AN EYE FOR AN EYE . . .

Really? Does that concept really exist, and do people really believe it?

Al Qaeda says its people beheaded Nicholas Berg in revenge for the abuse of Iraqi prisoners-of-war committed by American military police. An eye for an eye. Great. So does that mean we're done? We're equal now, right? Both sides whipped out their big ol' penises and peed all over the fire, proving their manhood, their power, their strength and domination. Can we all go home now?

Noooooo. Silly me, the idealist. American forces are not going to stop their abuse; more evidence and photos and confessions are going to come out. Then Al Qaeda and/or Iraqi insurgents are going to commit more atrocities in "revenge." Then we're going to retaliate for their "brutal acts against humanity." Then they are going to bomb some more embassies and fly more planes into buildings. Then we're going to instigate another senseless, endless, purposeless (where is Osama bin Laden, again? Remember him?) war. And we go around and around and around on this f*cked up, stupid carousel from hell.

An eye for an eye, my ass. I'm waiting for the next big man on campus to whip out his dick so the pissing contest can escalate. Winner gets to say he won, and drag a whole lot of body bags home with him. Congratulations.

(Do I sound pissed? YEAH I'M PISSED. I'm pissed that my people are dying at the hands of terrorists who don't have the balls to fight a real fight, and lie in wait for their enemies to come to them and set hidden traps instead of going hand-to-hand. I'm pissed that my government ducks and rolls and weaves side to side to avoid responsibility for a really messed-up war against who, exactly? I'm pissed that my country is seen as a bully and as a renegade, willing to do the irrational for some stated lofty moral purpose. I'm pissed that we're no better than the people we're fighting. Really. I'm pissed that my country has lost all credibility in this world. I'm pissed that we finally bullied the world one bit too much and now everyone hates us. I'm pissed that I no longer feel safe traveling, or having anyone else I love travel, to Europe, Asia, Southeast Asia, Africa, the Middle East. I'm pissed that everywhere I go, outside this country, from now on, people will hate me, and some will want to kill me. I'm pissed that this will probably happen inside my own country. I'm pissed that people are dying and people are suffering and children are left parentless and spouses are left spouseless and parents must bury their children and homes are being levelled by bombs and lives are being changed in the worst way possible. Yeah, I'm pissed. This is CRAP.)

THINGS TO DO WHEN YOU ARE ALONE, BABYSITTING 7-MONTH-OLD TWINS FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF UNTIL THEIR MOTHER COMES HOME FROM WORK AND THEY SHRIEK LIKE BANSHEES FOR THE LAST THIRTY MINUTES . . .

1. Rub their gums with your finger. Maybe they're teething and need the itch to be scratched. Remove finger when they bite down and leave imprints.

2. Rub their bellies with your hand. Maybe they're gassy and bloated and need to fart for relief. Stop rubbing when they pull the "I'm going to go as stiff and flat as a board and start to slide rapidly out of your grip" and lunge to catch them before they drop onto the floor.

3. Feed them formula from a bottle one at a time. Maybe they're hungry ... both of them ... at the same time. Realize that popping one bottle from one mouth to another every ten seconds is probably not going to soothe them much or quench their hunger. Stop feeding when they open their mouths wider than ever and shriek louder than ever, slapping the bottle with their open hands to get it out of their faces.

4. Change their diapers. Maybe they had a poo emergency or pee build-up. Realize that their diapers are completely dry. Try to catch them before they throw themselves over the side of the changing table.

5. As you change their diapers, fan their naked butts with a new diaper to try to cool them down. Maybe they're hot and uncomfortable -- wouldn't YOU be? Realize that if you keep doing that, they might just pee in your face. Slap the new diaper on as quickly as possible. Again, try to catch them before they throw themselves over the side of the changing table.

6. Wipe their faces with a cold, damp paper towel. Maybe they're hot and sweaty and not accustomed to the suddenly warm weather. Use the towel to wipe their chins when they throw up instead.

7. Place them in their Exer-Saucers with the scary toys attached. Maybe they're sick of you holding them and just want to be let alone to play. Remove them from their Exer-Saucers when they start launching themselves backwards in the little sling-seat, shrieking and crying and flailing their arms and banging their heads on the backrest.

8. Sit them on the floor, place their favorite toys and books in front of them, and turn off the "Baby Einstein" DVD. Maybe they just need peace and quiet. Scoop them back up as quickly as possible when they droop and shriek and threaten to fall backwards in protest at not being held anymore.

9. Place a baby biscuit in their little fists. Maybe they just want something fun to munch on and slime. Realize the biscuits probably aren't going to cut it when they FLING them across the room. That was actually amazing to see.

10. Struggle to pick up both babies at once, hold them in a comfortable position, and rock them back and forth without dropping them or dislocating any limbs. Maybe they just need to be coddled. Realize that they are calming down and rubbing their exhausted faces into your shirt. Walk, sweating and disheveled, over to the folding chair conveniently placed by the French doors overlooking the front yard, and plop yourself into it, both babies clinging to you. Rock back and forth in the chair, singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" in a low, soft voice. Perceive that the babies are totally calm now; one is enjoying dancing back and forth on your leg, the other is placidly staring out the French doors at the wide world beyond. Stop singing. Maybe the babies want to sleep. Realize that they will start crying again unless you start singing again. Sing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" for the next twenty minutes, rocking back and forth, losing feeling in both arms, until their mother arrives home. Be mortified that both babies' faces are tear- and snot-streaked, clear evidence of major meltdowns. Chuckle in frustration when both babies laugh hysterically at seeing their mother. See, everyone needs their mother. Gleefully hand said babies over to mother, limp out the door, and realize on the way home that your arms feel like noodles and will be sore when you wake up the next morning.

"YOUR WORST DAYS ARE COMING" . . .

So said a masked and hooded Iraqi to Shrub, before beheading a 26-year old American civilian on a videotape now famous and infamous around the world.

Ominous words, from an ominous anonymous being, during an ominous time.

When will it end ... when .. when ...

ALL THE NEWS THAT'S FIT TO PRINT . . .

There should be news like this every day:

GREENWICH VILLAGE JOURNAL
Inviting the Public's Embrace, One by One
By ANDREA ELLIOTT

Jayson Littman is not especially lonely, or religious, or in need of cash - things that strangers might assume upon meeting him.

He is a financial analyst who happens to think that New Yorkers could use a hug. So it was, a month ago, that Mr. Littman began distributing hugs - free - from 1 to 4 p.m. on Sundays in Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village.

"At first I thought no one would respond," said Mr. Littman, 26, who lives in Manhattan. But on his first Sunday, standing before a giant hand-lettered sign that reads "Free Hugs," Mr. Littman and a friend embraced 200 people in two and a half hours. "There's a lot of war and blood in the world right now,'' he said, "and this helps to even it out."

On first impression, Mr. Littman seems more salesman than pacifist. Wearing a T-shirt that echoes his sign, arms outstretched, he stands near the dog run and yells to passers-by: "Hey! Need a free hug? It's cheaper than a subway ride. Come on! Everyone needs a hug."

More often than not, people keep walking, or stop and stare, searching for the catch. They look for a hidden donation box, or a stack of religious pamphlets.

"People ask me if I'm wearing deodorant," Mr. Littman said. The answer is yes. Mr. Littman is almost antiseptically clean. He has close-cropped hair and a light scent of cologne, and tucks his shirt neatly into his spotless jeans. His smile is blindingly white.

"Last time I didn't hug him, and I felt so bad I hugged him today," said Nicole Cavender, 23, a dog walker who was accompanied by two French bulldogs. Mr. Littman hugged them, too. (Dogs are a big part of his clientele.)

"First, I was like totally paranoid," said Elizabeth Singer, 48, a psychotherapist who watched Mr. Littman from the distance while her Maltese played in the dog run. "But he seems to be really happy and generous. Of course, being a New Yorker, you wonder what happy and generous really is."

Between hugs, Mr. Littman spelled out his rules: "No dates, no numbers, no money. This is a nonprofit organization."

Mr. Littman's other rule is no discrimination: anyone who wants a hug gets one. He hugs the homeless.

"Need a hug?" he asked a woman smoking a sweet-tipped cigar.

"I don't, but you sure look like you need one," she replied, wrapping her arms around him. "He looked lonely," the woman, Jo Copasso, 43, said later.

On typical Sundays, Mr. Littman is accompanied by his friend Sipai Klein, who also gives out hugs. But because of Mother's Day, Mr. Klein could not be there yesterday. Mr. Littman said he was "not in touch" with his own parents, who live in Brooklyn. The subject causes a brief, sad lull before he charges on.

"How about a free hug?" he hollered at a man, woman and small boy dressed all in black. "How about not?" the boy shot back.

"I'm trying to cut down," said a banker from Kenya.

"Nothing's free," said another man, as he brushed past with his golden retriever.

The rejections seemed to bounce right off Mr. Littman's toothy smile.

"Ahhhhh!" screamed Faith Smith, 15, of Queens, as she sprinted toward Mr. Littman's open arms and delivered an almost crushing embrace.

"Nobody wants to give him a hug,'' she said. "I feel so bad."

Melanie Griot, 27, watched Mr. Littman for 20 minutes before succumbing to his arms. "I had a really bad morning," said Ms. Griot, an aspiring writer who had had a fight with her boyfriend.

Halfway through the afternoon, Mr. Littman's friend Jeffrey Greenberg, a teacher who lives in Toronto, walked up and said hello, then stepped back to watch.

"He told me he started this a few weeks ago, so I had to see this with my own eyes," said Mr. Greenberg, 27, who stood with his arms crossed. "He's a little bit quirky at times, but I never would have expected this."

In less than an hour, an unexpected transformation had occurred in Mr. Greenberg. He, too, was soliciting people for hugs.

"It's contagious," he said.

Soon, an actor, Langdon Bosarge, 35, walked up to the pair.

"Why are you guys doing this?'' Mr. Bosarge asked. "Hugging strangers is, like, weird."

"What's your name?" Mr. Littman asked.

"Langdon."

"My name's Jayson. Now we're not strangers."

They hugged.

