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.
Monday, August 30, 2004
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.
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