Chocolate Wisdom: True or False?

I had one of those little pieces of Dove dark chocolate today. You know, the ones with the little messages printed on the inside of the foil wrapper? And it read:

"The further out of reach, the stronger the temptation."

Do you find this to be true? And is there a difference in the veracity of that statement when:

1. applying it to a literal, physical object of temptation at a physical distance (such as a piece of chocolate sitting on your desk versus across the room where you can see it but not reach it)

versus:

2. applying it to a more subjectively measured object of temptation at a different kind of distance (such as the Israelites wishing to go back to the way things were in Egypt, perhaps more a measure of emotional than physical distance)?

Another Free Ice Cream Public Service Announcement

Because I care, I pass this along. Visit a Starbucks on June 29!

When No Means Yes (in Sri Lanka, Anyway)

Considering some international business travel? You'd better be sure you know what you're getting into:

Those Hissing Guatemalans
Raise an Eyebrow to Fiji
Did the Dutchman Say I'm Crazy, or Do I Have a Phonecall?
Poland: Where Vodka is Finger-Flickin' Good
How to Come Home with Free Slovakian Souvenirs
Never Hug a Scotsman
The Germans and French are Just What You'd Expect

Discover these and other handy cultural tips, courtesy of DHL. The things you learn while shipping a package....

Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid

SHOULD THE ELEVATOR DOORS FAIL TO OPEN
DO NOT BECOME ALARMED,
THERE IS LITTLE DANGER OF RUNNING OUT OF AIR
OR OF THIS ELEVATOR DROPPING UNCONTROLLABLY

-- The small black sign in the elevator at work

And the Dog Snoozed On

Anybody else feel that earthquake? I'm four floors up in a small office building in West L.A., and we had more than our fair share of rock & roll for a temblor that was centered in San Bernardino County.

So as I was sitting here at my sturdy wooden desk, wondering how long the shaking would continue and deciding whether or not to get underneath, I realized I had a dog with me -- Kandy, the 8-month-old Labrador I'm puppysitting this week. Would she whine? Bark? Chew through my leg to get out from under the desk and bolt down the hallway?

Then came the gentle snoring. I don't think she's concerned.

Late Barking News

After more than two years of prayer and perseverance, I have finally been given the thumbs-up to raise a guide dog puppy!

Thank you to those who have stood with me in praying for the fulfillment of this dream. God has been faithful to provide the perfect circumstances: I am in a terrific job at an organization where volunteerism is supported and encouraged, working with people who are excited about my participation in this project. I have my own office, with plenty of room and a door. It seems everything has fallen into place, and I know it's no accident.

Please join me now in praying that the dog I receive won't be a complete spaz.

I'll keep you posted.

Technology Foils Me Again

No matter what I do, I will never defeat the printer. Every time I use it, something goes wrong. Out of paper? Paper jam? Empty ink cartridge? Those are all fixable things, easy things. The most common obstacle to successful printing on the good ol' Epson 980N is simply...rebellion. It won't tell you what's wrong, it just won't work. Things may or may not show up in the print queue. Sometimes there's a flashing light on the back of the printer, sometimes not.

Today I spent the requisite twenty minutes, turning it off and unplugging it and waiting a minute and plugging it back in and turning it back on and clearing the print queue and quitting out of the document and restarting my computer and doing a Native American rain dance and offering the printer twenty dollar bills and a place of prominence near the window so it could enjoy the beautiful sunny Southern California afternoon.

Nothing.

So finally, I resorted to threats. In all seriousness, full voice in the office supply room, I said, "Okay. You're going to print for me now. Or there will be consequences."

I noticed David standing there as I turned around to walk out the door. He didn't seem phased.

So after a five-minute trip to the restroom and a quick check of my computer, which led me to believe my documents had been printed, I went to the printer.

On the tray was one piece of paper. In large, bold letters, it read:

"HA! HA! CONSEQUENCES, SHMONSEQUENCES! -- The Printer. "

Oh, sure, it was David's handwriting. But maybe it's mastered forgery too, just to spite me.

An Open Letter to Mispronouncers of Plain and Reasonably Phonetic English Words

Dear English Language Offenders:

It has recently come to my attention that there is a vast conspiracy. Of you. Against me.

Me: hapless word nerd, fighting the good but apparently fruitless fight for correct pronunciation. You (surprisingly): white, middle-to-upper-middle class, native English-speakers with at least a two-year college degree. Many of you, indeed, are of even higher socioeconomic status and hold even more advanced degrees, and should therefore know better. And yet, the offense continues.

Why do you torment me? Why do you insist upon drinking "melk" -- or "myilk," or, heaven forbid, "malk" -- in your "expresso" and setting off "nookyaler" bombs in countries "acrost" the world and sending your children off to "kinnygarden" and eating "donits" covered with "peanits" (and please do be careful with that one)? One might even say the list goes on, "excetra, excetra."

It is as though there is a toggle switch in my brain, the opposite ends labeled "mental homeostasis" and "murderous rage." And every time one of you says the word "samwich," I can feel a finger on that switch. Waiting. Waiting.

