Help Me, Amy-Wan Kenobi....

A Candidate for "Pimp My Ride"

Interview With a Wampa

Who Says Nerdy Guys Can't Hang Out with Models?

Too Bad Her Name's Amy

Because "ChewBECCA" would have been a great title for this one.

When 30 Years Old You Reach, Look as Good, You Will Not

Forgive the "landscape" view in lieu of "portrait" -- this is a Blogger bug that has yet to be addressed. Just tilt your head & enjoy.

Anyway, this exhibit full of props, puppets, models and costumes came about as part of the hoopla surrounding the 30th anniversary of Star Wars (the REAL Star Wars, not The Wretched Abomination of Which We Shall No Longer Speak). As the person who once received and read all the incoming resumes and cover letters from potential model makers at New Deal Studios (the best VFX house in Southern California), I can attest to the influence this franchise has had on American culture, the art of film, and guys who were born in the 1970's.

That's a solemn dating credo around here, by the way: "No one born after Star Wars."

Fine, Okay? We're Nerds

One week ago, in a galaxy about 17 miles away, the roomie and I owned up to our collective inner geek and jumped in her freeway-speeder to see the "Star Wars: The Art and Science of Imagination" exhibit at the California Science Center.

We promptly owned up to our collective OUTER geek, as you will see in a series of photos I'll post over the next few days.

I'll begin with this one, though, which will hopefully keep things in perspective for you: WE WERE NOT WEARING COSTUMES. This guy was roaming from car to car as we were waiting in line to pay for parking.

Sure hope he worked for the museum.

Stretching My Lexicon

CRIMINALLY UNDERUSED WORDS

Brobdingnagian
Churlish
Festooned
Widdershins

Profundity

Much of my life of late has been devoted to the canine world, since the arrival of Truman. But as these quotes from "Understanding & Teaching Self Control" by Suzanne Clothier (from Flying Dog Press) illustrate, it's not necessarily just about the dog. Humans, take note:

"Compared to IQ, which some psychologists and educators feel is a relatively unchangeable quality, there is substantial evidence that emotional skills, such as self control, can be learned. The findings of this study highlight the importance of self control as a 'meta-ability' -- one that sits above and affects how poorly or well the other mental skills can be used."

Hmm. Sounds mighty familiar.

"Obedience training is useful, as is any education, when it is built on a foundation of self control. No matter how well educated or intelligent a person might be, if they have no behavioral option but to react to every comment or action or event in their lives, they will lead strange and disturbing existences that do not reflect their 'training.' Likewise, a 'trained' dog is not trained until he has learned self control."

Anyone else out there feeling convicted?

Three Words, People:

World. Beard. Championships.

There is nothing I can offer you that is better than that link. Except, maybe, their blog. Not tempted? Here's an excerpt:

Now meet Hans Langstreth from Norway. According to Guinness, the late Hans sported the world's longest beard. In fact, Longstreth's beard is or was on display at the Smithsonian, the same as the Hope Diamond and the Spirit of St. Louis.

Where is Jenny?

Over here, in puppyville. You people with kids...I don't know how you do it.

I'm Not Just Ignoring You

On a personal note, someone -- maybe you? -- called my home number and left a message for me yesterday (Thursday, March 1). Unfortunately, due to technical difficulties with our phone line, probably resulting from a combination of ridiculous winds and the phone line's general state of everyday crappiness, all I heard on the answering machine was a bunch of static. Didn't get a name, a number, or even two seconds of voice to provide me with an opportunity to play guess-who.

My outgoing calls are also affected by this, so until the fine people at the phone company come out, I won't be using my home phone. Call me on my cell if you need to reach me this weekend, and for the love of all that is holy, please tell me if you were the person who left yesterday's message. For all I know, it might have been important....

Jeepers! It's an Air Raid!

Attention swing dancers, jazz musicians, conspiracy theorists, and WWII/military/Los Angeles history buffs: this Saturday is the "Great Los Angeles Air Raid of 1942" at the Fort MacArthur Museum in San Pedro!

This annual event, which commemorates a controversial night in the early days of WWII when thousands of Southern Californians thought the coast was under attack (from Japanese bombers? weather balloons? space aliens?), promises to "recreate the atmosphere of a 1942 social evening out, interrupted by the reality of war."

Participants are encouraged, but not required of course, to bring their dancing shoes (I'll have mine!). And maybe some earplugs... because in addition to the sounds of the live band playing under the stars, there "may be some loud noises" during the course of the evening's re-enactment.

How cool is that?!?

Technical Difficulties

This week I switched to the new-and-allegedly-improved Blogger, mainly because I had no choice. I had logged in to post on my other blog about the graduation of Guide Dog Lomax, only to discover a friendly "You must switch right now; it'll only take a few minutes and everything will be just like you like it, only BETTER! (smiley-face smiley-face)" message.

So I did. Then I went to log back in, and all of my blogs were MIA. For a few days.

There was of course much cursing, and much eyeball-rolling and forehead massaging at the inadequate and labyrinthine "help" section, whose "known issues" FAQ was not remotely helpful in answering my own particular known issue. Somehow, inexplicably, the blogs returned from their magical hiatus a few days later (long before I received an unhelpful e-mail reply from the Blogger Duh Squad) and now all is basically back to normal. As far as I know, that is.

I'm assuming that since I couldn't even find the blogs, you might not have been able to find them either. Or maybe you couldn't comment on them. Or maybe your hair caught fire when you thought too hard about them (Blogger is part of the All-Powerful Grand and Glorious Google Empire, so I don't know what they're capable of these days).

In any case, I'm still here, and I apologize for any inconvenience or hair-fires those glitchy few days may have caused.

Just in Case

I've been yakking it up on my other blog that Lomax, the puppy I raised for Guide Dogs of America, is graduating tomorrow. I will be seeing him for the first time in six months, and possibly the last time ever, tomorrow morning. Another privilege: I get to meet his new partner, a woman named Barbara. Someone asked me the other day what I would do if I didn't like her.

I said, "My roommate and I will assemble a crack team of professionals and go in for an extraction."

Don't think we won't do it. We know people.

Rolling Victory Fast

Those of you who know me personally -- or those of you who have looked at my sidebar full of links to military blogs I regularly read -- know that I am passionate about supporting U.S. troops, especially those who are currently deployed in service around the globe.

One of my favorite daily reads is Tanker Brothers. Last July, these guys instituted the "Rolling Victory Fast" in response to the "Rolling Fast" hunger strike called by anti-war activists.

I am participating today for the first time.

Knowing that I have many friends, family members and readers here who do not share either my religious beliefs or political views, I wish to first assure you I mean no offense to anyone, and I do not intend to start controversy or heated discussion. This blog has always been more of a personal Web journal than a forum for debate, so if you choose to comment on this post, please be respectful, regardless of your position.