"It felt O.K.," Mr. Bosarge said as he walked off. "It was kind of the half-body-contact hug versus the full frontal."

It was what Mr. Littman has termed the "duck hug," when a person ducks in and out. There is also the "three-tap hug" - a cautious, back-patting type. No matter what comes at him, Mr. Littman always seems to respond with the same calm, noninvasive embrace.

Among those surveying Mr. Littman yesterday was Carolyn Howe, 54, a professor of sociology at College of the Holy Cross, in Worcester, Mass., who happened to be walking through the park.

"It makes a lot of people think about themselves, about why they're afraid of getting a hug," Ms. Howe said.

Mr. Littman hopes to start a national hugging movement. For the time being, he is trying to recruit "cameo huggers" to help fortify his presence in the park.

"The elderly are the hardest grab," he said. Every Sunday, an 87-year-old woman hobbles past him about five times during the course of the afternoon, each time dismissing him with the flick of a hand.

Sure enough, yesterday was no exception. "She's my toughest one," he said before bellowing, "Every Sunday you turn me down!"

The woman, Lynn Logan, sat on a shaded bench, nearby, wearing an Ebenezer Scrooge scowl beneath her red-wool hat.

"He oughta get a job. He has nothing better to do," said Ms. Logan, a retired telephone operator. "I can't be bothered with this nonsense.''

But asked why she would not relent, she paused and said, "He's not my type."

I SPY . . .

I took my parents, Gran and my grand-aunt out to dinner tonight at -- gasp! -- Todai, a Japanese-style sushi buffet restaurant. I gasp because I felt like an absolute traitor, giving money and even a tip to the restaurant chain that is in direct competition with Jaime's Minado, run by the Masheta Group. But our friends assured me I would be serving a valuable purpose and fulfilling a lifelong dream: TO BE A SPY.

So here is my top secret report, based upon two hours of reconnoissance:

SECTION ONE: THE SITE
Todai -- at least the one in NY -- is small. It is decorated with many neon lights and bizarrely electric colors (such as electric blue and yellow) that lend the dining area a very commercial and frenetic ambiance. The overhead lights -- pendant-style opaque fixtures reveal the shadows of dead bugs lying in the lamps' trays. Gross! For a small restaurant, the layout is spacious enough, but the tables are set together haphazardly, so that a table of six guests sit at three tables, but they will not reconcile evenly with each other. This makes for many jabbed ribs and snagged sweaters. The buffets lie along the far rear wall, but are half the length of Minado's buffets. Human traffic does not flow easily back here, as it is difficult to determine where one is supposed to start lining up for food. In addition, the bright neon lights above the food products cause a condition similar to sun glare, in which the patrons are blinded and bump into each other. I'm not kidding. Plus, I hate having to fight small children for cooked shrimp and cocktail sauce. Really, I always end up looking like the bad guy.

SECTION TWO: THE FOOD
The food gets a solid C-. I have only been to two Minado outlets, but in each one, I have been overwhelmed by the mere size and variety of the dishes and sushi choices offered. At one Minado, I could not even see the end of the buffet and wondered if I could burn enough calories walking the buffet line to justify how much dinner I would inhale. At Todai, I was underwhelmed. Not only could I see all of the restaurant's offering in one glance, I could also note that there wasn't much of each dish.

Each roll was sliced into only about ten or so pieces, and spread out pathetically on a large white sushi platter. Note to food service outlets everywhere: if you want to make a little look like a lot, do not -- DO NOT -- put it on a huge platter that dwarfs the food and enhances the fact that you only have a wee bit of it. Doi. Get some snotty 11-year-old kid in front of the California rolls, and of course he's going to grab six pieces in one snatch. There's nothing sadder than four slices of California roll sitting in the middle of a 14" x 14" plate. Oh, and speaking of California rolls ... try to spell everything correctly. It's not "Callifornia." (I also noted "arrugula" and "nooodles.") The rolls tasted fine -- I am no sushi connoisseur; I just eat it if it is edible. But they were WEENIE-SIZED. At Minado, I am often faced with the dilemma: how can I bite this roll in half without (1) getting everything stuck in my teeth, or (2) breaking it up and making all the insides spatter all over my plate. At Todai, I popped each roll into my mouth and still had room to carry on a conversation without disenchanting my dinner companions.

The cooked shrimp were mushy. That's just weird. I've read that you are not to overcook shrimp, so that they are crunchy and totally firm, but that's how I like it! Todai's cooked shrimp LOOKED mushy on the platter, and WAS mushy. In fact, it reminded me of the frozen cooked shrimp that you buy at BJ's Wholesale Club or Sam's Club -- when you thaw it and don't use it immediately, it gets kind of mushy and emits warm shrimp juice. I have concluded that Todai must get its cooked shrimp from one of those wholesale clubs, then leaves it out until it melts, then lightly rinses it before putting it out for public consumption. Bleh.

The udon noodles were overcooked and mushy. Blech.

The pickled ginger was generic, but the wasabi (1) was dry and flaky, and (2) didn't have the nice design swirled onto the top of the wasabi pile with a butter knife. I don't know why, but the decorative swirl makes all the difference. Isn't that why people get Master's Degrees in icing cakes and cookies?

Todai offered maybe seven cold or salad-ish dishes, and maybe eight hot dishes, to which I say "BEH!" with utmost scorn. I guess I wouldn't be as critical if I felt that the presentation was abundant and beautiful, but it didn't even have those basic qualities. I stood in front of every dish (1) wondering why no one bothered to make it look pretty and inviting and appetizing, and (2) feeling bad that I would soon be spooning some onto my plate, because I had a sneaking suspicion the kitchen didn't have enough food to put out. For a buffet restaurant, there was no sense of "I can go back as much as I want, and there will always be enough food for me." All of the food tasted alright ... but I just did not feel emotionally well eating it.

The desserts were decent, though the creme brulee was overcooked. However, there was a crepe station. That was kind of cool.

SECTION THREE: PLATES
Speaking of plates ... we initially could not find them. At Minado, the plates are either stacked at the beginning of a buffet station, or are contained in little rolling carts at the start of every buffet station. At Todai, dad actually had to ask the manager where he was hiding the plates. FYI: they are under the counter in random spots. Just look for them.

SECTION FOUR: SERVICE & STAFF
The service gets a solid D-. There wasn't any. They never cleared our used plates. It took three go-arounds to catch someone to order beverages. They never refilled our water. They never asked if we wanted tea or coffee. They only paid fervent attention to us when it was time to pay the bill. Naturally.

SECTION FIVE: CONCLUSION
Go to Minado. Better ambiance. More attentive staff. Better and more food. Fresher fish. Lighting that is easier on the eyes. Also, I lifted many non-essential items, including the drink menu, the paper placemat, a Todai Bonus Card application, and business card. I have placed them in an envelope labeled "Jaime's Top Secret File." Hehehe.

***

LOVE CONNECTION . . .

There are friends in the world that you don't see all the time. But it doesn't mean you don't love them any less, or that the friendship is any less important to you.

I was reminded of that today, when I saw my L.O.L.'s for the first time in months. I saw Yang briefly through my car door -- a quick hello with just enough time for a peck on each other's cheeks. I kidnapped the Chief of Staff and nearly killed her while running a red light on Houston Street (again, this doesn't mean I love her any less). I was greeted with a big hug by my Janey as I walked into Wonger's bridal shower. I watched Wonger be surrounded by her beloved lady friends for the next three hours. I commiserated with Snoozy about work and ... toddler potty training. I don't really know how or why I commiserated about toddler potty training, but I did.

It was refreshing. When you don't see supposedly close friends in a long time, you are -- or at least, I am -- struck by a small sense of insecurity. Are you still friends? Are you still close? Can you still make each other laugh and be each other's shoulder to cry on? Do you still have stories to tell and things to discover about each other? Do you still like each other? Are the differences that cropped up over time divisive, or do they make each other more interesting and well-rounded?

Today, I learned yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And, the former. And there is no "supposedly." It is in these moments of revelation and warmth that I realize that for all that I don't have, I have more than I think I do. And that's just freakin' fantastic.

UPDATE . . .

Melanie's surgery went well; doctors removed her thyroid and surrounding lymph nodes, leaving her voice box and other important things untouched. Thank the Lord. She'll be home tomorrow ... but this whole process leaves me with remaining questions. In particular ... can one live without a thyroid? That's just weird.

...

MY HOMER SIMPSON MOMENT . . .

Must sign papers. Must find plumber. Must find electrician. They must not rip me off. Must buy essential furniture. Must not get ripped off buying furniture. Must recruit friends to move me in exchange for dinner and beer. Must paint bedroom and office. Must choose paint colors. Must not be overwhelmed by the 8,935 different paint color samples. Must fix window blind that I broke during inspection. Must not tell anyone about that. Must not let C tell anyone about that. Must power-wash the deck. Must bribe C into power-washing the deck in exchange for beer and free baby-sitting. Must hook up cable modem. Must not be without Internet connection for longer than absolutely necessary. Must not lose sleep over all of these things that will eventually work out. Must hire consultants to do all this for me.

...

SIX IS ENOUGH . . .

Six days without running. Six days of getting by with the bare minimum of aerobic activity: walking to and from my car, walking to and from the chair, walking to and from the sofa, walking to and from the dinner table, walking to and from my bed, walking to and from the bathroom. Enough is enough.

I don't know what warped logic would justify a "rest period" from a measly 5k -- a mere 3.2 miles. But I have rested and I'm sick of resting. The scale reads the same number, but in the span of a week, I have totally flabbed out. I'm not sleeping as well, my skin is not as ... glowy or something, my endorphins are not coursing through my body as energetically, and basically, I feel like crap.

You heard it here first, and I commit this to you: tomorrow, before heading to Wonger's fete, I run.

Beh.

...

Watched: "Love Actually"
Reading: "Truman," by David McCullough

YOU ARE ALWAYS ON MY MIND . . .

... Melanie, going in for surgery on her thyroid, to try to beat that cancer ...

... JKA, going in for her first Westchester interview, to try get a fat teaching job closer to home ...

... Little Alien and family, sick, sicker, uncomfortable and sleepless ...

