SHH, DON'T TELL HER . . .

(I'm minutes away from leaving for my non-surprise surprise birthday party. Ha, ha, ha! Note to self: I DO have the most amazing friends.)

***

You don't have to be a golf fan to appreciate some good stories about goofy golfing. Unfortunately, I hear golf stories ALL the TIME from my mom, my dad and C, and they promptly put me to sleep . . . sometimes literally.

But check out C's collection of tales from today's Camp Capio. At least chuckle before you fall asleep.

IT'S LIKE A MOVIE . . .

A really, really horrible, scary, nightmarish, unimaginably heart-wrenching movie . . .


Gina Ferazzi/L.A. Times


Luis Sinco/L.A. Times


Al Seib/L.A. Times


Carolyn Cole/L.A. Times


Gina Ferazzi/L.A. Times

YUM . . .

It's 11:42 a.m. on a Thursday morning.

And I'm craving a medium-rare steak.

OOH, THEY'RE GONNA BE MAAAAD . . .

My friends are going to be peeved when they read this, but I forge ahead regardless, as is my custom . . . tee-hee!

My birthday is nigh, and family and friends are in an apparent small tizzy to try to make it special. But my question is this: WHY? Herewith, in typical DYC fashion, are why I ask:

1. Everyday is my birthday, baby! No, I'm kidding. But in all seriousness, every day for me is special, and I don't mean this in a touchy-feely trite fashion. Every day, I am surrounded by loving and affectionate family, supportive and devoted friends, an excellent job, hilarious co-workers that keep me slogging away at even the most God-awful cases, a warm and safe home, and all the luxuries and privileges of life that anyone could ever ask for, including the Banana Republic Credit Card and my precious AMEX. Har, har. I don't need to celebrate one particular day to feel . . . special.

2. I hate surprises, and for some bizarre reason, it seems to be inculcated in human nature (well, some humans' natures) to want to surprise people on their birthdays. But let it be known: I hate suprises more than I hate pudding, Mitsubishi automobiles, sweet pastry products, irregular clothing purchased at outlet stores, excessively staticky hair, passive-aggressive personalities, slimy shellfish and bad drivers terrorizing the road in their luxury SUVs. In fact, surprises PISS ME OFF. Let it also be known: I ALWAYS FIND OUT. And then I'm faced with the unpleasant dilemma: what do I wear? If I dress "nicely," then people know I'm not surprised and they are disappointed that their surprise didn't work (sorry). If I don't dress "nicely," then I feel like the slob when we go out on the town or whatever. Besides, if there are going to be photos, I want to look halfway decent. Bottom line: just tell me ... and tell me EVERYTHING. C'mon ... I'm not Type-A for nothing.

3. Everything I eat at home is delicious, so I don't understand it when Omma and Gran ask me "what do you want to eat on your birthday?" That is a weird question to ask. I always want to eat everything. Please ... it's ME.

4. No one is ever satisfied. For example ... if I am surprised (this is a very rare occurrence ... in fact, it has never happened), then I'm PISSED because I dislike surprises so much. (Yes, yes, a therapist would have a field day with me, dissecting my control issues.) If I am not surprised, then the party-givers (my beloved friends, I DO love you all so very much!) are pissed. If I say I really don't want to do anything out-of-the-ordinary, nobody believes me! (They should know by now, I mean what I say, and if I don't say anything, THEN they can interpret what I might mean by my silence.) If I say I really don't want any particular special food, then Omma and Gran are disappointed that I'm willing to slurp down the same ol' kimchi jigae. If I say I really don't want any gifts or I don't want people spending money on me, people think I'm just being humble ... but it's true -- I have everything I need (AND want, unfortunately for my AMEX account). And besides, y'all should be saving your money for more important things, like our next spa outing.

5. No one ever believes me. Truly, TRULY, if we have to celebrate my birthday at all, ideally it would be spent with lots of friends, lots of food, lots of beer or Grey Goose, lots of laughter, a cig experience shared with my non-smoking smoking friends, and lots of general lollling about being silly as we always are. No frills, no frouf, no incredibly sweet desserts, no excessive amounts of money spent on little ol' me. Just us, just me. THAT would be perfect, and best of all, NO TIZZY REQUIRED!!!!

Alright, I have to go gird myself now, because I'm really gonna hear it from some people ... yikes!

FUN N' GAMES . . .


You are Storm!

You are very strong and very protective of those
you love. You are in tune with nature and are
very concerned with justice and humanity.
Unfortunately, certain apprehensions and fears
are very hard for you to overcome, and can
often inhibit you when most need to be strong.


Which X-Men character are you most like?
brought to you by Quizilla

FIRE . . .

The latest tallies say that at least -- AT LEAST -- 1,552 homes have been burned to the ground as a result of the California wildfires. Two fires near San Diego are a mere two miles apart and are threatening to merge. Firefighters are too exhausted to do their valiant work and are being forcibly pulled off the front lines and made to rest, against their will.


Getty Images

Even with the pictures right in front of me, I can't imagine it. The only thing I can think is: "It must be hell. It must feel like the end of the world is at your back door." All those houses lost, decades and decades of lives turned into snowy ashes . . . how could it not be the end of their worlds?

LOVE ME, LOVE MY FRIENDS . . .

One of the prevailing worries weighing on my heart right now is the effect the California wildfires may be having on my sister Ha and her family: Dr.Y, Abby and the Bun in the Oven (another girl! HOORAY!!!!). They live about 30 minutes outside of L.A. city center, and it sounds like these fires are just everywhere. PLUS, their home was recently broken into and their bedroom ransacked and removed of all valuables, such as a laptop computer which had all of Dr.Y's work on it and the safe that contained EVERYTHING, including all of their important documents.

So if you have any care for me at all, please, please keep them in your hearts as well. Say a prayer for them, think happy thoughts for them, light a candle or a stick of incense, meditate upon their well-being, sing a chant, whatever you do, so long as they are protected, safe from harm and fire, and able to recover from the mental assault of having their home and lives invaded.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT . . .

Here are my steak rankings in the NYC area so far (I intend to expand my steak repertoire in leaps and bounds, so stay tuned):

5. Smith & Wollensky: my first steak experience. Went with 5 other women, and being the only 6 women in the restaurant that evening (I do not exaggerate), we got lots of attention. THAT was interesting. The steak and wine were tasty, but we really didn't know any better. Good asparagus, though ... the one thing I remember eating from that night seven (oh my God, has it been seven years already, L.O.L.'s?!?!) years ago ...

4. Cite: one of the times I was there, we sampled the wine-tasting menu, and got a nice buzz going. That alone made it worthwhile, although I was eating mac n' cheese for weeks afterwards in an attempt to no further bruise my battered wallet. Frankly, I can't remember the steak, so it can't have been too amazing. And the smooth, quiet, over-50 crowd and the REALLY nice cloth napkins made me nervous.

3. Angelo & Maxie's: nice atmosphere -- big airy room, cool ceiling, neat French doors that open out onto 52nd Street. Nice bartenders and friendly hostesses (I hate the snooty I-know-your-shoes-aren't-Prada-so-why-are-you-eating-here kind). But the waiters were goofy and clumsy (dude, you just got meat juice in our creamed spinach). And the steaks were just slabs of meat and nothing special. I was THIS CLOSE to asking for A-1 sauce. That should NEVER have to be done for a quality steak. Unless you're my dad, who I think would put A-1 on every piece of American-style meat he could. Our medium-rare came out medium/medium-well and very tendon-y. Annoying. I'm still flossing tendon out from between my teeth. On the other hand, dessert and coffee were scrumptious, even for someone who doesn't like sweets. And the ladies' room is fully stocked. LOVE IT.

2. Peter Luger: the adorable elderly waiters MAKE the atmosphere here. Of course, I was also in good company, had a nice Black Russian buzz going, and was accompanied by a steak connoisseur, so that all helped. And the night I went with C, AW and Soy, we ladies really packed it away. C didn't know whether to laugh or cry at how much we ingested. And the sauce ... there's just something about that sauce. I could just drink it straight out of the bottle. Good dessert. But, too damn hard to get to. And cash only. You have to plan weeks in advance to go here -- I'd rather plan a trip to a spa and get a massage to wash all the meat toxins out of my body. Of course, if someone's going to DRIVE me there, who am I to say no?

1. Ruth's Chris: I officially love love love it here. I could go every week and feel zero remorse for my wallet OR my arteries. And the gold standard: my picky parents loved it here too. It must be the butter. And when I took my parents, it must have been the two bottles of wine they downed, practically by themselves (Rosemount Australian Shiraz -- good for loosening up the parents; not so good for reducing drunken Korean noise volume). The bartenders are cute, the waitstaff is super-nice, and it's just 15 minutes from my house! What is not to love?!

I shall sleep soundly tonight, with visions of porterhouses dancing through my dreams ...

MORE KIBBLES N' BITS . . .

Charitable giving, especially for health and arts organizations, has declined for the first time in twelve years. COME ON PEOPLE. GIVE IT UP. You can't take it with you when you croak, so GIVE IT UP.

***

Bombs exploded in Baghdad ... AGAIN ... this time at the Red Cross Headquarters and four police posts. The RED CROSS. HELLO. They are there to HELP YOU. Stupidity annoys me ...

