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.