... Hooch, struggling with asthma, allergies, bronchitis, and God forbid what else ...

... Mrs.G, juggling a squalling newborn, a new house, myriad paint colors, and lovingly meddlesome older folks who think they know better ...

... Wonger, counting down the days to a new life, and the big circus event that will jump-start it ...

I HATE THIS WAR . . .

If you haven't heard yet about the U.S. military's abuse of Iraqi prisoners-of-this-bullshit-war, then YOU ARE LIVING IN A CAVE OR ARE EXTREMELY IGNORANT.

To read about it, check out the New Yorker's coverage of it.

And be outraged at the utter hypocrisy that just oozes everywhere ...

ETC., ETC., . . .

A bed
A sofa
A coffee table
A television
A DVD player
A television stand
Some bookcases
Two rooms' worth of paint
Patio furniture
A nighttable
Storage items
Wall hangings
Hanging picture frames
Tasteful design and decorations
Area rugs
A new fuse box
A shower caddy
Bathroom accessories
Lamps
Closet organizers
A vacuum
Cable hook-up
A dead-bolt lock

Sigh. Home ownership's a bee-yatch, and I don't even have a lawn to mow! Anyone wanna go to Home Depot, BiF, Ikea, Crate&Barrel, Bed Bath & Beyond, and the Container Store with me?

EVENTUALLY, THE CRAZY HAS GOT TO COME OUT . . .

Having dinner at Camp Capio on a non-event night is always ... an event. On the one hand, I feel like and am accepted as 'family', so I feel completely at home. On the other hand, I feel like the most intimate of voyeurs, peering into the lives of people who are so like me in some ways, so very unlike me in others.

Take tonight, for example: I pick up a small Thai dinner -- thank God for the end of Lent and the ability to eat pad thai again -- and head over to Camp. M is home from work, upstairs having quality time with CA. C is puttering around downstairs, hauling MJ around like a sack of potatoes. So far, so good -- everything is standard. After settling the Noodles down to be fed their final solid meal of the day by C, M and I dig into our grown-up dinner. But those Noodles sure are entertaining -- far better than television. Between MJ moaning and grumbling for quicker food delivery from jar to his mouth, screwing up his face in horror after sucking on a slice of lime, and CA shaking her head back and forth and cracking herself up in the process, I didn't know if I should swallow my food and laugh or just open my mouth and let it all spew out.

But then the dog got loose and chaos reigned.

The Popstar came trotting up the stairs from her playpen in the basement, as if it were perfectly alright for her to be roaming the house freely with a big ol' marrow bone wedged in her jaws. The thunder and lightning had roused her, and she spent the next few minutes attacking the window panes around the family room trying to get at the lightning, her leash trailing and whipping around behind her like a spastic extended tail. Damn dog didn't even say hi to me. Then M joined CA in the head-shaking, crooning "dori-dori-dori," a common Korean nonsensical phrase used with children who, well, shake their heads incessantly as a form of self-entertainment. MJ's moaning and grumbling got louder; he stopped only to laugh when M sang him the "Horsey" song (which I have been forbidden to repeat in the workplace, lest I get locked out of chambers again) or blew raspberries in his face. And finally, because C just could not bear to be left out of the madness, he joined in the head-shaking.

There I sat, surrounded by a frantic Jack Russell terrier trying to eat lightning, a moaning and increasingly shrieking baby boy with sweet potato souffle mush oozing out of his pursed mouth, a messy rice cereal-covered baby girl shaking her head back and forth and cackling in glee, and two grown adults, shaking their heads and giggling for no apparent good reason. What the ...

I shudder to think what the evening would have been like had we all had wine with dinner ...

CHANGE IS GOOD . . .

... but that don't mean I gotta like it or be comfortable with it.

1. JWu is leaving the East Coast in exactly twenty-six days to start his family practice residency on the Wrong Coast. I don't like it.

2. Wonger is getting married in exactly seventeen days, the fourth of the L.O.L. to get hitched. I like it, but I'm not comfortable in a dress and high heels. Plus, I gotta get my hair did. Hee, hee!

3. I'm on the very verge of moving out and living on my own, without the prospect of "going home for vacation." I like it, but the planning and preparations and financing are driving me crazy! Plus, where does one really get a good deal on furniture?

4. NHF is going to implement new care groups and really ramp up the programs that have lain dormant for a couple of years. Of course I like it, but (she says in a whisper with a sheepish and shy expression on her face) I kind of like where I've been and who I've been with.

5. Cheech follows JWu to the Wrong Coast in three months to start his medical training. I like it, but who's gonna look out for my little one?!?!?!?

***

COOLNESS . . .

The Honorable Constance Baker Motley sounds like one totally hip and cool lady. The ninth of twelve children born to Caribbean immigrants, she went to Columbia Law School (Class of 1946), became the first African-American woman to serve in the New York State Senate, the first woman elected as Manhattan Borough President, the first candidate for that office to be endorsed by the Republicans, the Democrats and the Liberals, the first black woman appointed to the federal bench (she currently sits on the U.S. District Court, Southern District of New York, baby!), the first woman to serve as chief judge of that Court. All that, AND she was part of the NAACP team that litigated and argued the Brown v. Board of Education cases before the Supreme Court.

Damn.

Talk about a swift kick in the pants. I'm sitting around thinking about what to make for lunch tomorrow and worrying if I'm ever going to get married and fretting over who is going to get booted from "American Idol" and trying to motivate myself to get up and run in the mornings, when there is so much more I could be doing with my bad self.

Duly chastened.

WE FOUGHT CANCER . . .

As a team:



And for Melanie:

THINGS I LEARNED THIS WEEKEND . . .

1. Women are bitches. It doesn't matter if she is Christian or not. It doesn't matter if she's your sister or not. It doesn't matter that one day she professes to love you and to consider you family. It doesn't matter that she's black, white, Asian, Hispanic, something else, a mix of all or some of the above. It doesn't matter that she's young or old or really really old. It doesn't matter that she's successful or downtrodden. It doesn't matter that she's single or married or somewhere in between or formerly one or the other. It doesn't matter that she's pretty or ugly or somewhere in the middle. It doesn't matter that she's poor or wealthy or ridiculously one or the other. It doesn't matter that she seems to have it all or that she apparently has nothing. None of that, and none of anything else, matters.

Women are always going to be competitive with each other: for men, for jobs, for popularity, for attention, for money, for the love of another, for friends, for time, for the tangible and intangible, to feel better about themselves, to make the other woman feel bad, to make up for an insecurity, to foster an insecurity in the other woman, to exact revenge, to exact personal satisfaction, to make a point, to win or at least not to lose or at least not feel like they lost something.

I suppose I shouldn't feel disappointed when I encounter a woman -- friend or stranger or complete foe -- who competes with me for any of the above things. But I am, for two reasons. First, it just sucks and it makes me feel bad, and then it makes me angry, and when I get angry, the root cause festers inside me and makes me sick and tense and agita-ed to the max. And that turns ME into a bitch. And I hate being a bitch because then I take out by bitchiness not on the woman who turned me into a bitch in the first place, but on the innocent bystander. And then I feel worse. Second, it makes me realize I am the exact same way, and it seems hopeless to try to change myself or to change the attitudes of women around me, my friends, my family, my coworkers.

Women in this country struggle with self-image, self-confidence, being paid 75% less than men for the SAME EXACT JOB. We struggle with being married, being single, being ugly, being too pretty, being overweight, suffering from an eating disorder. We struggle with loneliness, abuse, low self-esteem, emotional distance, illness, and so much more. And though we like to talk about building each other up, and certainly in the Christian context, being each other's "sisters," we aren't. We seemingly can't. That just sucks. I refuse to believe and accept that we suck, that we women suck ... but don't we, kind of?

2. When one is deprived of hope, one turns into an animal and resorts to desperate, unthinkable measures. I just got back from watching "Silmido," a Korean film running on limited released in NYC this week. This film is entirely in Korean, with no subtitles -- I hope that changes because it's really a film worth seeing, even if you have zero ties to Korea or Korean people. The enthralling thing about the movie is ... it's based on true fact, history, that was hidden away and forgotten (or maybe not) for the last forty years. Finally, someone(s) discovered the truth, wrote a book and turned it into this movie, telling an incredible tale ...

In the 1960s, 31 North Korean soldiers? mercenaries? murderers? political pawns? were sent into South Korea to assasinate then-President Park Chung-hee. They almost succeeded and got scarily close to the Blue House (the Presidential seat) before being caught and killed by the South Korean military. In revenge (though no one will admit this, I'm sure), in 1968, the South Korean government started training 31 hardened prisoners -- men on death row or sentenced to life imprisonment -- on the island of Silmi-do, off the coast of South Korea. They endured over two years of the harshest military training -- reports say that the movie, while mostly accurate, could not wholly depict the exact training procedures because the actors would not be able to endure filming and the audiences would not be able to endure viewing -- for the sole purpose of being sent into North Korea to assasinate then-dictator Kim Il-Sung. With the mission accomplished, they would be given new lives, their sentences commuted.

These 31 hardscrabble convicts became a troop, a team, a brotherhood, and as one united body, they departed for North Korea one stormy night (no kidding), seeking not only to destroy Kim Il-Sung, but to start their lives over once they returned to the South successful, as heroes. Mere minutes after their departure, their military leaders pushed out to sea after them to turn them back: the word had come from on high that the government's policy towards North Korea had changed. Instead of elimination and invasion, the South was going to try a peaceful policy. The assasination attempt was moot.

The rest of the film portrays the downward spiral of the 31 men and the troops guarding? befriending? training? with them. With nothing to live for anymore, the men became desperate, and like starving dogs, they turned on each other, going slowly but surely crazy. After discovering that their own government wanted them executed -- these 31 unknown, lost, nameless convicts trained to murder and kill -- the men turn on the military in a last-ditch effort to avoid certain death. They determine to get back to mainland Korea and tell their story, so that they will not be lost in anonymity, a blank chapter in the country's history.

The end is predictable and now widely known. They die, all together, blowing themselves up in a bus as they try to get to President Park to tell him the whole truth, but prevented from doing so by the very military that trained them. They are branded Communist infiltrators by their own goverment. The Silmi-do project is forgotten, its official report shelved and locked away in a government filing cabinet for forty years. Until some dude discovers it ...