Knowing also the words of God in Matthew chapter 6 of the Bible, in which believers are admonished not to "practice [their] righteousness before other people in order to be seen by them" (as fasting and prayer are spiritual disciplines), I agonized over whether or not to even post about this. In the end, I decided to post in order to show support for the Tanker Brothers' and other RVF members' efforts, to bring it to your attention in case you'd like to join the fast, and to remind my fellow Christian readers and bloggers that it is our responsibility to pray for our government (including our military) on a regular basis, however we choose to align ourselves politically. We are privileged in this country to be able to worship freely and to speak our minds in public fearlessly; let us remember why we are so privileged.

For my first RVF day, I'd like to dedicate my fast to all the military chaplains who care for the hearts and souls of our deployed men and women. War is not just physical -- today I'll be praying for the mental, emotional and spiritual needs of our deployed soldiers, and for God to encourage, equip, refresh and sustain the chaplains and their charges.

In the spirit of today's dedication, I'd also like to point you to another favorite milblog, The Online Chaplain. Deployed to Iraq, with a recently extended tour of duty and a loving family awaiting his return, he could use your prayers as well.

Don't Dream It's Over

I saw them at the Wiltern Theater back in the mid-90's, before they broke up. As I recall, Sheryl Crow played the longest and most painful opening set in the history of bands-I-did-not-come-to-see.

I have since seen Neil Finn, sometimes along with his brother Tim, on numerous occasions at some excellent small venues. My head is about to pop right off my neck right now. Because Crowded House is about to reunite for a world tour!!!!

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!

Must maintain composure. Must not snap vocal cords in half. Must check for ticket sales every fourteen seconds with Visa card in hand. Neil. Neil. NEIL. NEIL. NEEEEEEEEEIIIIIILLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!

{p-TWANNNNGGG!!!}

Ouch.

(Won't You Take Me To) Funkytown

Today's potpourri of freshness, courtesy of my office building:

1.) Upstairs hallway: mmmm...someone didn't make it to the bathroom! Who's having the party?

2.) Downstairs hallway: I don't see it, but I know it's here -- where are you hiding the pile of month-old sweat socks and jock straps?

3.) Bathroom in the downstairs hallway, because I couldn't GET to the bathroom in the upstairs hallway: apparently, no one else could get to the upstairs bathroom either...anyone have a match? Make that a box of matches?

4.) Kitchen: fettucini alfredo a la "Lean Cuisine" -- see number one, above

Hide and Po Seek

Those of you who know us in real life are probably aware that the roomie and I, having been friends since we were little girls, share not just the bond of near-sisterhood but also the bond of...weirdness. We do silly things, many of them so ridiculous and deeply "in-joke" in nature that unfortunately, any explanation of said things to those on the outside would have to be so complex and detailed as to strip them entirely of their entertainment value. You would be left staring blankly at us, and possibly experiencing an inner "Aha!" moment with respect to the eternal question of why she and I are both still single.

I can tell you this, though: we take turns hiding a Po.

Like many of our best long standing jokes, I have no memory of how this even started (though I have a sneaking suspicion Deborah may have been involved at some point, as she is in so many of our other adventures). Anyway, Po -- pictured above, one of the annoying Teletubbies of PBS fame -- is a six-inch red plastic doll that somehow ended up living at our apartment, despite the fact neither of us has children.

We take turns hiding him in the apartment, sometimes so effectively that neither of us remembers where he is or who last hid him until several months later, when it's finally cold enough to wear that jacket with the big pockets, or when one of us gets around to cleaning out her filing cabinet (only to discover a suspicious file folder labeled "Po").

I mention this today because it's my turn; Po has been staring at me for several days now and I am currently alone in the apartment (muwahahahaaaa). But I also mention it because I am not only grateful to enjoy the kind of friendship that makes this weirdness acceptable, but because this article (HT: cube) puts us in good company.

Must Read TV

It's the ultimate crossover series. If you have a soft spot in your heart (and your primetime schedule) for a one-man army, a mysterious island, or a sarcastic doctor, I recommend Ken Levine's LOST HOUSE 24:

Part I

Part II

True Freedom

A caveat: this is a very, very long post, but I hope you find it worth your time. I've been sitting on the subject matter for about four months, waiting for the right moment to share it with you. New Year's seems about right.

You might need some context for what I'm about to say, so feel free to get some backstory before you read on.

It's been eighteen years since my brother's death. And for eighteen years, I've had a name stuck in my head: the name of someone who used to bully him in school. There were probably other bullies (there's rarely just one, right?), but this one particular kid sticks out because I heard his name so often.

The strange thing is, I don't hate this guy. Surely I used to, but it's been so long since I've come to be at peace with everything, I can't remember the last time I cursed his name when I thought of it. For eighteen years, however, I've wondered whatever became of him, and if he even remembers my brother. I've wondered if he ever thinks back on those days and feels remorse.

Billy killed himself, but it wasn't because some kid made his life hell. The years that have passed have brought me life experience and clarity of perspective that helped me figure out what I could not have made sense of when I was fifteen. He was bullied, but lots of kids are bullied. He felt pressured, but lots of kids feel pressured. My best guess is that Billy had emotional problems, too, and we just didn't see them. His death was his choice, and nobody's fault.

So every once in a while, I'd search the Web in an attempt to find this guy-whose-name-will-not-leave-me. Nothing ever turned up until last August.

I found him, and I sent an e-mail to him through the website for the chamber of commerce of his little town. I gave my name, asked him if he grew up where I did, if he was the same guy-by-that-name who attended such-and-such middle school. Said I'd like to talk to him, if that's the case. Didn't divulge anything more.

A few days later I received his reply.

He said he didn't know who I was until he prayed and sought God's counsel about whether or not he should (as a married man) reply to an unknown woman who had contacted him. He said that God told him who I was and why I was contacting him. And he was terrified.

So in my next e-mail, admitting that I had no idea what I truly wanted to say after looking for him all this time, I did the only thing I could do: I forgave him. Inasmuch as one human being is empowered to do so, I released him from any responsibility and guilt he may have been feeling (though the whole time, I was thinking myself arrogant for even assuming he may have felt any). Yet it was not I who had the power to truly forgive, or even to facilitate my own desire to forgive him. And I explained that this moment was a result of the regeneration of my spirit through the atoning work of Jesus Christ, who makes all things new.

His subsequent reply, in its entirety:

Did I ever feel any guilt after Billy’s death? I felt guilt every day of my life for a long, long time. Every night as I lay in my bed I would replay those events over and over again. I would ask myself, "Why?" Why did I do that? Why was I like that? Why couldn’t I have just been Billy’s friend? Why didn’t someone stop me? Why didn’t Billy tell the teacher, a counselor, the principal? Why was I such a jerk?