***

This week's New York Times Magazine has an article called "The Opt-Out Revolution." A further discussion of women, motherhood, careers, etc. Always interesting, always ready to be a topic of much kibbutzing ...

MORNING QUICKIES . . .

Oh, get your minds out of the gutter!

***

Yankees did not win the World Series. I am sad, of course, and somewhat disgusted. Those boys ... for as many games as they won this year, and as far as they got, there was something missing. Are they complacent? Did they expect to win and thus got lazy? Did they just plain suck? I don't know ... but my prevailing opinion is this (and this is a bit froufy for baseball, but bear with me): they just weren't friends with each other. There was no trust, no mutual bond tying them together and stoking the fire and the drive to WIN. They seemed distracted, focusing on all other things except each other. I'm sorry, but baseball is not tennis or some other random individual sport -- you have team members upon whom you must rely, whom you must support and back up at all times. Something wasn't connecting. They weren't looking each other in the eye or having enough dinners together or letting their kids have play dates or something. Whatever it was, it came back to bite them in the ass big time. Boo.

As Cheech notes, next year will be totally different. Who knows whose heads will roll between now and March. If I go to Tampa again for Spring Training, who knows what strange faces will be there and which familiar faces will sadly be missing (although I willnot be sad to see Boone go, so let him be chopped first!). Sigh. My boys ...

***

Stinkin' wildfires in California. My mind cannot comprehend the loss of 800 homes to FIRE. The photos disseminated by the media don't accurately portray to me the enormity of flames licking hundreds of feet high, rushing at houses and communities in a deafening wall of sound. I can't even imagine -- my wild and crazy brain, normally coming up with mad scenarios, can't even imagine -- the devastation that nature, that FIRE can wreak.

I have no idea of the geography of California, except to know that San Francisco is six hours north of Los Angeles, so I have no idea where exactly these fires are doing their damage. But of course, I worry about my beloveds -- Ha, Dr.Y and their babies. I hope their skies are not blackened, their air is not grey with soot, their hours not spent preparing to leave their home to escape life-threatening danger. It breaks my heart to think that they -- no, that anyone -- would be living like that.

***

C&M asked me to be godmother to their daughter C/A. Wow. I am a godmother. I have a godchild now.

I was thoroughly stunned when the idea was first proposed to me a couple of weeks ago. The affection, respect and responsibility that came with the request overwhelmed me, and I wept tears of humility and happiness for the friendship that C&M have offered me in the past year, as well as tears of thanksgiving for C/A and Bruiser -- two true miracles and gifts from our God. When they asked me officially yesterday evening, I was again so touched -- all I could do was look down at C/A gurgling in my arms and smile. In fact, I think I also made some inappropriately-timed joke, but ... bygones.

And then I thought: "I have no idea what this means." I promised to be nice to C/A and buy her lots of cool things, but I don't think that's really the purpose of a godparent. So, being the utter nerd that I am, I looked it up, and here's what I found:

From the Catholic tradition: During the opening rites of the Liturgy of Baptism, the godparents are addressed in the following manner "Are you ready to help the parents of these children in their duty as Christian parents". Presumably, after due reflection you will be ready to answer "Yes". In other words, your role is to assist the parents in guiding their child to know God and to belong to his Church in the fullest way possible. As a Christian and now as a godparent, allow the liturgy of baptism to speak directly to you, not just about your new role but also as fellow traveler along the road of faith. Pay special attention to the forms and symbols used: the waters that wash away sin and restore us to new life in Christ, that new life signified in the white garment, the oil of chrism that brings both healing and strength and sets us apart for the work of the Kingdom and of course that lighted candle symbolizing that Christ and his Gospel has become in the words of the psalm a "light for our feet", guiding us along the road of faith. This is why, at its very heart, your relationship with your new godchild is a "spiritual" one. Of course as with any special relationship the affection that underpins it can be demonstrated in practical and giving ways.

From the secular tradition: The idea of a godparent came about because converts to the early Christian church were usually adults whose parents were not Christians. The role of godparent was to provide a Christian mentor to help them in their journey as they embraced their new faith. ... Over the years the role was refined to a supporting one in which other adults - often, in the Anglican tradition, two of the same sex as the baby and one of the opposite sex - agreed to help the parents instruct and inform their new offspring in the Christian faith. But this role has been eroded, and these days for many families the religious significance of a godparent is less apparent than the honorary status. ...
But that's not to say that there isn't a role for a godparent as another supportive adult a parent can turn to for advice and help. Many parents hope their child's godparents will share, with them, a special interest in his or her upbringing and development - and many hope that, as the years roll by, their child will develop a special relationship with his godparents.

Hmmm. Very interesting. This is going to be totally fun. Oh my gawd, I have a godchild ... and she's totally cool!

***

I'm having steak for dinner tonight.

YUM.

SHE SPEAKS . . .

She faces a long night ahead. Already, the clock strikes two o'clock in the morning, and she should be tired and abed by now. She should know better than to think that avoidance is the answer. The clock will tick time past, whether or not she's staring at it, whether or not she resolutely refuses to climb into a cold bed, whether or not she sleeps in peace, whether or not she sits perturbed and mulls, whether or not there is hope for better. Tomorrow will arrive with a vengeance and with mocking sunshine and a bracing breeze, with no guarantees of goodness or laughter, of friendship or safety, of easier days or more understanding nights. She really should know better.

But she tries to face down the clock anyway. She fights the pull of the bed. She resists common sense and compassion and pleas for trust. She denies the wiser urge to let go, grow up, forgive and forget, accept grace and love proffered so freely and undeservedly. The dull ache behind her eyes and the burdens in her heart are weights she won't relinquish, not just yet. She will hold onto them for as long as she can, though it drive her to eschew food, sleep, friendship, another human's touch, because for now, she has nothing else to grip. To go to sleep, to lose control, to welcome refreshment, to unclench her fists, would be to ease that hold on those weights; to do so means another softening of her heart, another baring of her soul, another humbling offer of herself, another resting herself and all that she is in the hands of those who may or may not be able to -- may or may not want to -- accept the responsibility that accompanies her.

Still, she can't help but wonder, as she lifts her clenched chin from her chest, as she wipes away stale and overused tears: what would it feel like to be refreshed? What would it feel like to trust again? What would it feel like to accept the light touch of grace upon her forehead, not unlike a protective kiss? What would it feel like to not carry weights around in self-indulgent and wasteful martyrdom? What would it feel like to rest in another's safety? What would it feel like to commit to the unknown, to dive headlong and eyes wide open into what once was good and can be made good once more? What would it feel like to work hard for healthfulness and reap the benefits of her work by achieving that perfect balance of love and harmony and comfort and honesty? What would it feel like to be at ease again?

The temptation is too strong. Her wonderments are too appealing. The promises of better days, of deeper love, of meaningful devotion, of family ties, ring loudly in her ears, ricocheting around a brain that is only just beginning to reshape itself after days' worth of meltdown and chaos. The seeds of hope and optimism, planted in the midst of the utmost turmoil, are growing faster than expected, though they lack water and light and nutrition, for she won't feed them, not just yet. But they grow anyway, and she is humbled. Hope is not up to her, tomorrow is not up to her, the strange workings of this world and the beloved people in it are not up to her. And the seeds continue to push down roots in her newly-softening heart and will grow while she's not looking.

So she trudges to the bathroom to brush her teeth and wash her sullen face. She examines herself in the mirror: is she still attractive... is she still in one piece... will they be able to see into her scarred eyes and see her bruised heart? Hard to tell, yet. She changes into her sleep clothes and catches glimpses of herself, of her body, in the mirror again. She looks into her own eyes and ventures: is she still her... is she at peace... is she willing to be at peace... is she still capable of being her and all that she was... is she able to accept a new day, a new effort, a new offer of love? Hard to tell, yet. She climbs into bed, lays her head on the chilled but welcoming pillows, lets the weight of the comforter trap her and hold her down. Her eyes are still open, though it is dark. She is not looking at or for anything; she is just stubborn. But soon, predictably, she succumbs as she always should have, as she knew was right.

And in succumbing, she will be restored.

MIDNIGHT PONDERATIONS . . .

Hooch and I are big jokesters, but once in a while we have some pretty groovy, interesting conversations about the "hot" topics of the day. Often we hold opposite or near-opposite positions and perspectives, always touched with understanding and almost-agreement.

Some of the things we chatted about lately were the scientific discovery that monkeys' thoughts -- yes, their thoughts -- can move robotic limbs, and the revelation that a new island is being birthed via volcano in the waters near Antigua/Montserrat. So we mulled, we discussed, we hypothesized and we joked . . . and these questions arose:

1. Doesn't that freak the bejesus out of you, that THOUGHTS can be channeled and USED? Well, doesn't it?! I mean, I know this bodes well for folks with limb disorders, amputated limbs, paralysis, etc. It bodes REALLY well, and thank God for scientists who work with the interests of humanity in mind -- they really are a gift and a blessing. But what about those who would take this knowledge, this -- dare I say -- power, and (forgive the non-facetious facetious use of the phrase) use it for evil? To me, anything is within the realm of possibilty, so I pose to you this hypothetical: what if I become somehow significant enough to be kidnappable, and my kidnappers attach little electrodes or whatever to my head or the insides of my brains, and MAKE me do evil things? You scoff and wonder at exactly how far my conspiracy theories and wild imagination will stretch, but really . . . . what if? Come on, admit it: you're freaked out.