Apparently, in real life, they did not all die. One of the military trainers lived ... a handful of the convicts who made it to the mainland lived ... and this was their story. It's so crazy, it's like a movie or something ...

Anyway, my point was ... films like this make me think about humanity and inhumanity, and how very fine the line is that separates the two. People can be born a certain way, then trained, then changed, then broken, then remade, then given hope, then lifted up, then made human again, then deprived of hope, then made into animals. How different the course of the universe would be had we no capacity for rage, revenge, fury, desperation, hope, dashed hope, deception ...

3. My cousin Jake is far wiser than I had initially thought. He is going around telling his second-grade classmates not to vote for the Shrubbery in November. Hee, hee!

(OK, OK, never mind that second-graders can't vote, so Jake's campaign is moot. You have to give the kid two snaps in a circle for being more aware of current events than most adults I know!)

IT'S BEEN RUN . . .

We did it!

Team NHF Fights Cancer met up, laced up, powered up, and ran and walked its heart out. We also broke the $1500 mark! (But they are receiving pledges until June 1st, so keep on giving!)

The race seemed easier and shorter than Komen, despite a much-delayed start -- the runners couldn't really get going until several hundred feet after entering Central Park, and even then, we had to maneuver around the majority of the crowd, walking. But that did not deter us or me, and certainly having company by my side keeping pace with me made the 3.2 miles seem like buttah.

My moment of inspiration struck after I missed the humongous sign that said "3 MILES" and was wondering to myself "when is this damn run going to be over because I'm STARVING?!" I asked C if we could stop and walk for a little bit, to which he responded "NO! [He is so brusque.] The end is almost here! The end is right around the corner!" I thought he was bluffing me, trying to get me to keep running, but I persevered anyway, thinking "I promised to run for Melanie, I promised to run for Melanie, I have to run towards the water bottles, I have to run towards the water bottles." Lo and behold, we turned a curve and there was the finish line. At this very moment, seeing "FINISH LINE" right in front of me, I was hit with a wave of emotion and tears and something burst into my legs that propelled me forward faster than I thought I could run in a half-sleepy, half-starved state. I thought of Melanie, of myself, of my friends, of my friends' daughters, and I flew over the finish line to the applause and cheers of strangers. C and I high-fived, then strolled quickly to the water and lunch bags. Please, priorities.

This morning was humbling, not in the physical sense. Running, though boring and sweat-inducing, is fine and even fun if you have the right running companion(s), and it certainly isn't hard. But seeing cancer survivors run and walk on a glorious Saturday morning they might never have seen, or seeing "In memory of" placards with dozens of names written on them ... THAT is humbling. And though I was proud that I had done my second 5k (and run almost 100% of it) and that everything had gone smoothly, I was more proud, as I looked at the other runners and walkers crossing the finish line behind me and the hundreds of Revlon volunteers cheering us and thanking us, to have been part of something incredibly special and important, and to have shared it with tens of thousands of other people who care as passionately as I and we do.

Komen Race for the Cure ... we'll come and git you in September ...

RUN LIKE YOU MEAN IT . . .

Tomorrow morning, I will join 22 of my "NHF Fights Cancer" teammates to run and/or walk in the Revlon 5k Run/Walk to Fight Cancer. I'm excited and nervous all at once: I'm not the strongest runner, so I wonder how long I'll last. I'm slightly sick, so I wonder if I'll start wheezing or coughing or get sicker. I have a bum knee and an injured hamstring, so I wonder if my right leg will last me the entire 3.2 miles without something horrific happening. I'm the team captain, so I wonder if everything will go smoothly logistically, whether everyone will meet at the right place at the right time, whether everyone will be able to find their tshirts and goody bags, and whether everyone will have enough water and have a good time.

But I'm excited because I am part of something bigger than I can fathom with my small brain. Tens of thousands of people uniting in this great city with a single purpose: to raise awareness and funds to fight women's cancers. I never thought I would ever say this, but I have known women who survived cancer, who are fighting cancer now, who died from cancer. I bet by the time we hit 30 years of age, we all will be able to say that, and that just sucks. These little 5ks are so fun, but also so important for that very reason.

Our team has raised, to date, $1,455 of our $2000 goal. That's not the whole deal and so it's slightly discouraging. If you still want to give -- race date is not a deadline for giving -- please do so by finding our team at the Revlon Run/Walk website. It doesn't matter who you credit your donation to ... just donate.

Heck, you know what? I won't worry about the money now. It's not about the money. Tomorrow, I will run as best as I can, as much as I can, for Melanie, Soy, JKA, the 2 Mrs. Kims, and my aunt in North Korea, who have been scared, who are scared, who have passed on ... and for CA, Melon-y, Abby, Sarah, who will grow up knowing that people care about them and their health and their lives, and maybe won't have to be scared of anything.

DIRTY, DIRTY . . .

Today, Shrub and the Veep are going to chat with the 9/11 Commission. Chat, NOT testify. In the Oval Office, NOT in the hearing chamber. And they are going to chat together, NOT separately. And they are NOT going to be under oath (sorry, Scott, but the oath to take on the Presidency does NOT equal an oath to testify truthfully in a hearing, DUH). Ew, I am so so so suspicious of the two of them ...

Hooch alerted me to this hysterical portion of yesterday's White House press briefing, conducted by Scott McClellan:

"Q: Scott, following up to what Elisabeth said, somewhat. Before Dr. Rice testified publicly, President Bush said it was important for the American public to know about the events leading up to 9/11. If that is the case, why not have the President testify publicly, even with a transcript? And why not under oath?

MR. McCLELLAN: Well, first of all, the President is already under oath as the President of the United States. But let me go back to when the President signed the legislation creating this commission.

Q: He's under oath 24 hours a day? (Laughter.)"

DOI, SCOTT.

And to top off my sentiment for today's 'chat', allow me to quote Hooch's flash of brilliance:

"You know, when you put a dick and a bush together, somebody's gonna get screwed."

MY HEADLINES . . .

The Revlon 5k Run/Walk is in two days ... I'm so excited because the first 5k I ran last fall was a great deal of fun. Saturday should be great, too, because I'm captaining my church's team and at least 22 of us will be running and walking together. But ... our team's fundraising goal is $2000, and we've only raised just over half of that. THAT'S PATHETIC!!! WHAT IS THE PROBLEM!?!?!?!?

I do not understand -- twenty people could not raise $2000?! Does this even COMPUTE in anyone's logical mind? Runners and walkers: you spend your days eating and watching TV and hanging out with people and doing things you think are important. But you committed to running and walking in this 5k, so PRIORITIZE and THINK OF THOSE WHO ARE SUFFERING FROM CANCER and are DEPENDING on your serious efforts. And potential donors: you spend your days buying food, buying cars, buying books and CDs and DVDs of movies you've already seen, going on vacations, and throwing cash away willy-nilly, taking cabs when you could walk the ten blocks. PUT YOUR MONEY TO SOMETHING WORTHWHILE.

I hate to say it, but I'm finally going to: CANCER COULD HAPPEN TO YOU. It could happen to any of us. It DOES happen to any of us. Remember my month-long boob pain, my ultrasound, waiting for the results? Remember when she felt a lump in one breast, and then in the other? Remember when she had a lump removed from her breast? Remember when she had her mastectomy? Remember when she felt a swollen lymph node? Remember when she touched her neck and found something there that didn't belong? Remember when she told you she had cancer? I remember. You don't?

If and when cancer hits home, the good Lord forbid, THERE DAMN WELL BETTER BE ENOUGH MONEY FOR RESEARCH AND TREATMENT, because if there isn't, we ALL are going to regret it.

***

The Redhead is gone from "American Idol." Thank you, America. You have finally done something right.

***

This morning, on the "Today" show, Katie Couric -- who I quite enjoy, even though she's kind of ... oh, I don't know, cheesy? -- used the word/phrase "stick with-it-ness." Uhhh ... that is not a word.

***

Derek Jeter is 0-32. ARGH!

***

C has been gushing on and on and on about this place called Paese, a little Italian place in the nabe. He also sent me an article about a new steak restaurant recently opened by a veteran waiter at Peter Luger. Which reminds me ... I am craving pasta and steak.

TONIGHT . . .

... it was my parents' wedding anniversary, so I made some steak, steamed some asparagus, prepared some salad, set out the Korean side dishes, and even -- drum roll, por favor -- made a lemon bundt cake. Yes, my friends, the bundt cake pan that was being punished is now out of the corner and back in business. I am happy to report that despite intense agita and trepidation, 98% of the bundt cake came out of the pan. A 1" x 1" section tore off and fell onto the floor, but in accordance with the 10-second rule (for dry foods; 5 seconds for wet), I picked it right back up and slapped it into place. My parents never knew. I wish I had a digital camera, so I could have photographed the 98% perfect bundt cake and the redeemed bundt cake pan (which, by the way, cost me a whopping $29, so I'm glad it's working now after its bratty little "I don't want to release the cake" phase). But I am faux-Mennonite as well as afraid of small shiny technical things with buttons on them that I have to hook up to a computer. So you'll just have to take my word for it. Or check out the extra three pounds I put on.

... my mother pronounced very loudly (after a beer or two) that "golf just brings the ENTIRE WORLD together!" This, after she learned that a friend of the family ran into another friend of the family on a Los Angeles golf course, totally randomly and unexpectedly.

... my mother pronounced very loudly (again) that "the Yankees just need to hit some HOME RUNS." Ha ha ha ha! One just has to laugh.

... I heard that one of Cheech's best friends, Mel, an amazing woman in her early 20s, was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. I don't know her very well; you don't know her at all. But how much further could my heart sink? How much deeper could I suck in my stomach in shock? She will probably undergo some surgery, and probably will heal, but ... pray for her. AND RUN/WALK A DAMN 5K AND/OR RAISE MONEY TO FIGHT CANCER.

GUT-BUSTER . . .