Ebonics and other American cultural linguistic phenomena aside, I remain baffled. I do not speak today of mistakes in grammar, punctuation or syntax. Nor do I speak of regional dialects (though they mystify me as well, what with some of you putting "earl" in the engine, using the "terlet" in the men's room and "pahking" the "cah"). These are not words of freshly foreign origin; they are not new to this part of the world. No one is asking you to stand up and represent in the face of such linguistic hurdles as "Quetzalcoatl" or "schadenfreude" or "trompe l'oeil." This is plain English, people.

And it's not even tricky plain English, like that I Love Lucy episode in which Ricky, in a comically stereotypical non-native-English-speaker way, stumbles over "rough," "through," and "bough" as he is reading a bedtime story to Little Ricky, his fiery Cuban hackles raised at the absurdity of three different pronunciations of the same letter grouping. You should all know better. You should.

What's more, I think you do know better, and I think you are just waiting to see how much more I can take before I snap.

So I have an idea. I will fight back. I will foil you by re-educating your offspring. My Center for the Proper Pronunciation of Childhood Dining Delicacies will eliminate this growing problem by rehabilitating our nation's youth who have been taught, whether by encouragement or by simple lack of correction, to describe a popular pasta dish as "puh-sketti." While the Center does not yet have funding, I am certain to receive adequate financial support from John Malkovich, who was tragically forced to abandon his birth name of Milkovich when, as a young actor, he bowed to the pressure of the mispronouncing masses. Oh, yes. Our dream lives on, and someday we will prevail.

And from that day forward, you will never again pierce my eardrums -- and my soul -- with your torturous word mangling.

Viva la Revolucion,

Jenny

Beyond Beautiful

Amazing. Apparently, the Arrowsmiths have what it takes to keep doing the same old song and dance for eighty years.

The Joke That Tells Itself

According to an e-mail I just got from Ticketmaster, the next "American Idols Live" tour is being presented by...Pop-Tarts.

Blood, Sweat and Tears

As a rule, the only thing I enjoy about boxing is the fact that it is also called "pugilism," which is more fun to say and hear and spell than most other words.

Seriously, boxing is a sport where two men -- and even women, nowadays, which I fail to understand -- are paid to beat each other until: A.) one of them, resembling pre-cooked meat, is rendered horizontal and motionless, or B.) both resemble pre-cooked meat, but only one is chosen as victor by judges with unbroken noses, wearing nice outfits unsullied by their own various bodily fluids. My astonishment at the fact that these men are paid to pound on each other is matched only by my astonishment that other people pay to watch this happen.

But I just saw Russell Crowe's new movie Cinderella Man, which is the story of Depression-era boxer James J. Braddock, and I was enthralled. Not only is it a well-told (true!) story with a good script and strong performances -- even by Renee "SquintyPucker" Zellweger, who generally makes me twitch -- it is a film with good moral messages and positive, uplifting portrayals of marriage and family. Humility. Honesty. Courage. Risk-taking. Hope. Strength of character. This is a film about men doing what they have to do and women doing their best to support and enable the men's efforts.

The reason I've seen it presumably before any of you is that I went to the world premiere at Universal Citywalk. Brian Grazer, one of the producers of the film, is a huge supporter of the Best Buddies program; the $250-per-ticket afterparty was actually a charity benefit. Denise and I were one of the few "buddy pairs" who were specially invited.

And weren't we a sight, intermingled with the eternally youthful and fabulous of Hollywood, standing there all normal-bodied in our khaki pants and matching t-shirts!

Some highlights:

• We were the first group to walk the red carpet, on our way to take our posts at the theater doors in order to hand out flyers and freebies to the moviegoers. People cheered us, so we smiled and waved. Denise, who is too cool for school, muttered, "I don't wave. I will look, but I don't wave." (She'd have waved herself into unconsciousness if Jackie Chan or Steven Seagal had been there, though, I can tell you that.)

• Before the movie, I recognized the Ron Howard trifecta of Marion Ross, Penny Marshall, and M. Night Shyamalamadingdong, as well as a few people whose faces looked familiar in that I-know-you're-somebody-but-you-look-too-3D-right-now-for-me-to-get-it sort of way.

• Just before the movie, we actually got free popcorn and sodas. Seriously. FREE. Denise was very excited about this.

• During the movie, the excellent Paul Giamatti at one point actually said the word "pugilism." I was very excited about this.

• After the movie came the photo ops. No, the photographer wasn't able to corral any of the movie stars, but we had some lovely pics snapped of the group of us with such notables as Brian Grazer, Best Buddies founder Anthony Shriver, and Frankensteinish motivational speaker Tony Robbins.

• We got to keep our "all access" passes, movie tickets and afterparty invitations. You know -- for the scrapbook, next to the picture of Tony Robbins.

• Denise and I walked the red carpet again in reverse, on the way back to the parking structure. It's surprisingly soft when you're barefoot. I've now made contact with whatever was on the bottom of thousands of famous people's designer shoes.

Not too shabby, as evenings go.

Please go see the movie. I'll tell you this: I've been to cast & crew screenings and premieres before. You know the film is good when the jaded Hollywood-types are cheering -- not for the cool and expensive visual effects sequence, or for some bigshot's name in the opening credits, but for the desperate man with the bloody face who's taking the punches for his kids.