I'm fascinated in general with us humans and our thoughts/feelings anyway. Where DO thoughts come from? Where DO our emotions live? Why DO our hearts actually ache when we are suffering a heartache? Why DO I have a wild imagination? And how can it be that these things, or some of these things, can now apparently be tapped into and used? It's amazing. Freaky as all hell, but amazing.

2. What, if anything, is left to discover? For some naive reason, I thought we were done. I thought Earth was done when God created it (alright, alright, beat up on me, I'm a Creationist) and everything in it. Europe goes here, the Pacific can float around here, Antarctica can freeze down here . . . North America breaks off at the Bering Strait, good, good . . . oops, part of Italy is sinking, but that's ok, part of California is too, so it all balances out . . . but no! I am lately informed that a new island is popping up, probably within the next couple of decades, spurred by volcanic activity that pushes the land up, up and up until it's "oh, hello, neighboring tropical island that will soon be purchased and developed into an exclusive getaway for the wealthy!"

That's just plain cool. That this planet, this home we are given to care for temporarily, is still moving, still changing, still birthing itself over and over again. That our children's children and their children will have whole new maps to study, whole new ecosystems to delve into, a whole new world of which to take stewardship. To think that it's part of God's enormous plan is even cooler -- Somebody PLANNED all this. You couldn't make this stuff up.

***

Side note: I am watching Jack Black assist in Dave Letterman's Top Ten list by heckling customers in the Virgin Megastore in Manhattan. He -- Jack Black -- is simply brilliant. Can I have him over for dinner and have him heckle me?

***

To tangentialize . . . I have been amazed twice in my life now that when my heart is breaking, my heart actually aches. Maybe it's not my heart. Maybe it's the muscles around my heart. Maybe it's acid reflux caused by agita and emotion-induced indigestion. Maybe it's air trapped in my esophagus and lungs from crying or hiccupping or simply being tense from trying to hold myself together. Whatever it is . . . I see now where they get the word "heartache."

Heartache is not fun. It truly does feel like my heart is breaking exactly in half, as depicted so poignantly in those cheesy tattoos. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't focus on the things upon which I need to focus. I put up a fake face to my friends and family in vain efforts to be myself, when in fact, I am feeling very much like someone else, with someone else's personality, in someone else'e body. I cry myself to sleep, rubbing at my heart (or where I think my heart is) to try to ease the clench. I wake up numb, wondering if the ache will ease up that day. I wish I could reach in there with a big tube of Neosporin (always the True Wonder Drug) and slather my breaking heart so that it will heal in two days, with minimal scarring. And strangely, I also take the time to think in wonderment, "so THIS is what heartache feels like! Weird! My heart IS aching!" Nope, it ain't fun.

***

Side note: I want a tattoo. I know where I would put it, but I don't yet have an actual design in mind, nor have I mustered up the balls necessary to actually go and get it done. Also, I'm pain averse, although I enjoy needles. OK, that makes me sound psychotic, but . . . well, stay tuned in the continuing tattoo saga of ChaEsq.

***

The New York Philharmonic is performing on Letterman right now. Man, I love classical music. I love live classical performances. I love seeing how talented these musicians are, how they have devoted their lives to practice, interpretation, performance, pleasing audiences near and far, even through the television set. I love seeing how into the music they are, how even on top of the roof of the Ed Sullivan Theater in the middle of Manhattan, they are pouring their souls into "The Marriage of Figaro."

It makes me so nostalgic for my high school days when I was in the Concert Band, the Orchestra, the Chorus and an a cappella group. Sure, back then, it was just another class, another activity, but . . . I wish I had appreciated THEN the reward of practicing and rehearsing, the satisfaction of hearing the music come together and start to sound like what it was supposed to sound like, the thrill of performing on stage and sounding pretty damn good, even for a high school organization. I miss being part of a group effort like that. I miss performing and making music. Hmmmm . . . I wonder if this is enough to make me polish my music chops and find a local music group to glom onto . . .

So, in case I forget to in the future, here's a big shout-out and thank-you to Dr. Ray Lucia, Mr. H. Davis Knobloch, Mr. Ronald Dunn, and the ladies of the Quaker Notes. Sweet, sweet music, always . . .

***

Side note: I think I'm going to look for tickets to "La Traviata" anyway, despite the horror otherwise known as Renee Fleming. I'm jonesing for some culture . . .

5:10PM . . .

As I roll into my driveway, I have to blink and re-blink and blink again just to make sure.

IT'S SNOWING.

Sigh.

I am melancholy today.

HERE, FISHIE, FISHIE . . .

I stayed up until 1:00am, sober, to watch the debacle that was Game 4 of the World Series. And you know what? I'm convinced -- CONVINCED -- that it's all Jeff Weaver's fault. Sure, sure, our boys failed to produce during the clutch moments, but it was really Jeff Weaver that signed the death certificate last night, the jerk.


Ozier Muhammad/NYT

The loss of Game 4, I can deal with. Rocket, with the last start of his major league career, leaving the game dejected, broke my heart. Of course I was the only sap in C's living room, cuddling his 6-day-old C/A, tearing up while watching a baseball game. But kudos to the fans and to the Marlins ball club for a classy send-off:

FISH FANS GIVE ROCKET A HAND
- Sam Borden/NY Daily News

MIAMI - Here's how much Roger Clemens means to baseball: He got a standing ovation last night after leaving the game trailing by two runs. In the World Series. On the road. From the opposing team. Not bad, right?

"It was absolutely amazing," said Bernie Williams. "I was so frustrated we couldn't get any more runs for him. He gave 100% of himself."

Said Aaron Boone: "It was an amazing moment. We definitely got the feeling when he came out - you just wanted to do it for him this time."

Clemens was serenaded with applause - from fans and players alike - as he walked from the mound at the end of the seventh inning.

"You couldn't ask for anything more," said Derek Jeter. "I think whether you were rooting for him or against him, you had to appreciate what he did and what he's done."


Barton Silverman/NYT

The human side was shining on Wednesday, when the same hitters Clemens was trying to beat took a moment to honor him after he left the game. Clemens's family members swarmed him after the game, and at the postgame news conference, Clemens let his 9-year-old son, Kacy, have the last word.

"Thank you for watching over my dad for the last 20 years," Kacy Clemens said. "We'll take it from here."

- Tyler Kepner/NYT


Barton Silverman/NYT

Rock on. See you in Cooperstown.

CRAMPED . . .

My world just got way smaller.

I checked out Mighty Girl today, only to discover that SHE, on the faaaaaaar other side of the continent, has linked some guy that I went to high school with.

Wow. Talk about shrinkage.

QUESTIONS I AM MULLING TODAY . . .

What is one to do when one doesn't know what to do? I can't help but wonder: are any of my family members in these North Korean prison camps? And if they are, how the hell do I get them out?!

If you have been in a vegetative state for 13 years, and allegedly expressed a desire against living artificially, then is the government in a position to say you should be kept alive via feeding tube?

Why is the government STILL regulating women's morality and our medical decisions? Why would Shrub insist on cultivating a "culture of life" in America? I'm sorry . . . I wasn't aware we were doing otherwise.

Why do we care what happens between Liza Minelli and her creepy ex-husband David Gest?

TWO TO GO . . .


Reuters


G. Paul Burnett/NYT


G. Paul Burnett/NYT


G. Paul Burnett/NYT

And tonight, Rocket's last major league baseball game. Sigh.

11:30PM ADDENDUM . . .

Why is David Cassidy making love to the microphone while CROONING "God Bless America"?!?!?!?

HOW UTTERLY CREEPY. I need to take a shower now, I am so skeeved out. (On the other hand, A+ for remembering all the words and staying in tune.)

IS THIS SOMETHING I COULD DO? . . .

I have a fascination with the rendering of the National Anthem at the start of sporting events, particularly when the singer is a "professional." I want to make sure they're singing live, that they know the words to the song, that they sound good, that they render it honestly and sincerely. The Anthem makes me verklempt everytime I hear it sung well, so I always want to hear it sung well. Unfortunately, that is not always the case, and often, I find myself wondering "WHO asked THEM to sing THIS?!"