For an explanation of this wretched, wretched photograph, please check out its corresponding E-bay advertisement. I promise, there is nothing dastardly about the ad ... but you MUST scroll down through the ad to read the full description of the product being sold.

Then hold your belly and try not to puke as you laugh.

O CANADA . . .

Sunday morning, the bulk of our cabal hauled our sleepy selves up to Canada to see the G's and their newest addition to the Melon Patch. Not much else to say, except it smelled REALLY good in the house when we walked in -- naturally, given that Mama Melon's Omma was brewing up some good old-fashioned mi-yuk-guk on the stove. Melon-y is adorable, with her little scrunchy face and granny pursed lips, all bundled up like a little caterpillar larva. We didn't stay long ... just long enough to get a shot of four of the ladies of NHF ...



... and a glamour shot of the mini-gang ...



***

BLAST FROM THE PAST . . .

And another photo that was discovered the other night ... we're missing one of the Gang of Six, but you get the idea ...

FOR A GOOD TIME . . .

Check out this faux Whitney McNally website.

You all might remember he's the Details Magazine contributor who put together the "Gay or Asian" spoof page in the April 2004 issue.

All I can say is ... God bless the Internet.

THE RANDOMIZER . . .

"American Idol" tonight was atrocious. Good God. Poor, poor, poor Gloria Estefan had to sit there and listen to her greatest hits get utterly butchered. Dios mio!

***

I think I'm having sympathy pain. As babies around me start teething ... well, so am I. There's activity in the area of my right bottom wisdom tooth, and it ain't good. Sensitive gums ... piercing pain everytime food goes there ... itchy right ear ... swollen jaw ... WAAAAAAAH!

STAIN ON MY PANTS, REVISITED . . .

This is what I'm talking about. Imagine two of these mouthfuls landing on your lap with a resounding "plop" that could be heard above the roar of a sold-out ballpark. Then imagine feeling the warm wet feeling emanate from your thigh. Then imagine looking down in trepidation and seeing a smiling baby and a little pile of gummed pretzel sitting there on your leg. Yup. This is what I'm talking about.

STAIN ON MY PANTS . . .

I attended two of the three atrocities known as Yankee baseball games this past weekend. Sigh, sigh and DAMNIT! Jeter is 0 for 25. WTF?!?!?! Posada, the only run-producer for this lame-o team, was NOT in the game on Friday. WTF?!?!?! Stupid Manny keeps on whacking the big ones against us. WTF?!?!?!

Nevertheless, there was a major highlight of the weekend (aside from spending quality time with C and Cheech and my fellow agonized Yankee fans): being part of MJ's first baseball game EVAH.



Yes, my friends: C brought his 7-month-old boy twin to the game on Saturday. A perfect day by all accounts -- sunny, warm, breezy. There was no alcohol in the left-field bleachers, but that was probably for the best anyway. It gets rowdy enough back there during Yankees-Red Sox matchups. And with MJ there, we wanted things to be as peaceful as possible.

HE LOVED IT! From the moment we met up with Cheech and his pal, MJ was reaching for the Italian sausages, the cold cans of beer, other people's jerseys (apologies to the man in yellow whose back MJ kept rubbing). I do believe he even watched the game at times, when he wasn't napping or staring up at the sky. People around us adored him and he melted even the cold, cold hearts of the dastardly Boston fans sitting around us (although of course, we did not let them touch him. Ew. Boston.)

I am also proud to say that although I am waaaay past the age of buying senseless souvenirs, I came home from the game with two: two big ol' sloppy stains on my pants, one on each leg. Smart C left one of MJ's bottles in the car, and of course MJ chose SATURDAY to decide he wanted to eat every hour on the hour. After the poor dehydrated tot sucked down one bottle in record time at the bottom of the 3rd inning, C was left to rely on his wits. His wits led him to purchase an unsalted pretzel (a STALE unsalted pretzel which no adult in his or her right mind would ever put in his or her mouth), which served as MJ's pacifier for the rest of the game. When MJ decided to wave his arms about (in indignation at the crappy pitching, I'm sure), the globs and globs of gummed pretzel predictably landed on laps and feet everywhere, including my own. Ew.



Saturday, despite the shameful loss (to be followed by another shameful loss), was perfection. MJ avoided sunburn; my nose did not (although it has now faded to a perky glow, if I do say so myself); I did not get sick on hotdogs, cheese fries, Cracker Jack and beer, like I did the last time I was at a game with Cheech; MJ had no poo emergency; we were surrounded by excellent fans, including one gentleman whose favorite phrases were "hit the ball, you dopey bastard" and "nomar is wicked injured!" and "it's wicked hot out here, I need a wicked beer!"; and I got a strawberry milkshake from McDonald's on the way home.

I love my nephew MJ. I love my friends and my brother. I love sunny perfect days. And you know what? Sigh ... I even love those dopey Yankees. I hope the dopey bastards start winning some games soon. I hope I can continue to afford Yankee tickets. And I hope MJ will look back on these and other photos and appreciate that his auntie sacrificed a perfectly fine pair of pants for him.

TO LOOK OR NOT TO LOOK . . .



Do I want to see photos of the coffins of American soldiers coming home from Iraq?

No.

But I think it's good for me to see. And I think it's good for this government to allow its citizens to see. And so I will keep logging onto The Memory Hole in the hopes that I can get into the site ...

I live everyday in more than relative safety and comfort. Many of my friends and family do as well. I know that friends of friends of friends of friends, etc. are stationed overseas right now, all over the world, doing whatever on behalf of something good (I hope). But it's easy to forget that military service is a sacrifice and a privilege ... and I need a reminder, as do many of us. Looking at photos of American flag-draped coffins arriving back on American soil reminds me that people fight for my freedom and to give that freedom to others (I hope). I realize that there are people out there braver and more dedicated than I. I see that my life is more than just my house, my job, my friends, my family. I am part of a bigger picture, and there are people dying to preserve my bigger picture.

I understand that the Pentagon's no-photo/no-media-coverage policy "is simply an effort to protect the sensitivities of military families." But to argue a minor point: we're not seeing bodies. The photos reveal to us a coffin, a dead soldier in a wooden box, covered by a pristine American flag -- the symbol we Americans look to with pride (I hope) and determination. Yes, a soldier is a son or daughter or loved one, but a soldier is also ours, belonging to all of America. American troops go forth with our blessing and our prayers, representing our system and our beliefs. When they come home alive, we all celebrate. When they come home dead, we all grieve. Only the cruelest, most hard-hearted American is unmoved by a soldier's life sacrifice.

I do not understand how news organizations did not know that the photo-taking was even occurring. Bill Keller, the executive editor of The New York Times was "not aware at all that these photos were being taken." According to John Banner of ABC's World News Tonight, "this [The Memory Hole] was the first we had known that the military was shooting these pictures." The Pentagon says it takes the photographs for an historical purpose. To which I say: all the more reason to release the photos to the public. Let those who wish to look, look. Let those who wish to turn aside, turn aside. But the Pentagon is right: there IS value to these photographs, above and beyond whatever weird reason government officials have created for themselves.

Maybe the government doesn't want to remind us that people are dying in this war, in any war. Of course ... death sucks. To Christians and non-Christians, militants and apathetic citizens, die-hard patriots and doubting conspiracy theorists -- death just sucks. But so what if we are reminded of how many soldiers are dying in this war, in any war? We should be reminded that war is ugly and that it kills people. Perhaps there is glory in fighting and winning ... but there is greater glory in achieving peace and living a harmonious coexistence. If those coffins teach me and my neighbors and our children that we should do everything possible to avoid military conflict, to avoid war, to avoid killing people and being killed ... then bring on the photographs. Remind me every day that our soldiers are dying. Remind me every day that war is an ugly business that should be avoided at all costs. Remind me every day that peace is something to strive for, above and beyond victory and revenge. Remind me every day.

I NEED THIS . . .

MORE TIDBITS . . .

I am a Beef Wellington virgin no more. After dinner in NYC, I have had the full hunk-o'-beef-inside-buttery-puff-pastry experience. Never mind that I thought the layer of mushroom around the filet mignon was ground beef. The chef would have keeled over dead in horror had he heard me ... but I was quickly and laughingly corrected. And enjoyed it anyway. Please. Beef and puff pastry. It's just a good thing.

***

Despite my affinity for beef, however, I believe pork is my preferred meat. As I informed a shocked Hooch this afternoon, pork is just juicier.

***

The Yankees are finally scoring some runs and winning a game ... fine, so it's against the Chicago White Sox, but who cares? A win is a win is a win. Although I missed most of the game, and they are now only in the 7th inning due to a rain delay, apparently all of the Yanks have scored runs. Does that mean A-Rod has also scored a run? Will miracles never cease?!

***

Question du jour (and I won a lunch based on a bet that I would not ask the Judge this question, but of course I did with little hesitation because I just have no shame): Hooch and I were wondering -- why, in history and classic (or not so classic) horror films, do zombies (undead, the living dead, whatever you like to call them -- is there even a difference?) walk forward with their arms totally outstretched? Is there a purpose for this? We have received a few replies: "ask someone else;" "from a medical perspective, it's rigor mortis, which is why zombies cannot bend their arms OR legs;" "dead people are reduced to their basest instincts, which include (and this is NOT NOT NOT my quote) titty-grabbing" (and this does NOT explain heterosexual female zombie behavior). Anyone else? (By the way, Hooch and I spent well over half an hour discussing this issue. Your tax dollars hard at work, yes.) (Also, I have just used many, many parentheticals. Apologies, but they are ever so convenient.)

***

Some important anniversaries rolling around right about now, if you feel so inclined to look upon them with some care. Celebrate the day Jackie Robinson integrated major league baseball (April 19, 1947). Consider the Brown v. Board of Education decisions (May 17, 1954). Remember Oklahoma City (April 19, 1995) and Columbine (April 20, 1999). We recall these dates and events for different reasons, with varied emotions, perhaps with no emotion at all. But we are who we are, and these are why.

***

I love walking in the city on cool summer (or summer-ish) evenings. It's just great. Last night, I watched an episode of "Sex and the City" from Season 5 -- the one where Carrie determines that though she is single and quite possibly wanting to be with someone really badly, being single in New York City is great. She determines that NYC is her boyfriend, the best boyfriend ever. And when someone later in the episode talks smack about the "dirty, loud, smelly" big city, Carrie walks away from him, thinking "don't be talking sh*t about my boyfriend." Damn straight.