I know now why I was the way I was. I had no self esteem. I viewed myself as ugly and awkward and was terrified of rejection. So what did I do? I found other people to belittle. If I could make other people laugh then it made me feel good. If I could make other people laugh at someone else then I knew that they weren’t laughing at me. So Billy became my target. Why? I don’t know. I know that this may sound unbelievable to you, but as a fourteen year old boy, I never even considered the fact that maybe I was hurting Billy’s feelings. In my mind I was just joking around with Billy and having a little fun. I was just so blind. Until it was to late.

Then I found my self sitting in the school office being interviewed by the police for the part I played in your brother’s death. I acted like I didn’t care. I showed no remorse. I never said a word to my mom or to anyone for that matter. I acted like life was going on as normal on the outside, but inside my life was shattered.

I wished every night that your brother had brought that gun to school and killed me instead. But he didn’t. And time passed. The guilt never left, but I buried it away. But over the years it went from being a nightly battle, to a weekly battle to a monthly battle.

There are many things that have shaped my life. Nothing though has shaped my life like your brother’s death. Your brother’s death plunged me into a life of despair, guilt, shame and hopelessness. You would have never known it though by looking at me on the outside. I covered everything up and pretended like everything was alright. To this day there are few people that know what I did to one hurting little boy my eighth grade year of junior high. It was your brother’s death and the guilt that it brought to me that drove me to the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ.

At age nineteen I was a lonely, hurting young man. Life seemed meaningless and hopeless and I even considered many times doing exactly what Billy had done to himself. It would be so easy and then all the pain and suffering would come to an end. But, I knew there was one more thing I could try; I could turn to God. And so I did. On June 1st of 1993, at age nineteen I asked Jesus Christ to come into my heart and forgive me of my sins. My life has never been the same.

I have been in the ministry for twelve years now. I answered the call of God at age 21 and became the youth pastor at a little country church right outside of [redacted]. I ministered to teenagers for ten years before I felt the Lord moving me in the direction of pastoring a church. Two and a half years ago I took my first senior pastorate here at [redacted].

I know that, "If any one is in Christ he is a new creation etc..." I also know that the Lord forgave me for what I did to your brother. But to be honest with you, I have never completely forgiven myself. Of course it is something that the devil loves to bring to my remembrance. It is not like I got saved and forgiven and I have never thought about Billy again. To the contrary; after my salvation I then begin to struggle with, "Should I get in contact with Billy’s family?" Should I tell them that it was not their fault? Should I tell them what I did and that there were others that treated Billy like I did? Would it ease their pain to know (and I truly believe this from my experience as a youth pastor) that Billy had not reached the age of accountability at the time of his death and that our Lord in His infinite mercy received Billy into His outstretched arms? Would it mean anything to them to know that Billy’s death had purpose? That it served as a catalyst to bring a hurting, lost, young man to the saving knowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord and because of Billy’s death I have been saved and answered the call to the ministry and now (hopefully) countless other lives will be changed because of Billy’s death.

I have struggled with these thoughts up to the very time that you emailed me. I do not have to struggle anymore. I always allowed fear to keep me from action. I was afraid to drudge up painful memories. I was afraid to make every body that loved Billy live through the event all over again. I was afraid of hurting more people all over again, and selfishly, I let that fear stop me. Jenny, you were braver then me. And for that I will always be in your debt. I thank you for speaking words of forgiveness and release over my life.

I do not know what "brand" of Christian you are, and it would not affect my feelings for you as a sister in the Lord, I love the body of Christ, whether you are Catholic, Protestant, Lutheran, Methodist, Baptist, or Pentecostal. I believe that what you have done is going to greatly impact my life and yours. I believe that what you have done has started a turn of events in the spiritual realm that are going to be far reaching and ultimately impact many lives. I don’t know if that makes sense to you now, but I am sure it will some day.

There are people in my life I've found myself having to forgive over and over again; perhaps this is the case in your life as well. But truly, this is the most complete, the most profound, the purest forgiveness I have ever felt for another -- it is a picture of the forgiveness God has granted me. Once my enemy, now my friend. It is finished. There is nothing in my heart but peace about it, nothing but love for him and radiant joy in our fellowship.

Because we share the same Father, this man is also my brother. In Christ, all things are made new: hearts, lives, souls of men.

Happy new year.

Close Encounters with Science

I danced the cha cha with Bill Nye the Science Guy this afternoon.

And the waltz. And salsa. And foxtrot. And polka.

I'm serious -- I took a "taste of dance" workshop today with the teacher from whom I've been taking lindy hop classes, and the Science Guy himself was in attendance. Apparently he's a regular on the swing dance scene.

I know all you nerds out there are jealous.

It Is Written

Alternate titles for this post include "It Is Finished," "December 4th, and I'm Almost Caught Up On My Sleep," and "Hey Guys, Remember Me?"

I've received a few kind e-mails from friends who, knowing the madness of my monthlong noveling adventure with NaNoWriMo, are wondering whether it did, in fact, cause my untimely demise. Rest assured, it did not. Because if it did, the mere existence of this post would mean that I finished the book, sold it for millions, was so shocked by this that I died of a heart attack, and my newly wealthy estate hired a ghost writer to continue my humble blog. But who are we kidding?

I did finish my novel, in 50,472 words. And it was a hard fought last two thousand, let me tell you, because I spontaneously (and, some would argue, foolishly) accepted a last-minute invitation to a Barenaked Ladies concert on November 29. That's right. I got up that morning, put in a full day of work, drove to Universal, had dinner with a friend, danced and sang and jumped and screamed and shouted and applauded at the show, drove home, drank a pot of coffee, and crossed the noveling finish line with a website-verified word count just before five in the morning on November 30.

Some stats:

How many people participated in NaNoWriMo 2006: 79,813
How many people won (finished): 12,948
Total word count, worldwide: 982,564,701
How many people logged a word count on the site: 42,618
Average word count for people who logged a word count: 23,055

What I learned:

Achieving word count quotas is rough if you're accustomed to revealing characters through dialogue and leaving the other stuff to the director. In a screenplay, I could get away with "CAR EXPLODES," because the first thing the director will do upon reading the script is take a big fat Magic Marker to the rest of the stage direction anyway, and shoot "his vision" of the car exploding. In a novel, however, there's more work to be done. People who are particularly adept at and accustomed to prosaic description could produce three pages on the car explosion. Very, very challenging for me, however.

I also had confirmed for me the idea that I write best between 6pm and some assorted pre-dawn hours. I tried writing during daylight hours when I had days off to do so, but it didn't work. Whether body clock or psychology, who knows? Either way, my creepy nocturnal vampire status is solidified once and for all.