The 2003 World Series between the Florida Marlins (boo) and the New York Yankees (yay) has held no less fascination for me when it comes to the delivery of the Anthem at the start of each game. Come, let us review the three singers for the first three games:

1. Game 1 = Clay Aiken. Now, come on, New York. Why, oh why, did you boo Clay Aiken? Were you driven by jealousy, because you do not have the silky soft voice that he has, and there's no way in hell you could woo a woman without it? Lord knows, if I closed my eyes and listened just to his voice, I would swoon. His delivery was clean, not frilly, not overly embellished, honestly and professionally sung. Too bad for the F-14 fighter pilots who completely mistimed their fly-over and made you pause mid-song so you could be heard. Silly them. A

2. Game 2 = Renee Fleming. This woman is REALLY a professional opera singer? She's REALLY singing the role of Violetta in "La Traviata" this season at the Metropolitan Opera? Please, PLEASE tell me she did not get paid for her services on Sunday evening. She BIT. Why so froufy and airy a voice? Why so pretentious a look on your face? Why did you write the words to the Anthem on your hand? And after doing so, WHY OH WHY did you forget the words halfway through the song?! You broke my heart. You made me not want to see you in "La Traviata." You made me wish Clay Aiken was back. You made me glad that most of the reviews of "La Traviata" I have read so far rip you to shreds. Because you BITE. F-

3. Game 3 = Gloria Estefan. OK, say what you want, laugh all you like, but I really really really like Gloria. I liked her when she was with Miami Sound Machine; I liked her before her life-threatening bus accident; I liked her when she was "Coming Out of the Dark" in 1991 at the MTV Awards; I liked her when she was singing at the Atlanta Olympics; I liked her now. I was psyched to see her walking towards the microphone tonight to sing our Anthem to us, but she was . . . eh. Changed keys at least twice, went flat several times, but at least she remembered the words, and of course, she IS Gloria Estefan. B-

So there's the rub, my friends, we have at least two more Anthems to be sung in this Series. Let's hope for better. But the bottom line is this: if you ain't Whitney Houston singing the National Anthem at the 1991 Super Bowl, than you might as well just sit down and let us at least play the CD recording of that night.

***

The latest Budweiser commercials are HILARIOUS. A++ to the ad-person who came up with this series. "Mr. Bad Toupee Wearer!" "Mr. Foot-Long Hotdog Creator!" I love it. Gets me every time!

***

My prior post has created much uproar -- voiced and unvoiced in my Shout Outs -- among the men in my life. They don't believe me. They don't believe that I don't shriek and scream and jump up and down in joy and dazzlement at the sight of a diamond or two. They think I'm lying. They probably even think I'm being self-righteous (you know, "blood diamonds" and children dying in caves in Africa to get the damn things and all), but I'm not.

C'mon guys. You know me. I barely put on MAKEUP, much less JEWELRY. I have too many other 'best friends' for there to be room for diamonds on the list. Besides, how many times I gotta tell you? If I want them, I'll buy 'em MYSELF. Although of course, I will still lose them or get them stolen. Rats.

Now, if I received an engagement ring with a big gift certificate to Barnes and Noble on it . . . THAT might send me over the edge . . .

IS THIS SOMETHING I COULD DO? . . .

I have a fascination with the rendering of the National Anthem at the start of sporting events, particularly when the singer is a "professional." I want to make sure they're singing live, that they know the words to the song, that they sound good, that they render it honestly and sincerely. The Anthem makes me verklempt everytime I hear it sung well, so I always want to hear it sung well. Unfortunately, that is not always the case, and often, I find myself wondering "WHO asked THEM to sing THIS?!"

The 2003 World Series between the Florida Marlins (boo) and the New York Yankees (yay) has held no less fascination for me when it comes to the delivery of the Anthem at the start of each game. Come, let us review the three singers for the first three games:

1. Game 1 = Clay Aiken. Now, come on, New York. Why, oh why, did you boo Clay Aiken? Were you driven by jealousy, because you do not have the silky soft voice that he has, and there's no way in hell you could woo a woman without it? Lord knows, if I closed my eyes and listened just to his voice, I would swoon. His delivery was clean, not frilly, not overly embellished, honestly and professionally sung. Too bad for the F-14 fighter pilots who completely mistimed their fly-over and made you pause mid-song so you could be heard. Silly them. A

2. Game 2 = Renee Fleming. This woman is REALLY a professional opera singer? She's REALLY singing the role of Violetta in "La Traviata" this season at the Metropolitan Opera? Please, PLEASE tell me she did not get paid for her services on Sunday evening. She BIT. Why so froufy and airy a voice? Why so pretentious a look on your face? Why did you write the words to the Anthem on your hand? And after doing so, WHY OH WHY did you forget the words halfway through the song?! You broke my heart. You made me not want to see you in "La Traviata." You made me wish Clay Aiken was back. You made me glad that most of the reviews of "La Traviata" I have read so far rip you to shreds. Because you BITE. F-

3. Game 3 = Gloria Estefan. OK, say what you want, laugh all you like, but I really really really like Gloria. I liked her when she was with Miami Sound Machine; I liked her before her life-threatening bus accident; I liked her when she was "Coming Out of the Dark" in 1991 at the MTV Awards; I liked her when she was singing at the Atlanta Olympics; I like her now. I was psyched to see her walking towards the microphone tonight to sing our Anthem to us, but she was . . . eh. Changed keys at least twice, went flat several times, but at least she remembered the words, and of course, she IS Gloria Estefan. B-

So there's the rub, my friends, we have at least two more Anthems to be sung in this Series. Let's hope for better. But the bottom line is this: if you ain't Whitney Houston singing the National Anthem at the 1991 Super Bowl, than you might as well just sit down and let us at least play the CD recording of that night.

***

The latest Budweiser commercials are HILARIOUS. A++ to the ad-person who came up with this series. "Mr. Bad Toupee Wearer!" "Mr. Foot-Long Hotdog Creator!" I love it. Gets me every time!

***

My prior post has created much uproar -- voiced and unvoiced in my Shout Outs -- among the men in my life. They don't believe me. They don't believe that I don't shriek and scream and jump up and down in joy and dazzlement at the sight of a diamond or two. They think I'm lying. They probably even think I'm being self-righteous (you know, "blood diamonds" and children dying in caves in Africa to get the damn things and all), but I'm not.

C'mon guys. You know me. I barely put on MAKEUP, much less JEWELRY. I have too many other 'best friends' for there to be room for diamonds on the list. Besides, how many times I gotta tell you? If I want them, I'll buy 'em MYSELF. Although of course, I will still lose them or get them stolen. Rats.

Now, if I received an engagement ring with a big gift certificate to Barnes and Noble on it . . . THAT might send me over the edge . . .

DIAMONDS ARE WHOSE BEST FRIEND? . . .

Hooch just got through telling me how utterly appalled she was by the new "Joe Millionaire," which premiered yesterday evening. (She also says that she'll never watch it again, but already, she's given me several justifications for why she might have to tune in next week.) She says that as soon as the women contestants discovered that the cowboy was a millionaire, one of them, in essence, declared "Now he can buy me diamonds!"

Ick.

Aside from the pure "ick" factor of these women, that comment re-raises a question in my head that I've often wondered about: what is it with women and diamonds? So many of my girlfriends, so many of my mom's girlfriends, gush and fawn and drool over them. Diamonds and their carats are topics hashed and rehashed, as engagement rings, 10th-anniversary bands and solitaire pendants are oohed and aahed over, and the men who purchased these items are given twinkling looks of sheer approval and adoration. I just don't get it -- what am I missing, exactly?

For sure, I like pretty things as much as the next girl. When I dress up, I have a fair collection of jewelry from which to choose the appropriate accessories. I confess a partiality to the Elsa Perretti collection from Tiffany's, and a sterling silver cross given to me by my parents hangs around my neck 24 hours a day, almost 365 days a year, with much love. But this strange demand for diamonds and for men purchasing them for you . . . I can't comprehend it and I don't like it.

Over the years, despite the urgings of my girlfriends to the contrary, I have come to these conclusions: I don't want any diamonds, I don't think. (Knowing my luck, I'd lose them or get them stolen off me on the subway anyway.) I don't need a diamond on my engagement ring, when and if I get married; in fact, a couple of years back, I saw an engaged couple wearing matching engraved platinum engagement rings -- both of them flat bands, his reading "FIANCE," hers reading "FIANCEE" -- and they were the most charming and meaningful things ever, truly signifying their commitment to each other, and not just his purchase of a shiny bauble for her. And if I should ever succumb to the desire for diamond solitaire earrings (which I do admit, I think are pretty), then what the hell -- I'll just go buy them myself!

There, I'm off my soapbox now. Thank you.

I THINK I'M FORGIVEN . . .

A message from my friend this morning . . .

Some love is just a lie of the heart
The cold remains of what began with a passionate start
And they may not want it to end
But it will, it's just a question of when
I've lived long enough to have learned
The closer you get to the fire the more you get burned
But that won't happen to us
Because it's always been a matter of trust

I know you're an emotional girl
It took a lot for you to not lose your faith in this world
I can't offer you proof
But you're gonna face a moment of truth
It's hard when you're always afraid
You just recover when another belief is betrayed
So break my heart if you must
It's a matter of trust

You can't go the distance
With too much resistance
I know you have doubts
But for God's sake don't shut me out

This time you've got nothing to lose
You can take it, you can leave it
Whatever you choose
I won't hold back anything
And I'll walk away a fool or a king
Some love is just a lie of the mind
It's make believe until it's only a matter of time
And some might have learned to adjust
But then it never was a matter of trust

I'm sure you're aware love
We've both had our share of
Believing too long
When the whole situation was wrong

Some love is just a lie of the soul
A constant battle for the ultimate state of control
After you've heard lie upon lie
There can hardly be a question of why
Some love is just a lie of the heart
The cold remains of what began with a passionate start
But that can't happen to us
Because it's always been a matter of trust

"A Matter of Trust" -- B. Joel

A MORNING SPENT IN THOUGHT . . .