SPLAT . . .

She's finally here!

Melonette -- as her proud papa has dubbed her -- arrived at 10:30a.m. today and promptly pooed.
That's my kind of girl!

I also heard her scream over the phone.
I pity the fool that pisses HER off.

Congratulations to #5 and the G's ...

KOREAN LIBERATION . . .

You just are not a liberated Korean woman until you go to a Korean spa/sauna, shuck all your clothes and inhibitions and spend a day with a whole bunch of naked women of all ages and sizes.

Yes, my friends, that is how I spent my Saturday morning. Sigh. (The sad part was, I thought the whole entire time: "If I just had my laptop here, I could blog about this live!")

My mother has never been to a spa and has never received a massage. This, I consider to be a travesty. So when she heard of a Korean spa/sauna that had opened up in Joisey and expressed interest in going, I jumped at the chance to accompany her. Who am I to pass up a free massage? Little I knew ...

First of all, there's something about fresh-off-the-bi-haeng-gee (airplane) Koreans living in Joisey ... they speak a different kind of Korean than we suburban New York Koreans (Flushing Koreans also have a life and dialect of their own). Even Omma had a hard time communicating with the lady at the front desk. How much is a massage? Where do we go? Do we pay now or later? Where are we? The speed and bizarre lilt of the receptionist's voice and dialect was getting to me ... I was getting tense. Just show me where the masseuse awaits me.

We entered the women's locker room, and there it was: BAM! Naked women everywhere. And I'm not just talking "oh hi, I'm naked because I'm changing my clothes." I'm talking about full-on, "I'm 67 years old and saggy," "all I need is a towel on my head," "let me just stand here and do some calisthenics," "I'm having a conversation with three friends as if I'm fully dressed and sitting in Starbucks" naked. I must confess, my eyes bulged. What the ...

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm no prude. OK, I'm slightly prudish, but among my friends, I consider myself to be the most "free" with my body. Dad left the house? I'm walking around naked because it's just easier that way. There's a long line for the dressing rooms? Let's share one. Don't talk to me from the other side of the door -- come in to the bathroom. I'm only peeing, for crying out loud! When I'm with my girlfriends, I'm with my girlfriends, and I just can't bring myself to be shy in front of them about things like boobs and a vagina. We all have them; it's no novelty to me, know what I mean?

But this ... it was almost too much. I almost fled to our car, unable to decide whether to laugh or cry. Finally, I sucked it up and dropped my towel. There. Now I was naked, just like the 60 or so other naked women strolling about around me. Omma and I entered the main tub rooms: a whole series of showers and a steam room lined the side walls, a body scrub (not at all like the wussy American spa body scrubs, no!) section lay along the back wall, and three hot tubs, each filled with a different formula or herb stood along the front wall. I got in, partly because I had no idea what else to do. My alternative was to stand there and look at naked women, most of whom were over the age of fifty. No, I think I'll get in the hot tub, lay my head back and close my eyes, thank you.

Ten minutes passed before I had to head upstairs for my massage. Readers, let's call this MY BIGGEST MISTAKE EVER. Alright, not ever, but pretty damn close. Greeted by a young diminutive Korean woman, I internally scoffed "how could this little wisp of a thing give me the quality of deep tissue massage I am accustomed to and enjoy?" Five minutes later, my massage snobbery came back to bite me in the ass. HARD.

There's deep tissue massage, and then there's just straight up pain. The latter is inflicted by "massaging" someone with JUST YOUR THUMBS. Wtf?! The masseuse climbed all over me and the massage table, nearly cutting off my airpipe everytime she pressed hard on my body, driving my throat into the table. She used her thumbs for everything, and seemed not to know the philosophy of gradual pressure. It was all pain, all the time. I tried my best to breathe through my nose and relax -- my tense muscles were making the massage more and more painful. She even dug her thumbs into the top of my head to relieve ... I don't know what. I just couldn't stop worrying that she was going to reverse the fusion of my skull bones and create another soft spot. Finally, I flinched. The masseuse told me my muscles were tense. NO KIDDING. THAT'S BECAUSE YOU ARE SLOWLY KILLING ME!!!! After informing her several times, to no avail, to lighten up, I just succumbed to the slow death, figuring I can just go for another massage elsewhere to reverse the tension cause by this one.

Sadly, that wasn't the worst part of the massage. Truly, the greatest agony stemmed from the fact that the masseuse was a talker.
"Are you a student?" No.
"Are you married?" No.
"Are you from New Jersey?" No.
"Is this your first time here?" Yes.
"Is this your first massage?" No, but certainly my least pleasant.
"Do you need a massage because you are injured somewhere?" No, but I will.
"Did you come alone?" No.
"The back of your head is very large." Thank you. I think.
"Do you exercise regularly?" Yes.
"Have you been in the tubs already?" Yes.
"Your hands are so small and dainty." Thank you. I think.
And on and on and on. I couldn't decide what hurt more: my ears or my body.

When my sixty minutes were up, I fled like the wind and sought refuge once more in the hot bath tubs. By now, I was feeling free and walking proudly naked as well. And this is when it dawned on me: this place was pretty awesome, despite the sadistic thumb-y masseuse. Where else and how often will you find a bunch of women, teenagers to little old grandmothers, being free to be naked in front of each other? No one cared about saggy boobs, boobs that weren't big enough, boobs that were too big. No one cared about cellulite, muscle tone, lack of muscle tone. No one cared about the woman who came in with only one arm, or the woman with the cleft palate, or the woman with burn scars on her back, or the woman with one breast. No one cared about long hair, short hair, designer clothing, fancy perfume, expensive jewelry, chic makeup. All they cared about was hanging out, chatting with each other, relaxing, indulging, spending a day away from the outside. All I cared about was erasing the memory of the massage.

It was pretty cool, this realization. At the end of our morning there, I even found myself dreading putting my clothes back on. A bra and panties, a shirt, pants, shoes ... they all seemed so constricting and oppressive after several hours of just being ME. I'll be back ... probably again with my mom. I think the whole "let's be naked" thing might be a hard sell for most of my girlfriends. But just imagine ... freedom!

BEH! . . .

Taking care of twins is easy. (Famous last words.)

Last night, I "officially" babysat for the Noodles, so Camp Capio and some visiting friends could go out for steak dinner (cue: growling stomach here). They left as I was feeding some nasty looking barley cereal to a grunting MJ and a completely disinterested CA, who promptly removed a spoonful from her mouth and started playing with the mess with both hands. I came thiiiiiis close to tasting it, but I just couldn't bring myself to. MJ has this new thing where he strains forward, emits a prolonged grunt without breathing (so that his face and neck turn completely red), and waggles his tense little fingers at some unknown, unreachable goal. I can't decide if I need to give him CPR or laugh at him ... but I digress.

As is customary, and as I have seen M&C do, I wiped the Noodles all clean (it's amazing how barley cereal can get all over a baby's face), then sat them down for supplemental bottles of formula. CA, the formerly picky eater, has now taken to guzzling down an entire bottle all by herself ... in about 4 minutes. It's frightening, really. MJ strains and waggles his fingers, then snaps his head around to look at you, the feeder, which causes a zillion droplets of formula to spray in a wide arc, striking not only the kitchen table and the floor, but you, your sweater, your jeans, and your right sock. Ew. Then he grins and resumes his meal. Evil, evil child.

I played with them on their scary, multi-colored play-mats (doesn't anyone make baby toys in muted earth tones?!), rubbed their itchy gums, tickled their full bellies (thank you, MJ, for puking on the play-mat and not on me, for once), sang them some children's hymns (should I be ashamed that I only remember the first verse to "Jesus Loves Me"?), changed their diapers, changed CA's diaper again after discovering a massive and mushy poo (her coo of relief at being cleaned was worth it), put a sleepy MJ down to sleep, fed piggy CA some more, then put her down to sleep.

9:00pm. Freedom. "The Apprentice." One would THINK. But no, try screaming baby, natch.

Poor CA. For some reason, that girl just could not bear to lie down and sleep. I fed her some more (she sucked down almost another entire bottle, struggling to stay awake the whole time) and rocked her in the darkened nursery. She nodded off, startled awake, nodded off, startled awake. The moment I started to move her away from my body, she started screaming like the hounds of death were upon her. She only felt soothed when I held her close to me, rubbing her back, and whispering sweet nothings above her droopy head. The one funny moment in this agonizing saga: MJ waking up because of all the racket, peering over the top of his crib rail at his screaming sister, blinking a couple of times, then dropping his head back onto his mattress, rolling over and promptly falling into a loudly-snoring deep sleep. Ahhh, men!

In hindsight, methinks CA just wasn't all that tired, for Camp Capio, et al. soon returned home (in time for the second half of "The Apprentice" -- damn that evil wench Omorusa!!! How does she have a book deal and I don't?!?!?!) and she stayed up, playing with her mommy for the next hour. Or maybe she just needed some boob milk. Sorry, but my store's closed for now ...

Anyway, I realized that twins -- BEH! Easy as pie! It's just a matter of making sure one of them is securely inside a crazy-colored Exer-Saucer chewing on a building block when you go off to change or bed down the other one. Positioning them accurately to do the double-bottle-feed is also key. Additionally, if you're going to let them do their backwards faux crawl, just move everything out of the way -- they don't move that fast yet, but they get royally mad if a chair gets in their way. And really, how do you tell a six-month-old to just maneuver around it? You don't. You move the furniture. Finally, if you suspect a doody in their pants, do not -- I repeat, DO NOT -- pat them on the butt or carry them with your arm under their butt. It just mushes everything around ... and that's gross.

SHAMELESS PLUG . . .

In the grand tradition of Margaret Cho and others, I have begun my personal list of what I love. I think it's technically supposed to be one massive list, but knowing me, my loves will evolve and grow and multiply as time passes ... so the list grows along with it ...

Enjoy. You might find yourself on it one day.

I COULDN'T BEAR IT . . .