Some of you are asking, what happens now?

I'm going to take a couple of months away from the rough draft, to forget my issues with it and let it ferment for a while. Then, I'll go back to it and attempt the long process of rewriting, more to engage in and learn from the process itself than to try to make it into a marketable product. But I guess if all goes well, I'll try to do something with it eventually.

Virtually all of you have been asking what it's about. And instead of merely saying "about 200 pages," as is the temptation, I'll tell you:

It's about loneliness, and fear, and love, and being "stuck" in life. But so those of you who really know me won't be disappointed, it's also about a narcoleptic botanist, identical twins who are nothing alike whatsoever, and an Irish immigrant who thinks he's a chicano homeboy from East L.A.

You may be wondering if I'll let you read it. To which I offer a heartfelt thank you for your interest and support, but also a hearty, "No way, McJose." It's nothing personal; it needs a rewrite. Ask me again in a year's time, and we'll see.

Meanwhile, if you want to see something funny and terrifying, here's a photo of me all punchy in front of my alarm clock at 4:50am on November 30, just having become an official novelist (!), and just about to jump into bed for my big hour-and-a-half of sleep before starting a work day in which I was useful to exactly no one at my entire office.

And yes, I'm wearing Mickey Mouse ears.

13-9

By the old Pacific's rolling water
Loyally we stand each son and daughter
Hail the emblem of our Alma Mater, Mighty Bruin Bear
California hail your warriors marching to the fray
They go forth to win more laurels for our name today
Bruin Bear let loose thy thunder, Victry's flag unfold
Rend your enemies asunder for the Blue and Gold

-- Thomas Victor Beall, 1941 ("Rally Song," AKA "By The Old Pacific")

You Stay Classy, Trojans

Okay, so the glory days of former u$c quarterback Todd Marinovich were juuuuuuuust before my time at UCLA. But this photo, wherein the Bruin who sacked him suppressed his baser instincts long enough to extend a sportsmanlike "help you up" hand in what I believe was a game we ultimately lost, perfectly encapsulates my beloved crosstown rivalry.

It is BEAT '$c WEEK, people! Put your hands in the air (all TEN fingers, please) and gimme an 8-clap!

Not For The Faint of Heart

Just FYI, I've updated my sidebar with some new links. Thought it was time I shared with you the plethora of military blogs I've been reading for the last several months (or longer? time flies when you're having a war, I guess). There are dozens more that I occasionally visit, but these are my current favorites.

They bring to the blogging table a host of valuable perspectives: currently deployed military, recent returns, family members back home, soldiers struggling with the transition back to "normal" life in the States, memorials to the fallen...there's a lot going on that most of us don't think about.

A warning to those of you who may be a little sensitive: you might not like what you read if you're uncomfortable with rough language, graphic depictions of casualty and other horrors of war, or the naked truth of the human condition.

Go read. They're worth your time.

So, Who Are You People?

I gotta say, I'm intrigued by some of you.

One of the many cool aspects of this Internet thing that seems to have taken over much of most people's lives is that, thanks to the miracle of relatively simple modern technology, when you visit my blog, I can see you.

Fine, not literally; we're not all webcam-connected at this point, though I'm sure that won't be true for long. And won't THAT be a horrible setback for those of us who like to blog in our pajamas, on bad hair days, all shiny-faced with spinach in our teeth and an unmade bed behind us. But I digress.

Anyway, the point is, my "readership" is such a smallish and manageable number that I can tell where you are, when you visited, how long you stayed, what you looked at, what you clicked on, and how you found me... just by looking at my site statistics. In most cases, the sum of this information allows me to figure out who you are, assuming you're someone I already know. Of course, I'm sure there are a few folks out there who are so well cloaked in secrecy (government? military? the coming alien conquerors of the human race?) that they don't even show up on my stats with "unknown" listed in all of the above slots, but I'm guessing those folks are few and far between, and not particularly interested in what I might have to say anyway.

So who's reading? Some people from my present, some people from my past, and some people who, I'm sure, have no idea that I know they're visiting (which makes it all the more fun).

But I'll be hornswaggled if there aren't at least a few compelling mysteries out there that churn my brain a bit. And because I'm having one of those feeling-just-a-bit-devil-may-care days, I am inviting a few of you to be in a new and exciting category called "people from my future."

Are you the person who always finds me by searching for "Jenny Haynes Dallas" (though I assure you, as a person who has -- unfortunately -- never visited Texas, nor -- fortunately -- starred on a cheesy nighttime soap opera from the 1980s, I'm probably not who you think you're looking for)?

Are you the person from a popular online dating site's domain who clicks through from a list of weblogs belonging to former staffers of a camp where I worked for two summers in the early '90s?

Are you from Slough? From Thousand Oaks?

Let's be grownups about this. We all go a-Googling in search of interesting people and strange things, looking up old schoolmates and former co-workers from days of yore, performing do-it-yourself background checks on people we've just met, in the curious voyeuristic way we've been taught to approach our increasingly exposed lives in the digital age. I do it, you do it. It's amazing and amusing. Admit it. Embrace it. 'Fess up.

You don't even have to out yourself publicly by leaving a comment. E-mail me (there's a link in my Blogger profile) and tell me who you are. Seriously, I'm dying to know.

What are ya, chicken?

My Next Band

BAND NAMES INSPIRED BY WEDNESDAY'S YAHOO! NEWS HEADLINES

Unexplained Plutonium
TomKat Wedding
Anne Frank's Tree
Knockoff Nikes
Radiation for Prostate
Battle Apple
White House Bid
Sludge Transfer
Airborne Hijinx
China Love Boat

You'd Better Be Grateful...

...for men such as these. Thank a veteran today.



Pearl Harbor survivor Houston James of Dallas embraces Marine Staff Sgt. Mark Graunke Jr. during a Veterans Day commemoration in Dallas. Graunke lost a hand, a leg and and eye when he defused a bomb in Iraq last year. (AP Photo)

* Post a message to active duty troops
* Donate to the Valour-IT (Voice Activated Laptops for OUR Injured Troops) Project
* Get involved with Soldiers Angels
* And please read these posts

"Greater Love Has No One Than This..."

Most of you know the rest of the quote: "...that he lay down his life for his friends."

Some of you might even know that it's from the Bible -- John 15:13, to be precise. They are the words of Jesus, who in the context of the passage was speaking of His own imminent sacrifice for the sins of humanity (the preceding verse is, "My command is this: love each other as I have loved you"). But in a broader context, self-sacrifice on behalf of another is still a worthy pursuit and a hallmark of devotion. Aside from Jesus, have you met anyone recently who has laid down his life for someone else?