I just finished receiving a heavenly hour-and-a-half-long massage, complete with heated massage bed and hot towels. So therapeutic, so cathartic. I fell utterly and completely asleep, occasionally waking myself up with the sound of my own gentle snoring. After it was done, my masseuse said I had cried in my sleep, and encouraged me to have a gentle and thoughtful day . . . I will try to do so.

***

I am sitting now in a bookstore's cafe, typing away on my sleek little laptop, waiting for Mrs.G and Nan to finish their treatments and join me for lunch. As I sit here looking out the window, smelling the delectably pungent aroma of coffee, observing the entrance and exit and passing by of all manner of local folks, I am also thinking, pondering, considering me, myself, my life. I haven't done this in a while. I used to love doing this -- thinking about my life, the world around me, looking deep into myself and figuring myself out. Being introspective and self-critical has never scared me.

It doesn't scare me now, but it gets harder as time passes. With each success I think I've achieved, with every headway I think I've made in a friendship or relationship, with every moment of increased busy-ness, with each complication of a circumstance, it gets harder and a bit more . . . unpleasant. No one, myself included, wants to think his or her life, his or her friends, his or her job, his or her circumstances, are not perfect. So, my biggest realization this year has been this: the idea that everything can be characterized in terms of being black and white is a farce; most things are grey, and that's fine or it has to be.

That's not to say that some things aren't one or the other, that there is no truth in the world. God is true. Family and friends are true. But everything about them, everything else in the world . . . is grey. In relationships, in friendships, in the law, in education, in the economy, in politics, etc. there is more grey than not. And we just need to work with it, to be willing to do the hard work, the deep thinking, the careful caring and sometimes the intense loving necessary, to parse through it all, in order to determine the course of our lives as much as we can, to love our neighbors as we love ourselves, to look outside ourselves and into our communities, to soften our hearts and enrich our minds, to really give ourselves to those we love, to grow and cultivate friendships as they deserve to be grown and cultivated. It's hard -- it's really hard. But it must be done.

***

Last night and this morning, I had to tell a beloved friend that he hurt my feelings and that I was angry at him. This is a big deal, because I don't like to do this. As much as I disdain other people who behave passive-aggressively, I know that I too am often guilty of such behavior. I'd rather internalize the hurt or the insult or whatever, instead of conscientiously face the person who hurt me. I'd rather take pleasure in stewing and mulling and being angry, then sit around and be more angry that the other person has not yet realized how much he hurt me, than be upfront and honest and bare my soul. I'd rather hold on to the negativity than let it go -- that is my passive-aggressive way of maintaining control over my feelings, over things that cannot be controlled.

But last night was too much, and I had to say something. I probably didn't do the confrontation in the most thoughtful and coherent manner -- no, I know I didn't. My friend apologized, and I only half-heartedly accepted the apology, because instead of just telling him I was angry, I wanted him to KNOW it and feel horrible about how he had hurt me. I went to bed angry and sad.

This morning, he apologized again. And I lashed out at him, still unwilling to let go, only half-willing to forgive. This time, I had to do the apologizing. I had to tell him that I had forgiven him and ask if he would he forgive me now. I haven't yet heard back on that last point . . . I hope he forgives me.

Regardless of the anger and the hurt, it is moments like these that have defined our friendship and strengthened us and our affection for each other. We have stuck by each other through a great deal; we have argued and tiffed and pissed each other off a great deal; we have come through lots of little mini-fires together. And yet, the defining characteristic of US has been to talk, to hash and rehash our issues, to say "I'm sorry" and to forgive, then to laugh together (or at each other, depending on which stubborn personality breaks first), knowing that another obstacle has been knocked down so we can move forward with ease again.

It ain't easy. We don't stop and smell the daisies everyday -- some days we don't even notice the stinkin' daisies are even there. Our brains move too fast for us to be coherent all the time. There's too much going on in our individual lives for us to be able to focus 100% on our friendship, the way we want. But to be able to have a friendship in which complete honesty and no censorship is the rule, where forgiveness is offered and even expected, where a sincere smile erases past sins . . . the hard work is worth it. It's always worth it.

I love sappy love songs, and lately I've been on a kick. Dave Matthews is the latest king of them, although creepy tunes like "Gravedigger" save him from the brink of Clay Aiken-ness. Here's a favorite from Sade:


you think i'd leave your side baby
you know me better than that
you think i'd leave you down when you're down on your knees
i wouldn't do that
i'll tell you you're right when you want
and if only you could see into me

oh when you're cold
i'll be there
hold you tight to me

when you're on the outside baby and you can't get in
i will show you you're so much better than you know
when you're lost and you're alone and you can't get back again
i will find you darling and i will bring you home

and if you want to cry
i am here to dry your eyes
and in no time
you'll be fine

you think i'd leave your side baby
you know me better than that
you think i'd leave you down when you're down on your knees
i wouldn't do that
i'll tell you you're right when you want
and if only you could see into me

oh when you're cold
i'll be there
hold you tight to me
when you're low
i'll be there
by your side baby

"By Your Side" -- Sade

MYSTIQUE, AURA, GHOSTS . . .

My simple words cannot adequately describe, so I will simply say thank you and let you look for yourself.

Rocket
Jose
Felix
Moose
Jeff
Jeff
Boomer
Gabe
Andy
Mo
Jorgie
Aaron
Jason
Derek
Nick
Alfonso
Enrique
David
Karim
Hideki
Ruben
Juan
Bernie
Mel
Zim
Joe

THANK YOU.



Ozier Muhammed/The New York Times


Barton Silverman/The New York Times


Barton Silverman/The New York Times


Cataffo/The NY Daily News


Reuters


Ozier Muhammed/The New York Times


A.J. Causi/The New York Post

TONIGHT IS A GOOD NIGHT . . .

Welcome to the world, MC2 and CC2, 7:51pm and 7:52pm, respectively.

MC2, you just follow in your dad's footsteps and be like him, and you'll be JUST FINE.
CC2, you just follow in your mom's footsteps and be like her, and YOU'LL be JUST FINE.

We have waited a long, long time for you. We have waited with bated breath after every ultrasound, every check-up, every non-contraction contraction. We have seen pictures of you, heard you breathe, felt you move and tumble as you fought for space. We have fed you all sorts of snacks to fatten you up and make you happy, and made your mom drink enough Gatorade to last her a lifetime and the afterlife. We have bought all manner of crazy cute soft snuggly things for you and painted all manner of bizarre animals on your room's walls (don't be afraid of them, not even the beaver-bear -- that animal does not yet exist). We have stood by your parents, every step of the way, and now that you're here, we will stick by them some more, no matter what.

And now you're finally with us . . . I hear y'all are cute -- I can't wait to see yous. Actually, I can't wait till y'all are old enough to talk, so I can teach y'all to say funny things that will drive your parents crazy. But first, I will marvel at you -- is that what you looked like in there? Are you more comfortable out here, with no one to share space with? Do you have your mom's nose, your dad's smile, their collective brilliance? Could your fingers be any smaller and daintier? . . . And then I will love you as a good auntie should, for as long as you can tolerate my cooing and spoiling and protecting. We all will.

Happy Birthday. We'll take good care of you.

LISTEN UP . . .

A lesson to be learned: the best-laid plans . . . go oft astray.

SNIPPETS . . .

I actually had this dream last night:

The Boston Red Sox won Game 7 of the ALCS and went on to play the Florida Marlins (who are a bunch of fish, by the way). The Marlins' uniforms were a glaring shade of eggplant purple trimmed in green braided rope; the Sox wore bright red from head to toe, including their caps and cleats. Both teams' uniforms colors stayed the same, whether they were playing at home or away. You couldn't look at the playing field, the amalgam (oooh, good word!) of colors was so hideous.

The best part of this otherwise-nightmare: according to Nielsen polls, nobody watched the World Series this year. NOBODY. As a result, the Fox Network went bankrupt. Another best part: all the radio, television and print commentary on the Series focused on the colors of the uniforms and how ugly they were. Nobody talked baseball. I mean, come ON. A Boston-Florida match-up? Who gives a flying...?! The insane and desperate Bostonians? The 3 Marlins fans in the country? Puh-leeze.

Not that I have to worry about it, of course. RO-GER!!! Send Boston home tonight, please.

***

Did you all hear about the Staten Island Ferry accident that occurred yesterday afternoon? Really sad . . . at least 10 passengers dead, scores severely injured, suffering things like broken bones and limb amputations. The ferry pilot fled the scene so fast, he left his keys behind; he broke into his own home, slit his wrists and shot himself with a pellet gun. He now lies in critical condition at St. Vincent's Hospital on S.I.

All this made me think of two things:

1. Incidents like these make me want to go medical school and become a doctor. I hate hate hate hearing about senseless injuries -- people dying, people suffering -- and being helpless to do anything about it. I know that I wouldn't be able to be everywhere at once anyway, but to be able to help where I could and heal those who could be healed . . . that would be great, and I wouldn't just be sitting around reading the news on the Internet, shaking my head.