I could not bear to watch Shrub's press conference last night. Even if I liked his policies and political philosophies, the mere fact of his whiny, near-Elmer Fudd voice would have driven me to turn off the television. I can't listen to anything Shrub has to say because his voice is like nails scritching and scratching down a blackboard ... for miles. However, I forbore to read the transcripts of his speech and the ensuing (pre-written) question and answer period. And bearing in mind my clear and admitted bias against having Shrub as my Commander in Chief, here are my humble thoughts ...

... the second sentence out of his mouth is "This has been tough weeks in that country." OUCH. English teachers across the country, unite!

... he says, "We're not an imperial power, as nations such as Japan and Germany can attest." I don't know what this means.

... he calls Donald Rumsfeld "Secretary of State." D'oh!

... he says of the United States' own history: "we had a little trouble in our country achieving freedom." YOU THINK?! And by the way ... have we really achieved freedom in this country? Go ask your neighbor.

... he uses the words "suiciders" and "maimer." I think even PEK would have a hard time using those in Scrabble to cheat.

... more fodder for English teachers: "revenues of the oil stream is pretty darn significant" and "There's mass graves" and "we've been on a war ever since" and "I've spoke to..."

... words of wisdom (I'm being facetious, if you can't tell): "And they were happy -- they're not happy they're occupied. I wouldn't be happy if I were occupied either."

... can someone translate this for me: "Angry that Al Qaeda had, at the time thought Al Qaeda, found out shortly thereafter it was Al Qaeda, had unleashed this attack."

... and this one too: "There was kind of departments that at times didn't communicate because of law in the F.B.I.'s case."

... and here's a question he didn't even pretend to answer: "One of the biggest criticisms of you is that ... you never admit a mistake. And do you believe that there were any errors in judgment that you made related to any of those topics I brought up?"

... some nice wavering: "I don't think anybody can, maybe people can argue that."

... and now, some unsolicited editorial from me. Shrub says, regarding the August 6, 2001 bulletin: "It was also an indication ... that bin Laden might want to hijack an airplane, but as you said, not to fly into a building but perhaps to release a person in jail. In other words, serving as blackmail." I say: "RIGHT. A crazy fanatical wacko like Osama bin Laden is going to train and fund allllll those little minions in flying aircraft in the United States just so he can hijack one for the purpose of blackmailing this administration into releasing some person or persons that he might deign to care about. RIIIIIIGHT. OBL doesn't want to KILL anyone, he just wants to make a political POINT. He cares SO MUCH about his little minions that he just wants them released from prison. NO, YOU IDIOT. HE WANTS TO KILL AMERICANS AND THAT IS WHAT HE WAS GOING TO DO AND DID WITH THOSE AIRPLANES, YOU JERK!"

... more unsolicited commentary, in response to Shrub's statement "... had I had any inkling whatsoever that the people were going to fly airplanes into buildings we would have moved heaven and earth to save the country": YOU DID HAVE AN INKLING. What could you have done with it? I don't know -- maybe nothing. But the point is YOU DID HAVE AN INKLING. Don't pretend you didn't.

... another question Shrub can't or won't and did not answer: "Do you believe the American people deserve a similar apology from you, and would you be prepared to give them one?"

... my "wtf"moment came at this: "Some of the debate really centers around the fact that people don't believe Iraq can be free, that if you're Muslim or perhaps BROWN-SKINNED, you can't be self-governing and free." WTF?!?!?! First of all, I personally have not seen that many "brown-skinned" Muslims. Second of all ... what the heck kind of context is that? I can only imagine that it's one of Shrub's own bizarre fabrications and how he views people who are not white. WTF?!?!?!

... true confessions: in response to the question "After 9/11, what would your biggest mistake be, would you say? And what lessons have you learned from it?" he states "Hmmmm. I wish you'd have given me this written question ahead of time so I could plan for it ... you just put me under the spot here and maybe I'm not quick, as quick on my feet as I should be in coming up with that one." FIRST of all, it's "put me ON the spot." SECONDLY, I know most of the questions are pre-written and submitted prior to the press conference so that Shrub can prepare his lies -- I mean, answers. But at least PRETEND like there's something creative and new going on in that tiny pea-sized brain of yours and give us SOMETHING. And THIRDLY, you have to "come up" with an answer, like you have to MAKE ONE UP? Disgusting. Sheesh. Note to self: never let the Supreme Court pick a President again.

... still confused: "you're talking about one aspect of possible."

... totally hypocritical: "We have an obligation to lead the fight on AIDS, on Africa." FIRST of all, you cut funding for the domestic and international fights AGAINST A.I.D.S.. SECONDLY, could you please clarify ... are you now leading a fight on Africa too?

... his most honest answer came towards the end of the press conference, in response to "if you feel in any way that you've failed as a communicator": "Gosh, I don't know." Brilliant, Shrub, just brilliant.

... the only part of the press conference that settled my disgusted soul was "It's [making America secure and the world free] a conviction that's deep in my soul." I share that conviction, and I'm glad Shrub has it. But still ... go back to Crawford in November, would you?

And that's all she wrote.

WORDS TO CONSIDER TODAY . . .

Whom the Lord loves He chastens . . ." ( Hebrews 12:6 ). How petty our complaining is! Our Lord begins to bring us to the point where we can have fellowship with Him, only to hear us moan and groan, saying, "Oh Lord, just let me be like other people!" Jesus is asking us to get beside Him and take one end of the yoke, so that we can pull together. That’s why Jesus says to us, "My yoke is easy and My burden is light" ( Matthew 11:30 ). Are you closely identified with the Lord Jesus like that? If so, you will thank God when you feel the pressure of His hand upon you.

". . . to those who have no might He increases strength" ( Isaiah 40:29 ). God comes and takes us out of our emotionalism, and then our complaining turns into a hymn of praise. The only way to know the strength of God is to take the yoke of Jesus upon us and to learn from Him.

". . . the joy of the Lord is your strength" ( Nehemiah 8:10 ). Where do the saints get their joy? If we did not know some Christians well, we might think from just observing them that they have no burdens at all to bear. But we must lift the veil from our eyes. The fact that the peace, light, and joy of God is in them is proof that a burden is there as well. The burden that God places on us squeezes the grapes in our lives and produces the wine, but most of us see only the wine and not the burden. No power on earth or in hell can conquer the Spirit of God living within the human spirit; it creates an inner invincibility.

If your life is producing only a whine, instead of the wine, then ruthlessly kick it out. It is definitely a crime for a Christian to be weak in God’s strength.

-- "My Utmost For His Highest," by Oswald Chambers

TOWARDS MAY 17 . . .

An interesting little snippet about one of the last men alive who argued the Brown v. Board of Education cases fifty years ago ...

***

D'OH . . .

From today's New York Times ...

Draft reports by the independent commission investigating the Sept. 11 attacks portray Attorney General John Ashcroft as largely uninterested in counterterrorism issues before Sept. 11 despite intelligence warnings that summer that Al Qaeda was planning a large, perhaps catastrophic, terrorist attack, panel officials and others with access to the reports have said.

They said the draft reports, which are expected to be completed and made public during two days of hearings by the commission this week, show that F.B.I. officials were alarmed throughout 2001 by what they perceived as Mr. Ashcroft's lack of interest in terrorism issues and his decision in August 2001 to reject the bureau's request for a large expansion of its counterterrorism programs.

The draft reports, they said, quote the F.B.I.'s former counterterrorism chief, Dale Watson, as saying he "fell off my chair" when he learned that Mr. Ashcroft had failed to list combating terrorism as one of the department's priorities in a March 2001 department-wide memo.

...

Commission officials said that Mr. Ashcroft might also be asked about why he stopped flying commercially on government business in the summer of 2001 — the department has said the move was requested by the F.B.I. in response to threats to Mr. Ashcroft's safety unrelated to Al Qaeda — and his extensive use thereafter of a luxurious F.B.I. jet, a $40 million Gulfstream 5. The plane had been purchased for use in special investigations and for the transport of terrorists and other dangerous suspects.

Current and former F.B.I. officials have told the commission that they were infuriated by Mr. Ashcroft's use of the jet and that it was seen as emblematic of his detachment from the needs of investigators.

OOPS.

***

INJUSTICE ABOUNDS . . .

"American Idol 3" is NOT, I repeat, NOT going to be televised tonight because Shrub is (allegedly) 'answering America's questions' about the war in Iraq. (First question that comes to mind: "why are you still in office?" followed immediately by "how did you convince the United States Supreme Court to let you be President of the United States?" No, I'm not bitter.)

THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! Does it make me a bad citizen because I'd rather watch "AI-3" than a dorky-looking talking head? Does it make me a vacuous idiot because I'm annoyed about the fact that Shrub's stupid press conference throws off my entire week's television-viewing schedule? Seriously -- think about it: they are taping the performances tonight; airing the hour-long show tomorrow night; then televising the kick-off (of Redheaded John, I desperately hope) on Thursday night; which conflicts with the 2-hour finale of "The Apprentice."

Sigh. What to do?!

DEAR GOD . . .

Dear God,

You're great. You created the earth and everything in it. You also gave us Aretha Franklin and her soulful gospel heart. You gave us Gladys Knight and her groundbreaking groove. You gave us Celine Dion and her (strangely) universal appeal and range. You gave us Whitney Houston and her temporarily powerhouse voice, before all that whack crack came along. You gave us Janis Joplin and her ability to strike a chord within the populace. You gave us Diana Ross and her lasting power. You gave us Madonna and her entertainment cunning. You gave us TLC and Mariah Carey and Janet Jackson and Dolly Parton and Heart and Fiona Apple and Alanis Morrissette and so many others who have touched different people at different times for different reasons, with different talents.

But if after I die, in Your infinite wisdom, you should ever see fit to give me a second life in this world, would You also grant me Missy Elliott's wit and creativity, Beyonce Knowles's booty-shakin' moves and Alicia Keys's vocal chords? Because that would just be really neat.

Thanks.

***

Ladies First was an absolute blast, even though I felt bad for poor Jay-Z; he had to wait over three hours to come out and rap his 20-second bit in "Crazy in Love." JWu says Jay-Z is not pity-worthy, but ... well, I'd be bummed if I were Jay-Z.