Men and women of the United States Armed Forces are doing this every day, all of them laying down their lives in a metaphorical sense as they leave behind loved ones for months at a time, in the service of a sometimes grateful, but often forgetful, nation.

Then there are those who lay down their lives in a literal sense. It's not enough to say that many are killed; many more are wounded, in body and in spirit.

In honor of Veteran's Day (this Saturday, go thank a veteran!), I once again call your attention to the work of an organization called Soldiers' Angels. It doesn't matter what you think of the war in Iraq or of the current geopolitical climate. If you value self-sacrifice -- and if you are one of my Christian readers, you should, because it is at the very heart of your faith -- please show your support to a U.S. Soldier, Sailor, Airman, or Marine.

How? Soldiers' Angels offers several opportunities for you to reach out to military personnel and their families, but today I'm specifically highlighting two programs, one with an immediate and one with a longer-term impact.

1.) M*A*S*H units as we might think of them no longer exist; now, when a soldier is wounded, he is quickly transported to a combat support hospital, and it can take days or weeks for him to receive replacement supplies and personal belongings. The Wounded Soldier Project provides "First Response Backpacks" full of necessities and comfort items, including toiletries, phone cards, clothing and handmade blankets, to give to those who arrive with nothing but what's left of their uniform.

It may seem like a small gesture, but if you were 20 years old and combat-injured, lying in a hospital bed (possibly even in a foreign country) with no friends or family at your bedside, you might have a different perspective. One grateful mom wrote, "Dear Soldiers' Angels, thank you for the blanket. My son won't let go of it."

2.) Project Valour-IT is an initiative to provide voice-activated laptops to troops who are recovering from hand and arm injuries or amputations, whether at home or still in the hospital. If you just used your perfectly intact hand to click on that link, please consider a donation.

I know the holidays are upon us, and there's a spending opportunity or obligation around every corner. But if you're strapped for cash and still want to support these initiatives, you can always e-mail the Wounded Team to inquire about opportunities to help with letters, cards and comfort items.

Show your love to someone who has shown the greatest love. Give 'til it heals.

Happy Veterans Day.

No, You Can't Read It, So Don't Bother Asking

“Can’t talk -- writing a novel.” You will be hearing these words from me during the month of November. That’s right. Writing a novel. In a month.

Huh?

You heard me. Novel in a month.

Is this some kind of Halloween prank you're pulling on us?

Nope. Not a Halloween prank. Not even a Reformation Day prank (theses, anyone?).

But…why?

Because of the lovely and talented Julia – intelligent woman and fine puppy raiser, introspective soul, enthusiastic encourager of creativity. Last year, Julia participated in this extremely cool thing I’d never even heard of: National Novel Writing Month. The goal is to write a 50,000 word novel between November 1 and November 30, so this year, I’m taking the plunge. Because I can. Because I should.

But what about your social life?

Ha ha! Everybody’s a comedian….

Okay, then, what about your nerdy blogs?

I’ll still post every once in a while, but it’s going to be sporadic. Heck, it’s been pretty sporadic anyway. It’s just that this time it’ll be because I’m busy writing, not because I’m too lazy to write. My guess is I’m not going to be too good with responding to comments, either, so don’t take it personally.

What are you, crazy? It’s NOVEMBER. It’s the HOLIDAYS. Seriously, are you a looney?

That, my friends, is for the authorities to decide. Don’t expect to see me or hear from me much this month; thanks for understanding. See you in December.

Nerds Love Halloween

Do you know how long it's been since I've gone to a costume party? A criminally long time. So long, in fact, that as a former theater major, I feel I have brought shame upon my people. So naturally, I leapt at the chance to attend a party with my friends and former co-workers at New Deal Studios.

Thanks to my Auntie Reetha and her Magical Closet of Fun Accessories, I was able to put together this fine ensemble -- without spending ANY money! -- and go as a "Mysterious Socialite From a Bygone Era" (though many people guessed Audrey Hepburn, which I will also accept, because she was beautiful).

And yes, in case you're wondering, that IS a real mink stole (sorry, PETA). It was heavy, and incredibly hot...unnecessary, considering our current 85-degree SoCal weather. Vintage clutch bag, too, that belonged to my Grandma. Ah, the fancy fabulousness of the bygone era! It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.



The party was great: lots of food, creativity, ambience, and a drive-in movie (Ghostbusters) on the soundstage, along with the world premiere of my former boss Ian's short film. Even some...exotic delicacies, if one was so inclined. Looks like we got there too late to enjoy the frog legs, scorpions and water beetles, but Amy ate a cricket. For real. Does the twist of lemon make a difference, you think?

Here are a few highlights from the rest of the costumed throng....

Wonder Woman and Brawny Man!



Geisha girl and scary spider ladies (with an actual tarantula)!



Zombie marching band!




Cap'n Matthew and his scurvy seamates!



Nice legs, JD...he made this himself!



And my personal favorite, Steve in Wonderland!

The Gift of Prophecy? You Decide

I was going through some old e-mail and ran across this, which I wrote to a friend who had asked my opinion of the season five finale of my once-beloved show, "24."

The finale of 24? Hmm. Well, it's been a disappointing season in general. They've now killed off or booted every original character except Jack, who has become a caricature of himself. Where is Season One Jack: Jack the Protector of Women and Children? Where is Season Three Jack: Jack the Guy Who's Tired of All This Stuff Screwing Up His Personal Life But Who Steps Up Anyway Because No One Else Can? Alas...Season Five Jack has become Cold-Blooded Vigilante RoboJack With a Chip on One Shoulder and a Man-Bag Slung Over the Other, Stabbing People in the Neck With a Ball-Point Pen.

As for the Chinese getting him at the end there, yeah. I was kinda waiting for that shoe to drop all season (though I did think for a moment that someone was going to kidnap Audrey, which would have been preferable). And this does not bode well, because it just means that next season will start right away with all the torture and gratuitous violence we've come to expect from writers who have put the same character through every conceivable Interesting Dangerous Plot Point for five years now. Ho-hum.

Amy maintains that she's now done with the whole show, and in a moment of disappointment, I stood in solidarity with her. But they're probably already giving odds in Vegas that come next January, when we haven't seen our Keifer in several months and all of this season's offenses are but misty, water-colored memories...some clever editor will assemble a percussive preview sequence full of intrigue and teased returns of once-loved characters, that will have our sad little hineys right back on the couch Monday nights at 9.

I thought the only thing that could suck me back in for real would be the return of Chase (no such luck yet), but this'll do.

Any wagers regarding the timing of his near-certain demise?

Quote of the Week

A dear friend of mine -- a very good man, a gentleman, a sweetheart in all respects -- has finally found himself in a terrific relationship. The two of them are deeply in love, and I've never heard him so happy.