Jenny Goes Ghetto

I went to Trader Joe's on a (failed) quest for chocolate Mochi, and as I was perusing the less enticing forms of soy-substance-posing-as-ice-cream, I heard a woman to my immediate left say "Hallelujah!" as she reached up to the shelf above the freezer. I chuckled and swiveled my head to see what she was grabbing.

It was the last two bags of some kind of cookie.

As if she had heard my unspoken question of "what snack item is so good you're praising God for it," the woman looked at me and said, "Girrrrrrrrl, these are the cookies. These cookies are SO good, make ya wanna SLAP sumbahhhdy."

(The language-obsessed part of me took immediate notice that this was the second time in a week I'd heard this particular sentiment expressed by a member of the same cultural group. The first person to mention it actually used the phrase "so good, make ya wanna slap yo momma," which I found absolutely fascinating.)

I laughed and asked to see the bag.

So the woman showed me one of the bags and said, "It's too bad there's only two left because I am buying them BOTH. I have looked EVERYwhere. The Trader Joe's near my house does NOT have any more. But if you can find these, girl, you should get them because you will SLAP sumbahhhdy."

Upon seeing the package, I made the connection: these were the little "Stroopwafels" lauded by my friend Deborah in her blog post here.

"I've heard of these!"

"Ooohhhh, girl. These cookies take the edge off PMS." Then she looked around. "You know what?"

I didn't know what. I had a feeling I was about to know what.

She began opening the package. "I am paying for these -- I am buying both of these, and you GOT to have one of these cookies. You will THANK me. I don't mind goin' ghetto, here, because I am BUYING these cookies. Have one of these cookies."

Sure, the uptight whitey in the most law-abiding part of my psyche was frantically scanning the aisle for grocery store packaging police, but I ate the cookie. And the woman looked on, eyebrows raised and nodding her approval like a bobblehead doll. Oh, it was beyond good.

"I TOLD you, girrrl!"

Something in my face must have told her she was right, because she moved away quickly. My slapping hand was at the ready.

Make My Ex-Boss Rent a Tux

The Beverly Hills crash sequence from Martin Scorcese's film The Aviator has been nominated for an MTV Movie Award in the "Best Action Sequence" category. Why do I care? Because I worked on that show with my friends and former employers at New Deal Studios, and I want to see the company get some recognition for once! Seems like when it comes to awards (Oscars, Emmys, even BAFTAs), it's "always a bridesmaid, never a bride."

The good news is that since this is a "People's Choice" style awards show, you can help! Click on this link to vote for The Aviator -- you can vote as many times as you like before the show takes place on June 9th. Vote for The Aviator even if you thought another action sequence was better! Do it because I'm your friend! (We all know that's how Hollywood works anyway....)

The Jester is Employed

(INSERT TRUMPET FANFARE HERE)

That's right, ladies and gentlemen! Effective May 24, I will once again be a productive member of society. It's a part-time office support gig for Starlight Starbright Children's Foundation, which does incredible work in the service of seriously ill kids and their families.

This job is promising for a variety of reasons, chief among them is the idea of my making just enough money to survive, such that I'll be more motivated to spend my non-office time doing some creative writing and pursuing ways to turn said writing into extra cash.

More importantly, though, I've learned quite a bit these last few months about God's faithfulness. Consistently, as I've prayed for help with little things here and there, financially and logistically and otherwise, He has provided just what I've needed at just the time I've needed it. Even the timing has been perfect: after six months of searching and researching and networking and sending resumes and writing cover letters and submitting applications and interviewing and following up and receiving generally no response despite whatever qualifications I possess...I get a job that seems like just the right fit, just as my unemployment runs out. The lesson for me here (and how many times have I learned this, now?) is that dependence on God is exactly what I should focus on at all times, because even my best efforts will come to naught without His loving intervention and masterful orchestration.

Thanks to all of you who have been so faithful in your friendship and support, especially to those of you who have been praying alongside me for these many months!

TV as Tutor

Much can be, and has been, said about the power of television as a force for ill in our society. And much of it's true; adults and children consume more intellectual junk food than anything else when the glowing box is beckoning. In fact, the best thing Amy and I ever did was give up TV for Lent a few years ago -- our viewing habits have not been the same since, and now that we make a concerted effort to limit our exposure, we are more aware of (and often horrified by) what's being aimed at our minds.

Even the commercials are becoming more distasteful, if that's possible. Our current "favorite" involves a leaky rowboat and a feminine hygiene product...you may use your imagination, and you probably won't be far off. (What's that sound, you ask? It's my grandmother whirring in her grave.)

But every once in a while, something that happens on TV will stick with you in a *good* way. It can actually be a teaching tool. For example, how many of us learned to count to ten in Spanish just by watching Sesame Street? If you live in California, as I do, there's no such thing as useless Spanish vocabulary.