Missy just puts a smile on my face and I don't care how many times she curses; that woman is the complete package because you just know that she's SMART too. Beyonce puts on a great show, and anyone who can dance AND sing like that (no, not you, Britney) gets my immediate respect. But by far, without competition, the incomparable star of the night was Alicia Keys. She sings, she dances, she keeps all her clothes on, she plays piano like nobody's business, all while holding your heart in her hands. And thank you, she played my favorite tune of hers to date ...

Some people live for the fortune
Some people live just for the fame
Some people live for the power yeah
Some people live just to play the game
Some people think that the physical things define what's within
And I've been there before
But that life's a bore
So full of the superficial

Some people want it all
But I don't want nothing at all
If it ain't you baby
If I ain't got you baby
Some people want diamond rings
Some just want everything
But everything means nothing
If I ain't got you

Some people search for a fountain
That promises forever young
Some people need three dozen roses
And that's the only way to prove you love them

Hand me the world on a silver platter
And what good would it be?
With no one to share, with no one who truly cares for me

Some people want it all
But I don't want nothing at all
If it ain't you baby
If I ain't got you baby
Some people want diamond rings
Some just want everything
But everything means nothing
If I ain't got you, you, you

If I ain't got you with me baby
Nothing in this whole wide world don't mean a thing
If I ain't got you with me baby

-- "If I Ain't Got You,"
by Alicia Keys

DOI . . .

President Shrubbery says that "now may be a time to revamp and reform our intelligence services."

DOI!!!

HIPPIE HIPPIE SHAKE . . .

Tonight, I glimpsed what life on a commune must be like ... sort of. After a super-long praise team practice that lasted nearly the entire day and sapped almost all of our human strength, half of the team came over to my place for dinner. This was sort of a special event for me: I don't have people over that often, not because I don't love to entertain or welcome my beloveds into my domain, but because my home is farther than J2 or Camp Capio, less accessible, a little further into the "countryside," the neighborhood a tad hairier to navigate. Many days and nights, I have felt guilty always crashing someone else's space, knowing that at my parents' home, my friends and I would have access to a humongous yard, plenty of parking, spacious seating, numerous bathrooms, and feet upon feet of kitchen counter space. But that guilt was always outweighed by the guilt of making people haul themselves all the way up here, only to have to find their winding ways back to the highway in the dark, all the while muttering, "she lives so freakin' far away from civilization!" (Now, I personally don't think we're so in the boondocks, but that comment has been thrown my way on occasion, clearly often enough to give me a complex about it ...)

Today was different. Thank you, Daylight Savings Time, for when practice ended, it was still bright and sunny and warm outside ... and of course, our one collective, unanimous thought as we packed up our sound equipment inside NHF was: "BAR-BE-CUE." Camp Capio was closed for the evening, J2 had no outdoor facilities ... so I dared to do the previously unthinkable: "Hey guys, I have a grill and I think it might still be functioning. Wanna come over?"

One trip to Sam's Club for enormous steaks, a quick rush home to clean up and throw together some vegetable side-dishes, and a cheesy movie rental later, some of my dearest friends were scurrying around my kitchen and outdoor deck, scrubbing the grill's grille, chopping vegetables, seasoning meat, washing dishes, setting the table, making themselves at home. A task for everyone, everyone for a task. For about twelve dollars a person, we had salad with two dressings, sauteed string beans, grilled vegetables, grilled pineapples, medium-rare steak with assorted sauces (or just melted butter for the purists), leftover white Korean rice and of course, kimchi. A vegetable for everyone, and even JKA had a vegetable or two. We felt slightly decadent hanging our heads over over-sized plates, but so abundantly blessed. And for a few hours, I experienced communal living, as I sat at my kitchen table taking a breather, watching Jaime clean our steak juice off the grill's grille, J2 set up for their dessert extravaganzas, Soybean wash dishes, and JWu and J_Lee wipe up and put away everything in their respective paths.

It was more refined -- and certainly neater -- than college, less hedonistic than a true hippie commune. When it comes down to it, we're really just a bunch of capable, self-sufficient dorks who operate surprisingly well on spontaneity; after all, JKA baked us cookies (after hefting her own KitchenAid mixer to my house) and we watched "Sister Act 2" on a twenty-year-old barely-still-color television, just so we could sing along at the musical parts. (That movie is so bad, it's good ... but I had forgotten exactly HOW bad it really is.) And of course, I thought of those who weren't with us for the ultimate in brainless relaxation ... Camp Capio, M/N/DL, Familius Melonus, JC, the Banana .... But as I sat reveling in happiness and sated protein bliss, I had the fleeting thought: is this not why and how we live: to live amongst each other and to share our selves with each other, to break bread together, to laugh and sing together, to praise each other's raspberry sippers and fresh-baked cookies, to honestly appreciate hospitality and help and good company?

And the best part of all: the leftover A-1 Steak Sauce stays at my house, for the NEXT barbecue.

FRRRRRRIDAY . . .

1. What do you do for a living? I work for Uncle Sam, trying to live up to my boss's standards, trying not to go overboard with adjective-laden witticisms in my legal writing, trying to corral and keep wayward attorneys in check, trying to be ethical without being a doormat, trying to learn enough and more so that I don't end up like the bozos Hooch and I make fun of behind their pin-striped backs.

2. What do you like most about your job? My boss, Hooch, the hours, the variety of law I get to play with, my commute, and the fact that we have security guards that know everything about our cars and our comings and goings. It's creepy but cool.

3. What do you like least about your job? Err... am I really allowed to say? Well, aside from the fits of unnecessary hysteria I have to witness, the thing I truly like least is experiencing the occasional moment where I come across something I really don't know. I hate not knowing. I hate doing hours and hours of research and reading and re-reading and still not knowing. Then I hate when I travel down miles' worth of tangents only to realize I need never have traversed those roads at all.

4. When you have a bad day at work it's usually because _____... Again, aside from bearing witness to the occasional hissy fit, I usually get pissy when I'm made to stress about a silly case with silly attorneys and silly issues and silly motion papers. (Not that I'm thinking of anyone in particular, of course.) And on top of that, my sinuses are swollen, my throat hurts, I didn't get enough sleep, and I twisted my right knee again. THAT is a bad day.

5. What other career(s) are you interested in? FBI agent specializing in Missing Persons or Asian gangs; public education reformer; full-time essayist for a newspaper or magazine which allows me to write whatever the heck I want; chef; event planner; Asian-American grass-roots-social-and-political-activist.

CLEAN SLATE . . .

Even while watching "American Idol 3," I am able to have some non-vacuous thoughts ... and my first non-vacuous thought of the evening flows as follows: why do we want to nullify our country's history?

I was just reading an article in the New York Times about comments made by United States Supreme Court Chief Justice William Rehnquist. He was speaking at a fundraiser for the Historical Society of Frederick County, and mentioned that Roger Brooke Taney, U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice from 1836 to 1864 had an "admirable" career. Chief Justice Rehnquist's comments made the news, not only because he is the Chief Justice, but because Taney was the author of the Dred Scott decision, the man who said -- on behalf of a seven-member majority -- that freed slaves (and their descendants) did not qualify as American citizens and had no right to bring suit in federal court.

The fact that this is news, and the fact that Rehnquist was duly described as being known for his conservative views, got me thinking ... there are people out there, myself included, who shudder at the Dred Scott decision. We also shudder at our past as a slave-owning nation, as a country that segregated black and white citizens, as a people that abide by separate-but-equal laws, as a government that corralled its citizens of Japanese descent into internment camps. People offended by this past demand apologies, ask that history books be written and rewritten, and continue to (rightfully, in my humble opinion) protest strong and lingering vestiges of injustice. But ... even as I recognize that many events in my country's past are distasteful and antithetical to everything I believe in, mustn't I also acknowledge that this is our history, and that it cannot -- should not -- be changed?

The America we know now, for all its goods and evils, did not materialize out of thin air. We comprise a young country, but our history does not lack its fair share of drama, significance, upheaval, leadership, retardation and most importantly, growth. Where we started, as a mere compilation of colonies ... where we went, through Civil War and Reconstruction and Jim Crow and immigration and World Wars and civil rights and feminism ... where we are now ... this is who we are, this is what America is. To try to change it, to pretend it never happened, to overlook it, to futilely apologize for it, even to brush it aside as "the past," does an injustice to this country and the people and events that shaped it.

We continue to shape the United States and lead it down the twisting, turning path it is supposed to travel. Just as individuals turn to their geneaology and genetic make-up for answers and guidance as to their personalities, traits and behaviors, America would do well to look to her past, with pride even. As in any lifetime, America has had moments of shame, even downright evil. But to be totally cliche for a moment, haven't these moments built character, made the country stronger? Thus, is there not something to be proud of in the fact that wretched things like slavery and internment and hosing of citizens in the streets and restricting voting rights were finally seen for the evil they are? We learned our lesson, and continue to do so daily, thanks to the events in our history. Why erase it? Why ignore it? Why deplore it?

Just a thought ...

***

RETURN TO VACANCY . . .

It is a travesty that Redheaded John is still a contestant on "American Idol 3." I'm sorry -- I know he's slightly nerdy (some might [erroneously] think charmingly so), I know he's only sixteen years old, I know he has a somewhat unique sound, I know he's still 'discovering himself' and in the awkward stages of life. Heck, his voice is still changing, for all I know.

But I'm sorry, he's got to go.

***

ROOM FOR RENT . . .

I purchased a new super-sized package of all-cotton Q-tips the other day. I just opened them, and to my chagrin, I discovered that the Q-tips have plastic stems!!! I find plastic-stemmed Q-tips to be highly irritating. There's too much give when you're cleaning out your ears (I know there is no medical reason to, but I do so anyway), and when your hands are wet or recently lotioned, the stem becomes slippery and highly dangerous. Call me weird, call me a traditionalist, call me empty-headed for even thinking about these things semi-seriously ... but it bugs me that I have to go through 500 bendy plastic-stemmed Q-tips before I can go back to the store and purchase the correct ones.