We catch up via IM quite a bit, when I'm up too late online or when he's watching a basketball game. Tonight he said something that filled me with joy for him:

"She has a smile that makes me do ridiculous things."

Amen to that.

Octogenarian Highway

Why? Why are the mobile oldies always either in front of me, doing 25 in a 45 zone, or tailgating me, desperately trying to attach their front bumper to my trailer hitch?

Words of wisdom to the bejeweled, dragon-lady-fingernailed, Virginia Slims-inhaling, ancient Joan Collins wannabe who usurped my rear view mirror on the way home this evening: if your flappy neck wattles belie your Social Security benefits eligibility, no amount of Miss Clairol "Reddest Mahogany Red" is going to convince anyone you're still forty. Now take your foot off the gas pedal!

...And Boy, Are His Arms Tired

Living as close to the airport as I do, I'm accustomed to the sound of the occasional plane -- and when the sky is overcast, it's even louder. So when I heard the loud aircraft noise a few minutes ago as I was sitting here at my desk, I definitely took notice enough to think to myself, "THAT is one big birdy," but I just wrote it off.

But the roomie just came in: "Did you hear that?"

Apparently it was even louder from our living room, so she went out to the balcony to investigate. Lo and behold, it was Marine One.

The President just flew over my apartment.

Postmodern Sacraments: Reconciliation

Bless me, Blogger, for I have sinned. It has been 21 days since my last post. I accuse myself of the following:

* Giving in to the temptation of physical exercise (nearly every day, sometimes twice)
* Going outside, engaging in the unholy union of my flesh with natural sunlight (several times)
* Engaging in person-to-person communication via landline telephone in lieu of instant messaging, e-mail or blog comments (still, it was a cordless phone -- perhaps this is worth half the penance due for such an offense?)
* Attending a social event rife with other sentient beings (just the one, but I understand the severity of my actions)
* Reading...books (Yes, Blogger. I hear you weeping. I'm sorry.)

For all these and my many other low-technology indiscretions, I seek forgiveness. May I receive a swift and merciful measure of penance...just please, don't make me build a MySpace page.

Amen.

Sorry, No Drop Seat

Ever look at a little kid all snuggly and warm in his little fleece footy-pajamas, and think, "Gosh, why don't they make these for grownups?"

Oh, but they DO.

Strike Up the Band

The UCLA football season begins tomorrow, bringing with it that annual glorious moment where anything is possible: a New Year's Day bowl game, a Heisman, a national championship. Sure, the moment usually passes by the second quarter of our first conference game, but come on. Don't crush a girl's dream, eh?

This photo was taken in 1994, when I was but a young lass wielding a mighty piccolo. Can you find me?



That's right -- that's me, third from the top in the straight line of the "U." Good eye.

GO BRUINS!

Meowning Commute

An overturned big rig dumped 20,000 pounds of cat litter on the Golden State Freeway yesterday, causing -- according to the first traffic report that's ever made me laugh -- closure of the "number one and number two lanes."

Back With the Goods

Perhaps you've wept in my cyber-absence, perhaps not. Regardless, I have returned with gifts, and if you have any knowledge of music from the 1980's, you will be pleased.

I have referred you before to the efficient comedy machine that is 3rd Chair Trombone, but I must do so once again if only to encourage you to enjoy this post, Things I Learned on the Way to Work from My 80s Playlist.

Relive the magic of big hair, skinny ties and power ballads.

"They Found Me...I Dunno How, But They Found Me!"

As my regular readers know, I loves me some wacky search returns. Welcome, perplexed one-time visitors who didn't quite get what you were expecting!

What brought some curious folks here to the Jester blog:

* milk melk pronunciation
* muscledudes
* little brown jug graphic
* born in wrong century
* "the following takes place between" voice
* now accepting applications for a good pirate

And some mysterious Google searches that led to my puppy raising blog:

* antique bison teeth
* dog kissing booth photo
* the big beastie thing evil spider
* games similar to ciao bella
* job description of an avon lady
* how to make my butt bigger

Because This Needs No Introduction

I bring you "Hitler Cats!"

Tales From the Highway

What's worse than a tire blowout in the rental car at noon while you're traveling I-99 North to Fresno in the sweltering summer heat?



All of the above, after having consumed a venti Frappuccino about a hundred miles before...with no toilet paper and nothing but wide-open farmland in sight.

After the kindly AAA man came to my rescue, I turned back a few miles to Delano to get a new tire. But my first stop was the Chevron station on County Line Road. One corner of the bathroom:



And the other corner of the bathroom:



Meanwhile, as I spent my weekend with automotive complications, oppressive temperatures, and the stomach flu -- don't ask -- my dog was having the time of his life.

Insert Caption Here

Not so sure I want to park here now.

An Open Letter to the WWII Re-Enactment Enthusiast Who Responded to My Online Personal Ad

Dear Sir (is "Sir" appropriate?),

I'm flattered by your interest, truly I am. And I know it's just your hobby, but...is it, really?

Because mama always told me that any potential online suitor who posts five photos of himself engaged in his highly realistic weekend pastime -- with no photos of himself dressed in day-to-day attire, or posing at Christmastime with friends and family, or all tuxed-up for a wedding -- is advertising more than just a passing interest.

Okay, so maybe you're not all you seem to be. Yes, I know you added that "sense of humor required" bit in your profile; as I recall, it was just after the part where you asked if I was tired of guys with "hat on backwards, pants around the ass, tons of tribal tatt's, and a limited vocabulary." Well, sure, I suppose an argument can be made there. And fine, there is indeed something about a man in uniform. And yes, as a matter of fact, I do enjoy theater...when I'm convinced that's what it is, of course.

It's not that I'm against historical period re-enactors or re-enactments per se. I used to work with a very congenial man who was a member of a local pirate re-enactment group, for example. But mitigating factors in his case included the fact that he spent his weekdays mixing and pouring toxic chemicals, which made his daily pirate-pants-wearing habit, and his blurred sense of the line between piracy and reality, a little more understandable to the rest of us land-lubbers. You, on the other hand, are in sales. So...huh?

I'm just not so sure about our future together, is all.

For example, I rather enjoy the company of Jewish people, and I'm guessing that would make for some pretty awkward dinner parties.

"What's this photo on the mantel here?" someone is bound to ask.

"Why, that's my loving husband, riding roughshod over the likes of you 'Juden' in his genuine 1944 Volkswagen Kubelwagen. Coffee?"

And from another practical standpoint, what if one of the kids brings the Ark of the Covenant home from school one day? My HMO just doesn't provide that kind of coverage.