I had a fun TV learning memory just now. I get this "word of the day" e-mail (I know, I know), and today's word was "aver." I confess to being quietly delighted with myself whenever I actually already know the word of the day, but I get an even bigger charge out of it when there's a memory attached about how I learned it in the first place.

aver \uh-VUR\,transitive verb;
Inflected forms: averred; averring:
1. To affirm with confidence; to declare in a positive manner,
as in confidence of asserting the truth.
2. (Law) To assert, claim, or declare as a fact

The first time I remember hearing this word? I was very young, and watching the annual broadcast of "The Wizard of Oz." Yes, it's technically a film and not TV, but this was back in the days before the popularity of VCRs and invention of DVD players. And in the beginning of the "Oz" part of the movie, just after the Wicked Witch of the East has been rendered two-dimensional by Dorothy's house, the Coroner of Munchkinland sings this reassuring statement to the munchkin masses:

"As coroner, I must aver
I've thoroughly examined her
And she's not only merely dead
She's really most sincerely dead!"

So, what has TV done for you?

Jingle-Jangle-Jingle

I'm in Clovis this weekend, visiting the parental units. For Mother's Day (which we celebrated on Saturday, as we are a people whose holiday preferences include crowd avoidance), Mom wanted to drive up into the hills and have lunch at Humphrey Station. (I am perplexed by the site to which I'm pointing you, which is an apparent indicator that Humphrey's is for sale -- anybody got $775,000? -- despite no indication of that in person.)

Ever been there? When we drove up, there were a few dozen Harleys parked out front, and while we were eating, a party of what I can only assume to be middle-aged cowgirls strode past our table...wearing actual spurs. Good blackberry cobbler, too. It's worth a visit.

Don't Forget to Bring I.D., and Proof That You're From the Future

This Saturday, some students at MIT will be hosting (are hosting? did host?) a convention for time travelers. Nothing I can say here could possibly be funnier than the actual story.

What Kind of Pirate Am I?

Avast! Because I trust the judgment of the likes of ye, me landlubbin' mateys and scurvy associates, I be trustin' in ye to assess me piratical tendencies:

What kind of pirate am I? You decide!
You can also view a breakdown of results or put one of these on your own page!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

The Following Takes Place Between 11:00 A.M. and 12:00 P.M.

Just in time for May sweeps, it's the "24" (Season 4) Drinking Game!

Every time one of the following phrases or situations occurs on an episode of "24" (Season 4), take a shot...of a beverage that wouldn't impair your judgment if you were the President of the United States or the head of CTU:

• A character from one or more previous seasons resurfaces (bonus points for those we thought were dead or in prison)

• Chloe rolls her eyes, verbally abuses someone, gives Edgar a dirty look or otherwise displays her lack of social skills

• "You're making the wrong call" (acceptable substitutes include "That's not the right call" and "That's not the way to handle this," etc.)

• Someone from CTU screws over an innocent bystander

• "It'll happen within the hour."

• A commercial for the Fox series "House" shows someone having a seizure (TiVo users, no points for you!)

• Infidelity

• "I have [character name] on the line. He says it's urgent."

• Stupid interpersonal drama interferes with the professional duties of the CTU staff, potentially causing injury or death to millions of U.S. citizens

• Jack yells, "DAMN IT!"

Which Historical Lunatic Are You?

Take this brilliant Web quiz to find out:


Which Historical Lunatic Are You?
From the fecund loins of Rum and Monkey.

For your amusement, here's my historical lunatic profile. Don't read it until you've taken the quiz yourself, though -- you might be tempted to answer in a way that unfairly tips your results in favor of ALSO being Charles the Mad...and this royal nuthouse ain't big enough for the both of us:

You are Charles VI of France, also known as Charles the Mad or Charles the Well-Beloved!

A fine, amiable and dreamy young man, skilled in horsemanship and archery, you were also from a long line of dribbling madmen. King at 12 and quickly married to your sweetheart, Bavarian Princess Isabeau, you enjoyed many happy months together before either of you could speak anything of the other's language. However, after illness you became a tad unstable. When a raving lunatic ran up to your entourage spouting an incoherent prophecy of doom, you were unsettled enough to slaughter four of your best men when a page dropped a lance. Your hair and nails fell out. At a royal masquerade, you and your courtiers dressed as wild men, ending in tragedy when four of them accidentally caught fire and burned to death. You were saved by the timely intervention of the Duchess of Berry's underskirts.

This brought on another bout of sickness, which surgeons countered by drilling holes in your skull. The following months saw you suffer an exorcism, beg your friends to kill you, go into hyperactive fits of gaiety, run through your rooms to the point of exhaustion, hide from imaginary assassins, claim your name was Georges, deny that you were King and fail to recognise your family. You smashed furniture and wet yourself at regular intervals. Passing briefly into erratic genius, you believed yourself to be made of glass and demanded iron rods in your attire to prevent you breaking.

In 1405 you stopped bathing, shaving or changing your clothes. This went on until several men were hired to blacken their faces, hide, jump out and shout "boo!", upon which you resumed basic hygiene. Despite this, your wife continued sleeping with you until 1407, when she hired a young beauty, Odette de Champdivers, to take her place. Isabeau then consoled herself, as it were, with your brother. Her lovers followed thick and fast while you became a pawn of your court, until you had her latest beau strangled and drowned.

A severe fever was fended off with oranges and pomegranates in vast quantities, but you succumbed again in 1422 and died. Your disease was most likely hereditary. Unfortunately, you had anywhere up to eleven children, who variously went on to develop capriciousness, great cruelty, insecurity, paranoia, revulsion towards food and, in one case, a phobia of bridges.