2. People need to just stop whining, stop running away, stop pointing fingers and just take responsibility for their own actions. I hate to say this, but of course I will . . . I think it's the American way. It's the American way to say "That guy did it" or "That guy made me do it" or "The Twinkies made me do it." It's the American way to be injured somehow -- perhaps even by your own stupidity -- and turn around and sue whomever is available to be sued, in the hopes of hitting it rich without working hard for the money. It's the American way to say and most incredible of all, believe, that all of one's woes are due to someone else's interference or because someone else was successful instead, NOT due to one's own inabilities or limitations or laziness or insecurities. It's the American way to be resistant to looking inwards before looking outwards, being humble before being arrogant, being self-minded before being community-minded. So I think of that ferry pilot -- I'm sure he just freaked out. I would too, if I thought I was responsible for injuring a whole bunch of people who trusted that I would bring them home safely. Maybe he was drunk, or cracked out, or super-sleepy. Maybe something bizarre snapped inside his head, and all the synapses weren't firing the way they were supposed to. But whatever it is . . . may I dare to say, you should've stayed at the scene. You shouldn't have run away. You should've stayed with the boat. You should've TAKEN IT LIKE A MAN.

***

Those poor, poor Chicago Cubs. Those poor, poor Cubs fans. I saw them on the television, hopping up and down en masse in the streets outside Wrigley Field, waving the little things that they were waving, screaming and grinning for joy. I have no feeling about the Cubs whatsoever, other than thinking that it's cute that they are named after baby bears, but I was getting caught up in all their euphoria. "Yes!" I thought, "How cool WOULD it be if the Cubs finally made it to the World Series? Those fans DESERVE it! Look how EXCITED they are! I will be excited WITH YOU!"

But then they lost.

It was so tragic. I was caught up in a personal drama of my own at the same time the ninth inning was winding down, and I just have to say . . . compounded misery SUCKS. So, I guess I do have feeling about the Cubs. They are great. They are a team. They tried really hard, and gave their fans a fantastic season, corked bats and all. Not to get inappropriately philosophical, but the Cubs gave their fans hope, and really, hope is all people want in the world, whether it's hope for food, hope for money, hope for love, or. . . hope for a World Series win. It's all good.

So, good on you, Chicago Cubs. You were awesome to watch and fun to follow this season, however nominally I did so. PLEASE come back next year -- we'd love to play you in the October Classic.

LITTLE BITES . . .

China sent a man into space today. Good on them!

***

I love NPR news in the morning. I especially love when they report the latest sports headlines and stories, with the same gravitas they reserve for stories about the occupation of Iraq or the plight of women in ancient African tribes. "An unruly Cubs fan reached out in the vain but everlasting hope of obtaining a souvenir for his efforts in attending Game Six of the National League Championship Series." Cue sound clip of cheering, then booing, crowd. Funny.

***

Tonight's episode of The West Wing involves a North Korean pianist who performs at the White House, then slips the President a note saying he wants to defect. You know I have to watch THAT business . . .

***

B-May and Mighty Girl got married over the weekend. I have no idea who they really are -- I just came upon their blogs about a year and-a-half ago, and have been faithfully reading ever since. I feel like they are my friends. So, in that vein . . . congratulations, you two!

***

A small side item from The New York Times about a particular Korean immigrant . . .

FAIR TRADE? . . .

Something I never thought would happen in a million years -- no, make that a trillion years -- is going to happen this Saturday. (I suspect that the parties involved will never speak to me again upon discovering that I have shared this information with the entire blog-reading world, but I proceed forth anyway.)

C and JC -- two self-proclaimed manly men from NHF, both dear friends of mine and both long-standing and vehement pooh-pooh-ers of me and my gal pals' spa-going activities -- are joining myself, Mrs.G, Nan and perhaps some other ladies for a DAY SPA OUTING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Granted, the most even exchange we could come up with for this torture about to be exacted upon them was for me to play an hour's worth of football with the guys after church one fall Sunday afternoon. They agreed to this knowing full well that I am afraid of the football, terrified of having an eye poked out by one of the football's ends, apprehensive about being gratuitously body-slammed by either one of them, and will run away at full speed from an oncoming football. The best part is, afterwards, I could probably even sucker one of them into paying for another massage for my football-abused body!!!

They are such chuckleheads! All I have to do is run around on the field like a crazy person and pretend to know what I'm doing, while C and JC must suffer the indignity of shuffling around a Japanese Zen-like day spa in slippers and a fluffy robe, whispering and drinking little glasses of lemon-tinged water and munching on dried fruits and nuts. Little they know I actually have the raw end of the deal. I can hear it now: "ChaEsq, I never knew it could be so exquisite! Why didn't you convince me to get a massage before? Take me again!"

Yeah, yeah, I told you so.

***

YOU OWE ME . . .

Soriano. Matsui. Giambi. Williams.

You guys owe me. You owe me big. You have been pretty lame-o the past few weeks. You've been NOT hitting home runs. You've been falling asleep and wondering what to have for dinner while hanging out on the field. Quit it. You owe me, and you better deliver tonight.

Or else I'm going to have to come and spank you. >=P

***

WHOLE AGAIN . . .

The Chief is back from his long medical absence. He is weak and for now, just putting in part-time work days, as he should. It will be slow-going for him, for a while, and we will have to do everything possible to still run interference for him so that he can continue a good recovery and get back into the swing of things gradually. But the important thing is that we are whole again, back in business, a complete chambers. Praise God!

YANKEE BASEBALL AND OTHER THOUGHTS . . .

As much as I love the post-season, and of course the Yankees being in the post-season, I wish they -- the Baseball Gods on High -- would just treat it like the regular season. You grab a 72-year-old baseball legend by the head and throw him to the ground like a punk, you get tossed. It rains a little bit and you're afraid of getting wet, play anyway. Post-season, shmost-season.

Of course, the absolute LACK of a televised baseball game did not stop our cabal from invading Camp Cap, now complete with a very pregnant M, home from the hospital until her belly finally stops stretching. Her belly -- I could pontificate on her belly for a whole other entry, but suffice to say right now: it's lopsided. It's amazing, actually -- you can see the lopsidedness. Those rugrats are lying almost completely to the left, so that M's belly looks rather like Earth on its tilted axis. You also can't really tell that she's pregnant when coming upon her from behind, so that when she turns around (laboriously), you are shocked by the torpedo of a belly that accosts you. Pregnancy, babies, twins -- I am SO not ready for any of it, but I do appreciate the absolute madness and miraculousness of it.

Hamburger Helper (YUM) and Filipino noodles, fried apple turnovers, Killian's Red, C's ginger snap ice cream, assorted finger foods and chips and dips . . . the cabal was well-fed, and satisfied. Or as satisfied as a Yankee baseball-less cabal could be.

***

Life astounds me. It astounds me that things I think are so good for me, so right for me, so necessary to me, that make me so happy and fulfilled . . . aren't deemed so by the powers on high. I know, I know . . . my life and its terms are not up to me to interpret, to determine, to dictate. And I suppose I wouldn't want to -- imagine the potential self-indulgent disaster that might result! After all, what do I know?!

But . . . knowing this in my head doesn't stop my heart from aching for those non-good good things, or wishing for a different decision by the high powers. I think the best thing I can do is trust God and continue to try to live according to His will; live the life He has given me to the fullest, regretting nothing, experiencing everything, and giving Him thanks for every person, thing and circumstance in my life, even if none of it is apparently perfect. And of course, love the people in my life with everything that I am, every breath that I breathe, so that they know exactly and completely who and what they are to me.

***

Restful morning . . . chatty lunch . . . sunshine . . . cool breeze . . . a beloved confidante . . . fresh air . . . a precious day . . . I need more Mondays off!

***

ALCS Game 4, scoreless after two and-a-half innings. LET'S GO YANKEES.

Clap, clap, clap clap clap.

QUICKIE . . .

Just a few quick things while I wait for the pins n' needles in my left foot to go away:

1. Please read Margaret's blog entry for today.

2. A female Iranian attorney Shirin Ebadi, a human rights advocate, has been awarded the 2003 Nobel Peace Prize. Cool. Interesting. Unexpected. Read about it.

3. Yanks are up, 2-1 in the series. YOU KNOW IT, BABY!!! Tomorrow night, C's house might just fall down with the amount of excitement and adrenaline coursing through my body alone, and the sheer volume being emitted from my mouth alone! Combine me with all the other non-fan fans in the room, and . . . well, let me just apologize in advance to M and her as-yet-in-utero Noodles for causing them agita. But really, it's never too early for those kids to learn who to root for, especially if Auntie Me has anything to say about it . . .

4. I have to emphasize again how cool my friends are and how much I love them with my whole heart. I name them, in no particular order, and these especially, simply because I heard from them or saw them or just had a really good time with them most recently. C, M, J2, Dr.G, Mrs.G, JC, JW, the Chief of Staff, Banana, DYC. Some are closer to me than others; some I've known longer than others; some I see more than others; some know me better than others. Each friendship is different in its context, its intensity, its meaning, its root, its content. What they each contribute so generously and so consistently to my life is so varied. But they are so special, so important, so integral to me and who I am, and my love for them is boundless. You wish you had friends like mine.