Sure, I understand that it's not a very exciting re-enactment if it's one sided, and I'll concede that someone has to be the bad guys. And yes, yes, we would indeed produce beautiful Aryan children. I am descended from the finest peasant stock of Western Europe, after all -- sturdy men and women who passed down a love of efficiency and lack of pigment that are observable traits in me today. And you did specify your ideal match as "caucasian and conservative." But as much as I admire a man with goals and interests, I can't say I'm super comfortable with those goals and interests involving the systematic extermination of God's chosen people, even if it's all in good fun.

I hope you'll understand, Herr Gunther, that I just don't see it working out between us.

Danke, but nein danke,

Not Your Fraulein

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

Terrifying news from NYC:

As for the future, zealots like Della Vale optimistically predict an "epidemic" of moustaches spreading across the country, while other fashion arbiters are more cautious.

Something must be done about this, or my dating life is over.

Quality Assurance

The signage vendor we use at work, from whom I order custom printed labels for our products, sent me a stack of invoices today.

Each invoice detailed the number of "lables" I had ordered.

Makes me not want to pay them.

Saturday Mourning

My dear friend's father passed away last week. He was 59, and this was a sudden and unexpected loss. One might expect the funeral service to be mournful, somber, filled with women wailing near the casket, and men shaking their heads in that "what a shame, such a tragedy" way.

But Roger Smith was the beloved pastor of a small church in South Los Angeles, located just a few blocks from the intersection of Florence and Normandie, where the 1992 Rodney King riots began. It was a neighborhood I'd never even driven through before I met my friend Denise, whose blood family and church family I have since grown to love. How would this affect them? Pastor Smith -- I never heard anyone, even his wife, call him anything but "pastor" -- was their leader and teacher and visionary.

To my surprise, I couldn't have picked a better way to spend my Saturday morning.

When I arrived for the viewing, there was already "something wrong with this picture." People standing in line to sign the guestbook were greeting each other with smiles, hugs and laughter. There was a buzz of animated conversation emanating from the sanctuary. The worship leader (and now, senior pastor) of the church spotted me immediately and hugged the stuffing out of me, welcoming me with the broadest of eye-twinkling grins and saying how good it was to see me.

Am I at a funeral, here, or what?

An usher handed me a booklet, containing the order of service, some photos of the Smith family, and a bio/obituary. The front cover said it all:

"Victory Celebration For The Life Of Pastor Roger Smith"

Aha. These people aren't kidding. Look at them -- a few tears, but they're also laughing. What gives?

The reason, I think, that I had been so perplexed is that my immediate family doesn't believe in funerals and memorial services, thinking them morbid. Over the years, I've often heard people say that instead of a funeral when they die, they want a "big party" to "celebrate their life." But that strikes me as a sad attempt at self-consolation. What's the point? If I'm never going to see you again, what does it profit me or anyone else to get drunk and tell stories about the good old days? Those memories will die with the people who experienced them, leaving no legacy, and drowning sorrows in alcohol will only delay the experience of the sorrow itself -- sorrow which will surely be experienced alone, after the partygoers have all gone away. You're still dead, I'm still alive, and I'll never see you again. What is there to celebrate?

But this funeral was a true celebration. It wasn't a gathering of people pretending to be happy about something, people living in the so-called glories of the past. This was a gathering of people who were marking a day of sorrow by trusting in the hope of the future. And by future, I do not mean the work of the church that Pastor Smith had accomplished. I do not mean the lives that his life and ministry had touched for the better. I do not mean the lives of his children and grandchildren still in their prime.

Pastor Smith was a family man and an accomplished man, to be sure. He served in the U.S. Navy; earned a Bachelors, Masters and Doctorate; worked for many years in major aerospace corporations and in civil service; was active in his community; pastored a church; earned his pilot's license; and at the time of his death had just begun to realize his dream of reaching out to the poor via an ongoing series of medical mercy missions to the Dominican Republic. He had not wasted his life.

But the dozen or so people who spoke at his service didn't mention these things. The focus was not on Pastor Smith's greatness, but instead, on the greatness of God.

The loving tributes were full of memories, yes, but also full of scripture and of joy. Over and over again, the speakers addressed the family's grief but also told of God's promises -- that He will send a comforter in the person of the Holy Spirit, that He will never leave nor forsake His people who love Him, that He will prepare a place for us to live with Him in eternity, that His victory over death is complete and available to all who believe. It was not a goodbye, but a sendoff in acknowledgment of a later reunion. It was a worship service, and it wasn't Pastor Smith who was being worshipped.

And it was beautiful. And it was thought-provoking. And I left that hall of glorious mourning with a lightness of being I've not felt in quite some time.

Someone did mention that a few weeks before his death, Pastor Smith had (prophetically?) preached a sermon on Ecclesiastes 7:8a, which reads, "The end of a matter is better than its beginning." The obituary in the tribute booklet reads, "On Monday, May 22, 2006 Pastor Smith unexpectedly crossed over into glory -- as was his ultimate wish for himself and every other believer. He has now been issued his new, perfect body and sits at the side of the Savior in joyful worship."

Amen, Pastor Smith. Catch you later.

Turns Out, Enterprise WILL Pick You Up

Got a ride home from the Enterprise Rent-A-Car office where I'd just returned the three-cylinders-and-a-hamster-powered Nissan Sentra that got me to Fresno and back this past weekend.

The driver hit on me.

According to most companies' customer service procedures, this is unacceptable. But he thought I was his age (23), so I think I'm gonna let this one slide.

There Goes the Neighborhood

It's bad news everywhere we turn, here in the neighborhood.

There's one section of our little residential hideaway that we affectionately refer to as "Freak Street." Just about everything strange that occurs here, in the neatly manicured upper-middle-class whitebread territory of our happy 'hood, happens on this one street.

The naked guy: an older gentleman of questionable mental faculty, tan of flesh and white of whisker. This one's pretty self-explanatory; he walks around naked. Except, of course, for the track shoes. Thankfully, this usually occurs at night.

Recently spotted fully clothed, and in broad daylight. This was strike one.

The "House of Pain": a fairly normal looking house, on the corner of Freak Street and Neighborhood Shortcut. The house is brown. The shrubs are green. There's a nicely router-cut sign hanging from the porch that reads, "House of Pain."

I drove past the other day only to find the sign missing, and a moving van parked in the driveway. Uh-oh.

And finally, the H-Wing: a man with too much discretionary income has modified his Honda Civic Del Sol to look like an X-Wing fighter, complete with R2 unit and battle damage. License plate: OBISHWN.

The most disturbing development of all? The H-Wing has been totaled. "NOOOOOOOOOOO! That's not true! That's impossible!"

There is weeping in Westchester tonight.

Today's Disturbing Moment in the Workplace, Brought to You by Hormel

The hallway leading to the bathroom smells like bacon. The kitchen/breakroom, which is near the hallway leading to the bathroom, does not.