Chuck Heston Was Right

Soylent Green is people!!!

Besides, I'll link to any article that first claims something will "smack of cannibalism" and then claims it "smacks of Frankenstein."

"But officer, he's *smart* enough to drive...."

I'm once again puppysitting a future guide dog this weekend (Liam the Magnificent, for those of you who either know him or have heard me sing his canine praises).

It's a sad commentary on Los Angeles traffic and car culture that I am so accustomed to being the sole occupant of my vehicle, I actually had a fleeting moment's thought that Liam and I would qualify as a carpool. Thank God I realized my idiocy before I changed lanes. That would have been an embarrassing $370 fine.

Tough Love

"Love, in the true sense, is not always a matter of giving way, being soft, and just acting nice. In that sense, a sugar-coated Jesus or a God who agrees to everything and is never anything but nice and friendly is no more than a caricature of real love. Because God loves us, because he wants us to grow into truth, he must necessarily make demands on us and must also correct us." -- Pope Benedict XVI

You tell 'em, Holy Father. God ain't no wussy-boy.

I love this quote because it challenges those who think of God as The Big Hug From Above, the Immortal Cheerleader who wants us to be happy and fulfilled and self-actualized and to feel good about ourselves all the time, no matter what.

There's no commandment that says, "Thou shalt happily skip along the garden path, in blissful and childlike ignorance of reality and without responsibility or maturity." No, God lays down His expectations. His instruction is to pursue some things, and to avoid some other things, "so that it may go well with you." Which implies, of course, that if you do not...it will NOT go well with you. A loving God gives us choice, but a loving God also gives us responsibility and holds us accountable. As it is with earthly parents, how much more with a Heavenly Father? Would we ever grow into adulthood otherwise?

I Didn't Even Know He Was Catholic

I knew the Holy See had been pressured to bow to the expectations of today's culture as the cardinals met this week to elect a new pope, but who expected this? It can only be the work of a secret conclavin.

SWAT the Monkey

Officer Sean Truelove of the Mesa, Arizona police department envisions "the ultimate SWAT reconnaissance tool."

I smell a straight-to-video franchise, here....

Word Games and Minor Obsessions (Or, Things That Keep Me Up at Night)

It all started with "Harry Potter & the Hairy Potter." Things escalated from there, and Amy and I stayed up very late. laughing, as we are wont to do. Here are the results:

BEST IN CLASS:

Harry Potter & the Hairy Potter
Mary Poppins & the Merry Poppins
Robin Hood & the Robbin' Hood
Sherlock Holmes & the Sure-Lock Homes

NOT TOO SHABBY:

Frank Marshall & the Frank Marshall
Rip Taylor & the Rip Tailor
John Boothe & the John Booth
Art Carney & the Art Carny
Mark Taper & the Mark Taper
Kurt Russell & the Curt Rustle

SPECIAL ACHIEVEMENT AWARD:

Ernest Borgnine & the Earnest Borg Nine

HONORABLE MENTION:

Earl Warren & the Warrin' Earl
Ho Chi Minh & the Hoochy-Men


...anyone have anything to add?

Three More For Bill

Because Bill so enjoyed the last poem I posted, I figured I'd put up a few more of note:

The Garments of God

God sits on a chair of darkness in my soul.
He is God alone, supreme in His majesty.
I sit at His feet, a child in the dark beside Him;
my joy is aware of His glance and my sorrow is tempted
to nest on the thought that His face is turned from me.
He is clothed in the robes of His mercy, voluminous garments --
not velvet or silk and affable to the touch,
but fabric strong for a frantic hand to clutch,
and I hold to it fast with the fingers of my will.
Here is my cry of faith, my deep avowal
to the Divinity that I am dust.
Here is the loud profession of my trust.
I need not go abroad
to the hills of speech or the hinterlands of music
for a crier to walk in my soul where all is still.
I have this potent prayer through good or ill:
here in the dark I clutch the garments of God.

-- Jessica Powers

*****

Before the Beginning

Before the beginning Thou hast foreknown the end,
Before the birthday the death-bed was seen of Thee:
Cleanse what I cannot cleanse, mend what I cannot mend.
O Lord All-Merciful, be merciful to me.

While the end is drawing near I know not mine end;
Birth I recall not, my death I cannot foresee:
O God, arise to defend, arise to befriend,
O Lord All-Merciful, be merciful to me.

-- Christina Rossetti

*****

i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any -- lifted from the no
of all nothing -- human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

-- e.e. cummings

Good Friday

Today I give you one of my favorite poems, from one of my favorite poets. I wish you all a day of deep reflection on this, Good Friday, and a joyous day of fellowship and blessing come Sunday. He is risen, indeed!


Beneath Thy Cross

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon --
I, only I.

Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

- Christina Rossetti

Ow! Stop it. This shirt IS green!!!

I'm neither Irish nor Catholic -- nor do I have any desire to go out and get liquored up and do things I'll regret -- so St. Patrick's Day is kind of wasted on me. I do wear green, of course, but that's mostly out of a desire to avoid pinch-happy (and often, conveniently colorblind) smart alecks.

