...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!!!!!