WEIRD . . .

How can it be possible that it is so sunny and nice outside, that I am facing a day with friends and laughter and the outdoors and singing, that I am surrounded by everything that is good and beneficial and blessed . . . and I feel completely sad and lost and dead inside?

I know God doesn't work this way, but at times like this, I wish He did. I wish for a thunderbolt of something, striking me in the core of my heart and sending an electric message to my brain that says, "Don't worry. Don't be afraid. Don't fret about the future. Don't regret the past. This is the life that I have given you; don't you dare dismiss it or begrudge it or say it isn't right. I love you. I will always love you. I will always ONLY work to bless you and make your life a blessing to Me. Circumstances will change. The sadness in your heart will lift RIGHT NOW and the scales will fall from your eyes, and you will be able to see that everything I have done for you in the last few weeks has been PLANNED and has been GOOD for you, even though you can't see it now. I will clear away the confusion. I will sort out your thoughts and feelings when you can't. I will comfort you and you will wake up tomorrow morning refreshed, renewed, a whole and healed person. I will take away the awkwardness, the pain, the hurtful memories. I will replace them with joy and thanksgiving and love and the GOOD memories. I will hold your hand and drag you up to your feet when you just want to sit and wallow, and you WILL be glad that I did so. I will bring love and fulfillment into your life in the way that you deserve it. I will ensure that you are not lonely, either in your external life, or in the depths of your heart. I will forgive you; I have forgiven you. I will put in your heart the absolute ability to love those around you, especially your friends, those whom you would die for. I will give you a pure heart towards them, so that you can love them as I love you. I will empower you to be a good friend and sister to them. I will heal your wounds and make sure the dried scabs never fall off, the wounds never re-open. I have died for you -- you have nothing to worry about anymore. Hey, I know what I'm doing. I know what I'm doing with you. I know what I'm doing with those around you. So trust me. Just trust me."

Oh, how I utterly long for that thunderbolt . . .

INCIDENTALS . . .

Arnold Schwarzenegger is now governor of California. What the f*ck!?!?!?

***

Margaret Cho is hilarious. She is smart. She is real. Hate her or love her (I would prefer that you love her), but read her blog. It's linked to your left.

***

ALCS, GAME ONE. I'm so sorry, did we freakin' LOSE to the RED SOX?!?!?! Oh. My. Gawd. Still, as always, there were highlights:

-- on the train heading down to the city yesterday, I drifted in and out of sleep while listening to a mother of 3-year-old triplet boys (WOW!) give instructions over a cell phone to her mother about how to set the Sony Playstation to DVD mode so that the boys could watch a movie. It was painful. "Mom. Mom. Mom. MOM! Press the GREEN X. No, the GREEN X. Yes, the X." It went on and on and on, until finally, the grandmother got so confused that her daughter ultimately told her, "Don't worry about it. Just turn it off and tell the boys the movie is broken." Oy, pass the Excedrin!

-- at the 125th Street Metro-North station, so many white folks got off the train and streamed out onto 125th Street, heading a block east to catch the 4-train up to the Stadium. I bet the local denizens are thinking to themselves: "Hmmmm, tons of white folk getting off at 125th Street and Park Avenue. There must be a Yankee game going on tonight." And then there were JC and I. We're Asian, but we belong there. Hee, hee.

-- it took for-freakin'-ever to get inside and to our seats. But, as they broadcast the opening ceremonies over the loudspeakers, we -- the chumps still standing in line to be frisked and admitted -- learned that 2 Air Force fighter jets would be doing a flyover after the National Anthem was sung. The Anthem ended, and all of us -- ALL of us -- tilted our heads back and looked up at the sky expectantly, in silence, if you can even imagine such a thing. Seconds ticked by, nothing happened. We saw commercial airplanes' lights flickering against the night sky, paper scraps fluttering around in the breeze over our heads. Nope, those aren't the fighter jets. But then . . . then they came. The loudest, most impressive screech of trembling sound, two humongous jets, flying low over the Stadium, noses pointed in perfect parallel lines, fire blazing like the devil out of their engines. They zipped by us in one incredible, resounding, earth-shaking roar. It was so quick, in the aftermath, we wondered, "Did we really see that?" But yes, yes we did. It was AMAZING.

-- Boston fans really do suck. Are you all really SO insecure that your only recourse, sitting in Yankee Stadium, watching the most evil and contentious rivalry in baseball, watching a GREAT baseball game, is to say to me and my friends and family "Chinks, can you even see that far?!" WHAT THE FUCK? Dude. FIRST OF ALL, we are KO-FUCKING-REAN, so the proper term is GOOK. Secondly, maybe that kind of BULLSHIT is acceptable in BOSTON, but you're in NEW FUCKING YORK now, so BACK THE FUCK OFF. How you like me NOW?! YEAH. You know it. The best part was, when I turned around and gave them the evil eye, only one of the assholes had the BALLS to look me in the eye, and even he blushed and turned away, turning his face into his beer. Come on, if you're gonna be an asshole, at least BACK IT UP, JERK.

-- to my great and deep satisfaction, these particularly heinous and evil Boston fans got KICKED OUT. All their jawing, all their inability to take some good-natured-though-heated ribbing about their team, all their drunken stupidity got them involved in a humongous fight with one of our own, a particularly tanked Yankee fan (we were sorry to see him have to leave, of course). Aside from a barroom brawl incident in college, this was the closest I've ever gotten to a real live fight -- three seats away! WOW. I don't know why fights excite me; it's like hockey -- I LOVE the smashing players up against the glass and all that. But I digress -- people got thrown out of their seats and launched on top of people three or four rows down; we were splashed with beer; we were absolutely enthralled. WOW.

-- the 7th inning ROCKED. Rejuvenated after the Stretch, the Stadium, the ENTIRE FREAKIN' STADIUM, got on its feet. All of us, chanting, clapping, stomping our feet, screaming ourselves hoarse. THERE IS NOTHING LIKE IT. You haven't seen baseball, you haven't LIVED baseball, you don't KNOW baseball at Yankee Stadium until you have seen and felt something like this. Granted, we only managed two runs then, but the energy . . . words cannot describe. I love it. I love my boys. WE love OUR boys.

-- Dad and I had to leave about a half-inning early to catch our train back home. Dad -- he's just about the sweetest, cutest thing alive. Taking the subway, which he rides maybe once a decade, was such a pleasure for him. Walking down 125th Street at midnight, the same street that he only remembers from the 1980s, when it was still "dangerous," he breathed in the fresh air and marveled at the community, the commerce that has cropped up since he last saw it live. Hopping onto our Metro-North commuter train, relaxing into our seats, handing our tickets to the trainman -- Dad was smug as a bug. It was such a pleasure treating him to the evening.

***

Every once in a while, things happen in a particular order, in a particular sequence, in a particular way, that stuns me and makes me fall down and wonder, "WHY is this HAPPENING and HOW did it HAPPEN this way?!" I am then wounded, shocked, hurt, left wondering if I will recover, and if so, when, and if I will recover to the fullest, and go back to being me as I knew myself. This happens most when I have to say goodbye to something or someone, when I have to let go of something in my life that I have adored and still do adore, when I have to adjust and readjust and keep on adjusting into the unforeseeable future, when I have to shift my world view and my view of myself just a little bit.

At times like this, I become a different person, a bad person, a person I don't like very much. I become morose, wallowing and even taking pleasure sometimes in wallowing in self-pity and sadness. When people tell me "chin up" and to take heart and to look for the hope, the good, the positive potential in front of me, I reject those possibilities. I become angry at myself for having landed myself in a particular situation to begin with, and start mulling over all the what-ifs that would have transpired had I been smarter, wiser, more considerate, a better person, a more trustworthy friend. I become fanciful, wishing for things that can't be, wishing for alternate endings, wishing to turn back the clock with some amazing time machine, wishing that everything -- my entire life -- had worked out differently, and I lose all of my abilities to think rationally and be calm and be me, just me. I become a big ball of worry and stress, wondering how things will turn out, if they will turn out the way I want them to, if everything will be okay, if I will be okay, wanting to see what my life will be like 1, 5, 10, 30 years from now (if I live that long) so that I can plan accordingly. I become very defensive, lashing out at those who love me most, at those whom I love most, driving them away because it hurts too much to have them near me. And then of course, I become a split personality: constantly being apologetic for my behavior but unable to stop acting the way I'm acting; wanting to drive people away and longing for them when they are not with me; wavering between the far extremes of "p'shaw, of COURSE I'll be fine" and "I will NEVER be fine again;" sliding between the bases of "I am a big mushball, do with me what you will" and "don't you tell me what to do, I stand on my own" (of course I had to get a baseball reference in there).

This is one of those inexplicable, weird, formative, character-building (I hope) times. Words cannot describe.

***

I normally detest bumper stickers, even school-related ones. Who really cares where you went to college? I don't, although my college is better than yours.

But I saw a funny one today:
"Where there's a will . . . I want to be in it."

I'M A BIG MOOCH . . .

Thanks to Cheech, who got it from someone else, who probably got it from someone else... here's a little time-killer for all of us:

Three things that scare me:
1. The prospect of something horrible happening to my beloveds.
2. The prospect of my close friendships fading away as if they never existed.
3. The future.