But I was curious about the holiday today, so I Googled it. Now, I don't typically endorse the History Channel as an authoritative source of knowledge when it comes to Christianity or the church in any sense (I've read a few things by the alleged "scholars" they tend to interview exclusively on these topics), but they seem have a decent piece on their website today about St. Patrick himself and the history of St. Patrick's Day.

I'm making a concerted effort to listen to Irish musicians today, too. Yes, of course, everyone knows U2 (Arrow93 FM is playing their songs all day as well as giving away tickets to their upcoming sold-out concerts, in case you're interested), but I'm also a fan of the singer/songwriter acts, traditional Irish music groups and the lively "jig-punk" or "Celtic rock & roll" bands. Take a listen to The Chieftains, The Young Dubliners or The Prodigals today, if you can. And if you're in the mood to cry into your pint of watered-down green beer, immerse yourself in Dillon O'Brian's Irish-pathos-ridden "My Father's Son," a snippet of which follows:

I want you to love me
I want to be your golden one
But I can only be
My father's son

I want you to know me
I don't want to hide or run
But I will always be
My father's son

Have a happy and SAFE (designate a driver, please) St. Patrick's Day, everybody!

The End is Near

That's it, we're thinking. All things are coming to a head.

Sure, sure -- wars and rumors of wars, earthquakes, mudslides, tsunamis, crazy happenings of biblical proportions, all of that. But that's not all.

Over the course of the last year -- and with increasing frequency in the last month or so -- Amy and I have experienced a number of strange occurrences that seem to be moments of closure, re-emergences of things and people from the past, or answers to long-unsolved mysteries.

People we haven't seen in years find us. People we haven't seen in years, and for whom we have been actively searching, suddenly appear in places we'd already thoroughly searched. And today...well, this one requires some backstory. Here's a little piece I wrote about a crazy lady by whom Amy and I are fascinated (and with whom we are, I'll say it, mildly obsessed):

***
September 2003

I'm sitting happily anonymous in the Koo Koo Roo at lunch today, next to the window, by myself, and wondering what to write about. From the numerous brief moments of eye contact I've had with the usual crowd of muscledudes, firefighters and junior suits, I consider writing about how it must be socially acceptable to stare openly at people who are eating unaccompanied at lunchtime in Southern California.

I glance outside at the people sitting around the umbrella-covered tables, and she catches my eye. Alice.

Alice is my favorite checker at the drug store. Small and mousy, probably in her mid-to-late forties, a little crazy in an "I'm trying desperately to hold it all together, but it's kinda leaking out of me" sort of way. She always mutters, laughs nervously. No eye contact. She announces the prices of things as she scans them:

"Dollar fifty -- that's a great price. Two-nineteen on sale this week, not bad. Seven ninety-nine, not bad, not bad. Not *good*...."

Amy and I have both, on separate occasions, seen her walking in our neighborhood or waiting at a bus stop at the bottom of the hill. We both have been more than tempted to offer her a ride somewhere, or just to follow her stealthily to satisfy our curiosity about her dwelling place and its proximity to ours. House? Apartment? Cardboard box on the bluff? Of course, our better judgment has ruled that doing either of those things would only fuel her skittishness, so we've refrained. But we talk about her as if someday, someday....

I always see Alice alone, and I wonder about her life. If she's lonely. If she has friends, or sisters. If she's ever been in love. If she works at Sav-on because she can get a good discount on her medications. If she knows what she's missing, or if she's missing anything at all.

I have these elaborate fantasies about befriending her. Somehow, though, I can never bring myself to do it. Once, at the very crowded Coffee Bean, I saw her standing in line to order as I was waiting for my ice-blended. Someone two people ahead of her answered his cell phone and began to have a conversation. This angered her. She began espousing her thoughts, full-volume to everyone and yet to no one in particular, on how rude it is to talk on a cell phone in public. How rude, how intrusive, how distasteful, how disrespectful!

How very semi-controlled she was, with little tributaries of the angry river just under her skin breaking through to the surface and dripping out of her. She walked over to where I was half-praying for a quick "here's your drink" and a hasty retreat, and half-curiously-hoping she would address me and sense who I was.

She stood next to me. There was little room anyplace else. And without looking at me, she continued her rant, seemingly expecting me to chime in and agree, though I couldn't possibly have inserted a single word into the stream of her opinion. Finally, someone distracted her just as the barista called my name, and I was able to escape. The whole time I had been wondering what she would have done had I said, "Isn't your name Alice? You're my favorite checker at Sav-on; I always choose your checkstand no matter how long the line is."

She would have freaked out and killed me with a knife, I'm almost sure of it.

But there she is again today, looking different. Almost normal. She must just be out running errands, because she's dressed up, wearing a long beige-and-white plaid skirt and a sweater, instead of the telltale blue smock.

Could it be she's with other people for once? I see her talking to someone, even happily. Smiling, still somehow with that slight dullness behind her eyes. Who's she talking to?

Some...*guys*...Hollywood hunk-types. Then I see they have a German Shepherd on a leash next to their umbrella-shaded table, and it all makes unfortunate sense. Alice and I have talked about dogs at Sav-on; she loves them.

I was so rooting for her, so genuinely hoping Alice had some good-looking actor friends, perhaps admirers. But she was talking to the dog. Smiling at him. Gently stroking his head.