Nurse, Hand Me That Hacksaw

Where can you find WWI military health posters, chunks of John Wilkes Booth and James Garfield, the bullet that killed Lincoln, photos and drawings of the effects of battlefield surgery, dentistry equipment from the 1700's, and stories about a Civil War general who made annual visits to the amputated leg he donated?

The National Museum of Health and Medicine, of course. Bring the kids!

Not Just Jesus the Wise-Talking Parable Dude, but Jesus the Christ

Since Easter is approaching (and Passover is upon us), I thought I'd casually mention that Jesus fulfilled more than 300 Old Testament prophecies about the coming messiah...most Christians probably don't even know that, thanks to the sorry state of biblical literacy in the church these days. It's to our shame, really.

But, thanks to the Internet, handy collections of such knowledge are often just a click away. For example, this site lists those prophecies and their fulfillment, and as a bonus, points to other sources that explain in plain English other topics such as biblical archaeology, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the origin of the Bible.

Fair to Judge This One by Its Cover?

Eww. Eww. Eww. EWW. EWWWW!!!!!

This One's For Deborah

What toddler doesn't love to see a funny face?

On Lent and Basketball

So, you guys already know about this. Not that it would have been a pretty sight, but I agonized over whether to watch Monday's game. Since I put so much thought into the decision, I decided to subject other people to my reasoning. Hence, this post.

A number of people tried to persuade me that the game "wasn't really TV," for various reasons: I could watch it on the Internet, I could listen to it on the radio, I could even see it in person if I were so inclined. Or I could tape it and watch it on Sunday (because you can break from whatever you're fasting on the sabbath). This made a certain amount of sense, and I considered it. I didn't want anyone to think I was being "legalistic," as though I thought I had to follow some rules -- "the letter of the law" -- in order to be holy or get God's approval. So I thought maybe I'd just exchange my sabbath days (forego my Sunday viewing for Monday's game, as long as I'm taking just one sabbath during the week), and that this might be a good opportunity to show that God looks more at the intentions of the heart than at strict observance of ritual just for its own sake.

Then I thought, people who don't understand this are going to think I was just looking for a convenient excuse. A cop-out. A loophole. And I didn't want that either, because I really do take my vows to God seriously.

So, like Jesus often did when confronted by the religious leaders of His day for failing to conform to sabbath regulations, I sought to honor the spirit of the Law. What is Lent all about? Why and how do we choose to observe it? I *voluntarily* undertook a Lenten vow in order to both sacrifice something (thus making me mindful of Christ's sacrifice for me) AND do something that would be an improvement upon my life (thus making me a better steward of the time God has graciously given me).

I finally decided to listen to the game on the radio (while I was in the kitchen making dinner), knowing that some might say if I'm listening to it, I'm not really giving it up and I might as well watch it on TV. But what I was giving up was actually seeing it, which for me heightens the experience. Basketball is a hard sport to follow with just your ears, and the colors and crowds and bands and players jumping up and down, and the "will-it-or-won't-it-go-in" arc of the ball from the 3-point line...it fills me with memories of my alma mater and my experience of college (where I sat on the floor of every home game at Pauley Pavilion save one in all four years). Watching a game brings me joy on a deeply personal level.

Ultimately, the sacrifice was meaningful to me (even though we got spanked by the Gators). And God blessed me additionally in a surprising way: I reflected more on the sacrifices made every day by visually impaired people, and that strengthens my connection with Lomax, the puppy I'm raising in the hope that he'll someday become a guide dog. In the end, He took the fruit of my mental gymnastics and brought my Lenten vow back around to reflect on Himself and my service to Him...which is the point of the whole thing.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand...

1! 2! 3! 4! 5! 6! 7! 8!
U! (clap clap clap)
C! (clap clap clap)
L! (clap clap clap)
A! (clap clap clap)
U-C-L-A Fight! Fight! FIGHT!

My Dad Has Cancer

My dad was diagnosed with lung cancer today. So I'm asking everyone I know to pray for him.

The funny thing is, I'm sure he'll read this (he does read the blog) and think I'm full of shit for believing such things might make an ounce of difference. He'll probably think I'm naive, a foolish child, for even making such a request of you.

Those of you who aren't Christians might think prayer is just our way of trying to get what we want from God, but that's not how it works. The holiest person on earth could spend every waking hour on his knees, pure hearted and with the best of intentions, petitioning the Almighty for a certain set of circumstances that would make life better or easier or more interesting...but there's no guarantee God will grant his request.

Prayer is about submitting your will, your desires, your authority, and your life to Him and acknowledging that He is sovereign. Prayer is about trust in God and in His ability to see and affect the outcome of the big picture as well as the small one. Life in general is difficult and painful at times, and the Christian life can bring those moments into even sharper focus. We don't always get what we want, but there is a greater force at work who, when we acknowledge His existence and authority, makes sure we get what we need, whether or not we know what that is.

I don't care whether or not you believe, Dad. We're praying for you.

My Grammar Can Beat Up Your Grammar

Bumper sticker on the back of a luxury SUV I saw on my way to work this morning:

"Somewhere in Texas, A Village is Missing It's Idiot"

Here's the thing. If your sign declares someone else to be stupid, you might want to make sure it's correct.

It's Official: I Drive a Hoopty

Let it not be said that my pickup truck doesn't come with options. It comes with LOTS of options:

1.) The paint on my hood could be described as "distressed" OR as "a choppy ocean scene."

2.) If I want to experience uphill acceleration, I can either drive someone else's truck OR get out and push my own.

3.) On a rainy drive home from work at night, I can use the headlights and the windshield wipers, OR the windshield wipers and the defroster, OR the defroster and the headlights. (Provided I am not also using the radio.)

4.) That smell? It could be oil OR transmission fluid OR coolant.

5.) That puddle where I park? That happened either when I left this morning OR when I returned home.

6.) I will purchase another vehicle at the end of this year, OR the next time my mechanic says, "Six hundred dollars, please."

Why God Made Voicemail (A Commercial)

Stereophonic Latin-beat ringtone.

WOMAN NEXT TO ME: "Hello? Great, how are you? Yes, absolutely."

ME (thinking): Unbelievable.

WOMAN NEXT TO ME: "No, I got it from Alex. We still need to negotiate the-- what? Oh. Is that what they told you? Absolutely not. There's no room for that."

ME (thinking): So wrong.

WOMAN NEXT TO ME: "What? No, I'm...no, of course not."

ME (reaching just over my left shoulder): FLOOOOOOOSHHHSHSHSHSHSHHHH!!!!!

WOMAN NEXT TO ME: "CanICallYouBack?" *SNAP!*

ME (thinking): Heh heh heh.

TAGLINE: "Commercial-flush toilets: God's gift to those who still give a crap about public decency."