Three things I love:
1. My friends and family.
2. Lazy mornings when I can just lie in bed and be glad about everything.
3. Good food, good drink, good friends and much laughter, all in one place.

Three things I don't like:
1. Saying goodbye.
2. Mean and inconsiderate people who are not self-aware.
3. When I am mean and inconsiderate to other people.

Three things I don't understand:
1. Mathematics.
2. How some medical doctors can study and view the craziness of the human body every day and not believe in God.
3. Mean and inconsiderate people who are not self-aware.

Three things on my desk:
1. A crazy photo of my family.
2. A small stack of books to read during my lunch hour: Benjamin Franklin by Walter Isaacson, and Galileo's Daughter by Dava Sobel.
3. The ever-present bottle of water.

Three things I'm doing right now:
1. Trying to ward off sleepiness by gulping a mugful of coffee.
2. Working on a major decision for work.
3. Being distressed that one of my favorite t-shirts has a hole in it.

Three things I want to do before I die:
1. Go to North Korea and see who is left of my family.
2. Fall passionately, hopelessly, eternally in love and be loved back equally.
3. Build a sterling reputation as an Asian-American female attorney who is a role model for Asian-American girls coming after me.

Three things I can do well:
1. Write.
2. Eat.
3. Kill time.

Three things I can't do well:
1. Math.
2. Swim.
3. Stop dwelling on things and mulling things and worrying about things that won't be solved or resolved by dwelling, mulling and worrying.

Three ways to describe your personality:
1. Split: introverted by nature, but a practiced extrovert. Man, it's exhausting!
2. Quirky: thinking things that others never do, laughing at inopportune moments, and letting my brain roam free at speed limits and decibel levels not normally allowed by law.
3. Kind: sure, I can be a bitch, but I hate doing so and I'm always remorseful afterwards. Besides, I'd take a bullet for those I love, and that's no joke.

Three things I say the most:
1. On IM: "LOL."
2. "Hey, guy."
3. "Cool," "That's cool," and/or "Groovy."

Three of my favorite foods:
1. Kimchi jigae.
2. Steak, medium rare.
3. C's ginger snap ice cream with the crystallized ginger pieces and huge chunks of ginger snap cookies, melted a bit until it's kind of soupy.

Three things I'd like to learn:
1. How to drive stick . . . without stalling, shuddering, giving my passengers agita, or ruining the car.
2. How to be kind, compassionate, generous, faithful all the time.
3. How to guard my heart more carefully.

Three beverages I love to drink:
1. Water.
2. Killian's Red.
3. Black Russian w/Grey Goose.

HOW TRUE . . .

"Once a woman has climbed the ladder of success, she shouldn't push it away so that other women can't come up."

-- Madeleine Albright, former U.S. Secretary of State

THE RANDOMIZER STRIKES AGAIN . . .

I thought I'd share as I wait for my lunch to arrive . . . I can't wait for the upcoming long weekend. I am bone tired -- not necessarily in a bad way, but still in a needing-sleep kind of way. There's been lots going on inside and outside of me lately, and as this is a season of change -- for me, my job, my future, my friends and family -- I know I'm going to have to take some time to be by myself and rest and recharge and re-evaluate. This weekend will be good for that. I'll hang out with friends, watch some baseball, perhaps go apple-picking, play with babies, regroup at church, watch more baseball Sunday night, sleep in a bit on Monday and spend the day lolling about. It's going to be fabulous . . .

***

Autumn always makes me pensive. And I just wanted to say that I had a really amazing summer. It was so full of fun, laughter, hysterical laughter, events, driving around, enjoyment, more hysterical laughter, true friends. I don't think the fall, winter, spring, next summer will really be all that different, but it's nice to look back and realize that my life was, and is, pretty damn blessed.

***

There are too many things I want to do . . . go to Italy and live in a villa for the summer while hiking every morning and taking cooking classes every afternoon . . . go hiking and kayaking in British Columbia . . . run another 5k race -- maybe the Revlon Walk/Run in May . . . fall madly and passionately in love with The One . . . buy my own tiny house and do it up nice . . . take one of those small Alaskan cruises where you can kayak right out the back of the ship . . . go to cooking school . . . get a PhD . . . be a secret government agent . . . learn to fly a plane . . . bungee-jump . . . write a book. Where do I start?! And who wants to fund me?

AND HE SINGS TO ME . . .

Baby, it's alright
Stop your crying
Now

Nothing is here to stay
Everything has to begin and end
A ship in a bottle won't sail
All we can do is dream that the wind will blow us across the water
A ship in a bottle set sail

Baby, it's alright
Stop your crying, now

There was a weakling man
Who dreamed he was strong as a hurricane
A ship in a bottle set sail
He took a deep breath and blew across the world
He watched everything crumble
Woke up a weakling again

Some might tell you there's no hope in hell
Just because they feel hopeless
But you don't have to be a thing like that
You be a ship in a bottle set sail

Baby, it's alright
Stop your crying, now
It's alright
So stop your crying, now
Be a ship in a bottle set sail

"Baby" -- Dave Matthews

TOO WEIRD NOT TO SHARE . . .

Am I the ultimate pushover, or what?

I just banged my hand against something hanging on my wall, causing it to shake a little bit. As I turned to steady it on its hook, I instinctively apologized to it.

I just apologized to a wall clock.

I ALMOST FORGOT . . .

Friday Five, baby:

1. What vehicle do you drive? A Toyota 4-Runner. I love it. She's big and powerful and holds lots of stuff and people. Good girl.

2. How long have you had it? Just over two years.

3. What is the coolest feature on your vehicle? There's a button you can press to activate the 4WD Traction Control. Four green lights depicting my tires light up on my dashboard, she bears down a little and gets a bit heavier, and the engine revs up a tiny bit more. In three seconds, I'm driving through feet of snow, patches of ice and flooding rain like it's nobody's business. I love it.

4. What is the most annoying thing about your vehicle? Well, given that she's not really a luxury SUV, she kind of bounces a lot -- there is no "hugging the road" or smoothness like in the commercials where the dusty SUV is going over Mt. Kilamanjaro, but the little girl in the backseat is peacefully coloring a picture while her parents drink open cups of coffee in the front. I kind of like her 'ruggedness' but it gets kind of jarring and/or embarrassing when I have guests in the car and we go over local roads and/or potholes and they're like "Errrrrr, scary." I kind of just sheepishly grin, shrug and say "That's my girl."

5. If money were no object, what vehicle would you be driving right now? I'm not the biggest car aficionado, so I'm sure someone out there will look at my answer and shriek in disbelief at my simplemindedness, but honestly, I would have to say that it's a toss-up between a metallic ruby-red VW Passat, a black VW Touareg, or the 4-Runner I have now . . . or a silver Mercedes AMG. Smirk. Hey, I'm a simple girl with simple needs.

TANKED AND WINNING . . .



Hooch and I had decided that my Thursday evening -- cold, windy, Division Series Home Game 2 at Yankee Stadium -- would proceed on one of three levels of a 3-point gauge:

1. I would be tanked and the Yankees would be winning: best-case scenario. I wouldn't even feel the cold.
2. I would be tanked and the Yankees would be losing: all-around bad. I would be cold, pissed and probably belligerent.
3. I would be not tanked and the Yankees would be losing: all-around horrible. I probably would have had to leave the game early, cold and pissed.

Thankfully, the first scenario played itself out beautifully, although the tankedness wore off by the 7th inning or so. Of course, we sat within 50 feet of a pole (the flag pole in the left-field bleachers, this time), but there was a negligible amount of Twins fans in our section, and I was in good company, so it was all good.



4-1, final score; series tied 1-1. See yous in Minnesota.

CURIOSITIES . . .

Our chambers bathroom is an endless source of frustration and amusement. Amusement because it is the warmest place in chambers, and I have to admit that sometimes I go in there to wash my hands simply to raise my core body temperature and ward off hypothermia. Frustration because it is so very rarely cleaned or attended to by our otherwise fine custodial staff.

When the bathroom is attended to, they clean out the garbage cans, replenish the soap and paper towel supplies, and restock the double toilet paper rolls. And herein lies one of the greatest curiosities known to Hooch and I (okay, maybe only I sit around wondering about this): when the toilet paper is replaced, it is often replaced with a half-roll. Yes, as in not the full, not-yet-torn-open roll. So, there we are, with two half-rolls of toilet paper hanging on their little spindles.

Where are the full rolls? What happened to the other half of the half-rolls? Do the custodians unroll half the toilet paper for whatever purpose, then hang the remaining half on the spindles? Are they recycling leftover toilet paper from other bathrooms in the courthouse? Or are we all just spending our days with half-rolls of toilet paper?

Such a mystery . . .

AN ERA ENDS . . .

213 is retiring.

State Supreme Court Justice Leslie Crocker Snyder, famed for being tough on defendants ("If they're fairly convicted, they should be put away forever.") and given the nickname "213" for once sentencing a drug dealer to 213 years in prison, is leaving the bench to enter private practice, and perhaps pursue other options.

Tough cookie. I want to be her. Or, if she becomes Manhattan District Attorney in 2005, I want to work for her.