She's still alone.

But so am I, today, and I wonder what the difference is.

***

So, guess who I met on the street today? That's right. Alice. She was walking in my direction with a big dog, and I saw my opportunity for conversation. "Beautiful dog."

"Thank you. Want to meet him?"

Door open, foot in. I said I recognized her from Sav-on. She said this 125-pound Rottweiler/Australian Shepherd mix named Milo is the dog she always talks about. When I mentioned my involvement with Guide Dogs of America, and that I sometimes puppysit for other people, she asked me if I might be interested in watching Milo for her when she goes on vacation in July.

Hi, total stranger. Please come into my house and take care of my dog four months from now. HUH?!?!?

So, of course, I said it was a possibility. How can I resist looking into this window of her life, at her invitation? She now has my cell phone number. Am I playing a dangerous game? We shall see. I hope she calls; I want to see where she lives.

I'll bet she collects Hummels.

Of course, I immediately called Amy (far enough out of Alice's range to avoid any unwanted cell phone rant on her part). "The end is near," I said. "I just talked to the Sav-on Lady."

The Birthday Avenger

Birthday Reaper
Originally uploaded by 8675309.

My dear friend James gave me endless grief when I turned thirty: the jokes, the comments, the intimations that I might know more about the Old Testament than I'm letting on.

So here we are, two years later. Look who turned up on James' front porch this morning with a bag full of handy products such as hemorrhoid cream and denture adhesive.

FREE ICE CREAM Public Service Announcement!

Hey -- did you guys know that today (March 2, 2005) is Yahoo!'s tenth birthday? To celebrate, they're giving away FREE ICE CREAM to their members. Seriously! If you have a Yahoo! account, you can print a coupon (good today only) for a free scoop of Baskin-Robbins ice cream.

Oh, look at the time. I have to go...um...run a quick errand....

Happy Birthday, Yahoo!

A Hip-Hop Public Service Announcement

Some of you may not yet be aware of Gizoogle. It's a...search engine you will simply have to experience fo' yo' ownself. Be sho' to click on "translate page" when you get a good search return, mah brotha.

Meanwhile, in a shocking turn of events, I just read on Yahoo! News: Rapper 50 Cent Feuds With G-Unit Member. Does G-Unit KNOW what's really going on here? I mean, 50 Cent has already terminated Units A through F, and is working his way through the alphabet in an effort to retrieve the "S" that was stolen from the end of his name! Someone stop him before he does it again! Will they never learn?!? G-Unit, run! Run like the wind!!

Swanky

DAY OF THE OSCARS, 3:00pm...Hilary Swank is getting dressed for her big night:

"I can't believe I'm so lucky to have found this fabulous Golden-Age-of-Hollywood-inspired Vera Wang white silk gown! Chad, honey, would you zip me up?"

"Certainly, my dear. Let me just quickly set this 32oz. tumbler full of 100% pomegranate juice precariously on the edge of the vanity next to you...uh-ohhhhhh...."

"Oh, NO! My precious Vera Wang is RUINED!!! Chad, you fool! It's three o'clock, and the only other dress in my closet is a hideous 1980's-era navy blue zipper-front frock made of Lycra!"

"Darling, you'll look stunning in it. It's not the dress that counts -- remember, it's an honor just to be nominated."

"You're right, dearest Chadlo, of course. Now, help me zip up the front."

"Certainly, my love. Wait, there appears to be a small thread caught in a completely unnoticeable place near the bottom of the zipper. Let me just quickly get my pliers and fix that for you...uh-ohhhhhh...."

"Chad, you moron! It won't zip up now, and there's not enough double-stick tape on planet Earth to hold in my million-dollar babies! What am I going to do now?!?"

"Sweetheart, I have an idea that will make you the belle of the ball! Just put it on like this...."

*I* AM ALPHA DOG, AND YOU'D BETTER GET USED TO IT

I'm puppysitting again; this time it's a five-month old black Lab named Janna. She hasn't been getting enough work from the busy family who's raising her, so I've been asked to take her for a week or so, and do some intensive basic training with her. She's very cute. She's very smart. She's VERY stubborn...and hasn't yet been taught that she isn't the boss.

Two words: Labrador Rodeo.

There are moments when I literally have to grab her legs and pull them out from under her in order to get her on her back for grooming (it's not as damaging as it may sound, there's an actual technique to it). Then there's the Greco-Roman wrestling. I get her on the floor, quickly muscle her on to her side, grasp one of her forelegs for leverage, pin her across the neck/shoulder with my forearm and clamp my other hand firmly on her hip...and hold her there until her breathing slows and she's relaxed enough not to bolt as soon as I let go and give her the "okay" release command. Meanwhile, she lolls her tongue around and grunts and wiggles and snorts and gives me the crazy-eye. It takes a good thirty minutes, and provides a surprisingly good workout for both of us.

Ultimately, after last night's match, I won. But she got me back later...just as I was drifting off to sleep, satisfied that Janna was dreaming happily in her kennel next to my bed, she let out a toxic cloud that could have gagged a stone statue.

Is this what it's like to have children?

Klownz in Da 'Hood

Apparently, the kids down in South Central are dressing like clowns and getting into intense rivalries that end in dramatic battles.

