighs, calves, quads for photos
Writing Teahcer
Are you obsessed with strange and unusual things?
Special F/X - Decapitated head(s)?
WHITE RAPPERS NEEDED for Museum Video
Sunday, August 15, 2004
Rejected Titles for the Sixth Harry Potter Book
Harry Potter and the Unfortunate Effects of Puberty
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Commerce
Harry Potter and the Curse of the Diff'rent Strokes Child Stars
Harry Potter and the Stalkers of Tiger Beat
Harry Potter and the Funk of Forty Thousand Years
Harry Potter and Michael Jackson's Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Island of Leprous Children
Harry Potter and the Perilous Mosh Pit
Harry Potter and the Hairy Potter
Harry Potter and the Muggle-Snuggling Smugglers
Harry Potter and the Ordinary School Year in Which Voldemort Takes a Sabbatical, No One is in Danger and Harry Has to Take Finals Like Everyone Else
Harry Potter and the Malicious Gay Rumor
Harry Potter and the Chamber of Commerce
Harry Potter and the Curse of the Diff'rent Strokes Child Stars
Harry Potter and the Stalkers of Tiger Beat
Harry Potter and the Funk of Forty Thousand Years
Harry Potter and Michael Jackson's Chamber of Secrets
Harry Potter and the Island of Leprous Children
Harry Potter and the Perilous Mosh Pit
Harry Potter and the Hairy Potter
Harry Potter and the Muggle-Snuggling Smugglers
Harry Potter and the Ordinary School Year in Which Voldemort Takes a Sabbatical, No One is in Danger and Harry Has to Take Finals Like Everyone Else
Harry Potter and the Malicious Gay Rumor
Monday, August 02, 2004
Speaking of Headlines....
Courtesy of the Daily Breeze sports section, 7/28/04 (via my comedy-vigilant boss):
"Rangers get whiff of Colon"
Beautiful thing, for a Monday.
"Rangers get whiff of Colon"
Beautiful thing, for a Monday.
Thursday, July 29, 2004
Extra! Extra!
It's certainly unfortunate that there's a goofy, graceless North American bird called "turkey," which makes silly noises and is widely recognized for its lack of intelligence...AND that there's a country which is also called "Turkey." It's by no means a new observation.
Now, I'm pretty sure I know a tragedy when I see one, and despite my mildly misanthropic persona, I would never truly take pleasure in the misfortune of others. But how do you not chuckle -- or, minimally, suppress a smirk -- at a headline like "Turkey Train Crash Kills 30?" Who do you suppose was so irresponsibly driving this turkey train? Surely that's grounds for a lawsuit.
I keep a list of these headlines on the wall near my desk at work. Granted, most of them could be taken as juvenile humor in the extreme -- there's an entire section devoted to headline usage of the word "probe," if you must know -- but some of them are just so evocative that you'd be hard pressed to think of any possible meaning other than the wrong one.
"Victims of Lutheran Abuse Win $37M Award"
"Peru to Install New Cabinet After Scandal"
"Schwarzenegger Won't Hold Groping Probe"
I know, I know. I'm a horrible human being for even suggesting there may be something funny about these things. Say it if you must. But if a single one of you has ever in your life laughed at an O.J. Simpson joke, a space shuttle Challenger joke, a Michael Jackson joke...I'm afraid I must refer you to the eye doctor for immediate log removal.
Now, I'm pretty sure I know a tragedy when I see one, and despite my mildly misanthropic persona, I would never truly take pleasure in the misfortune of others. But how do you not chuckle -- or, minimally, suppress a smirk -- at a headline like "Turkey Train Crash Kills 30?" Who do you suppose was so irresponsibly driving this turkey train? Surely that's grounds for a lawsuit.
I keep a list of these headlines on the wall near my desk at work. Granted, most of them could be taken as juvenile humor in the extreme -- there's an entire section devoted to headline usage of the word "probe," if you must know -- but some of them are just so evocative that you'd be hard pressed to think of any possible meaning other than the wrong one.
"Victims of Lutheran Abuse Win $37M Award"
"Peru to Install New Cabinet After Scandal"
"Schwarzenegger Won't Hold Groping Probe"
I know, I know. I'm a horrible human being for even suggesting there may be something funny about these things. Say it if you must. But if a single one of you has ever in your life laughed at an O.J. Simpson joke, a space shuttle Challenger joke, a Michael Jackson joke...I'm afraid I must refer you to the eye doctor for immediate log removal.
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
The Joy of Procrastination
Good evening. In lieu of the typical newbie's debut post ("Welcome to my blog, which will be about the following..."), I will simply state that I should be working right now. The truth is profound enough.
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