No, I'm not talking about street gangs; we already knew about that. I'm talking about "krumping," in which the kids down in South Central are LITERALLY dressing like clowns -- a la Bozo -- and getting into intense rivalries that end in dramatic CLOWN DANCE battles.

I hear what you're saying. "Are you freakin' kidding me?!?" No, sir. I am not.

I implore you to visit the above linked article, if only for the photo. I promise, it's reallyreallygood.

I can't believe this is the first I've heard of this. For the love of all that is holy, people are having underground clown dance battles and I didn't even know???

That Crazy Young Man and His Flying Machines

Martin Scorcese's "The Aviator" is collecting awards and accolades. See the movie on the big screen, if you have a chance; it's well done all the way around. I heartily endorse it not only because it's a fine example of what Hollywood can and should be doing (compelling stories, beautifully told), but also because the miniature effects are spectacular and worthy of recognition. Dozens of talented artists -- modelmakers, painters, sculptors, carpenters and mechanical effects experts -- worked for months to recreate scale models of 1930's Hollywood Boulevard, the Beverly Hills neighborhood where Howard Hughes crashed his XF-11, the world-famous Hercules ("Spruce Goose"), and several other pieces.

It's unfortunate that the current trend in the film industry is to forget or dismiss this time-honored craft and go whole-hog digital, often to the detriment of the look of the film. What New Deal Studios does is a little like good acting: if we've done our job, you won't notice there was a job to be done. And films like this one make it even harder to attract attention because we're dealing with airplanes, objects that exist in the real world. Nobody's looking at an airplane in a film and saying "how did they do that" the way they would with, say, an exploding alien spaceship.

Today marks the launch of a website devoted to "The Aviator" visual effects. Hop on over to www.aviatorvfx.com and take a peek at the miniature effects section. See for yourself what meticulous craftsmanship and attention to detail can add to a period film.

Starch Wars?

My ever-vigilant friend Deborah alerted me to a disturbance in the Force. In the spirit of my last blog entry, I bring you the Carb Lord of the Sith. O, George Lucas and your evil demi-gods of merchandising, is nothing sacred?

Now Accepting Applications (Revised Standards, Version 38.2)

Want to go out with me? Take this quiz:


1. Which of the following do you enjoy most:

A. Scrabble
B. Scrapple
C. Scrimmage
D. Scrappy Doo


2. Your opinion on Star Wars:

A. I like to pretend I'm Han Solo (the Underoos help)
B. I like to pretend the "prequels" were never made
C. I'm going to pretend you didn't ask me that question
D. Captain Kirk was the man


3. Dogs:

A. Rule
B. Are good with mustard and relish
C. Are not as good as cats
D. Are good with mustard and relish, but not as good as cats with mustard and relish


4. Valentine's Day is Saturday, and I am your girlfriend. You:

A. Forget entirely
B. Remember, but blow off the whole occasion because you've "always hated Valentine's Day"
C. Plan a low-key but fun activity, and maybe even keep it a surprise (but tell me how to dress appropriately for the event)
D. Spend all day at a role-playing game convention with your friends while I sit at home online, being mocked by the other people in the chat room


5. The word "sandwich" is pronounced:

A. SAND-wich
B. SAN-wich
C. SAM-wich
D. SAMM-ich


6. "Hammered" is:

A. What you did to the nail in the wall in order to hang the picture frame in my living room
B. What you get with your buddies on Friday night
C. What you get when you go against the MC's advice and try to "touch this"
D. What?


7. You open doors:

A. For all women, the disabled, and occasionally men whose arms are full
B. For all women, but no men
C. For your mother, but no one else
D. For to get inside the building


8. Which of the following is a compliment:

A. "You are incredibly beautiful."
B. "You look nice today -- have you lost weight?"
C. "You look nice today -- are you wearing makeup?"
D. "Sure, honey, but this is Southern California -- anywhere else in the country, you'd really turn heads."


9. The following song will not be played at our wedding:

A. Theme from "Shaft"
B. William Hung's rendition of "Can You Feel the Love Tonight"
C. Anything from Star Wars
D. All of the Above


10. Orlando Bloom is:

A. A decent elf and a pretty good pirate
B. An elficer and a gentlepirate
C. A perfectly acceptable mini-obsession for your girlfriend, with the understanding that should Orlando and said girlfriend actually meet in person, absolutely nothing untoward would occur because it's YOU she truly loves, of course
D. "A totally gay dude who doesn't threaten my masculinity at *all* because he's, like, SOOOO gay. And pretty. DAMMIT! I mean gay."

Now, if Only Someone Would PAY Me to Be Funny

Happy New Year & all that. Yeah, I know, it's been a while since I've posted. But please understand, this unemployment business is serious work!

This just in: I have another submission up at McSweeney's. It's a multiple contributor category, so ya gotta scroll down a bit to see mine. It's brief, but joyous.

Great Moments in Humility 2004

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.

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.

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

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!

%#*@!!!

So close, my friends. Painfully, frustratingly, achingly, heartbreakingly close. We could'na been a contender, but the role of spoiler would have been just as sweet.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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

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?)

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.

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.

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.

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).

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!

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.

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!

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?

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.

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.

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....

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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

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

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.