GOOD VS. EVIL . . .

Sometimes, when people come together like this, it's easy to forget there is evil in the world ...


CNN: WORLD HONORS LONDON BOMB VICTIMS; MILLIONS JOIN TWO-MINUTE SILENCE.

LONDON, England -- Millions of people around the world have joined a two-minute silence to pay tribute to the victims of the London bombings one week earlier.

In the British capital Thursday workers left their offices to stand in the street, taxis and buses pulled over and financial markets paused to remember the 52 people who are so far confirmed dead.

Tributes were also paid in the Spanish capital Madrid and the Indonesian island of Bali -- both targeted by bombers from the Islamist al Qaeda network in the past -- and in cities across Europe.

Meanwhile, Pope Benedict XVI, on holiday in the Italian Alps, prayed for peace.

In America, the three locations struck on September 11, 2001 -- New York, Washington, D.C. and Pennsylvania -- also joined together to observe the silence.

New York Governor George Pataki said the London attacks were a reminder of the "very real and serious threat" that terrorism posed around the world.

"The people of Great Britain were there for New Yorkers and Americans in the days and weeks after September 11 and we proudly come together with our friends and neighbours in Virginia and Pennsylvania in this show of support of our friends in Great Britain," he said.

"Our hearts go out to those who lost loved ones last week."

In Trafalgar Square in central London, London Mayor Ken Livingstone told CNN : "In Madrid, Bali and New York people have stood in silence with us, and in cities which have yet to be touched by terror."

In Downing Street, Prime Minister Tony Blair appeared in the garden of his official residence, where he was presenting bravery awards to police officers.

Queen Elizabeth II stood in silence on the forecourt of Buckingham Palace as Big Ben struck 12.

Play even stopped on the first round of the 134th British Open so players and fans could pay tribute to the victims.

A klaxon sounded at midday, Reuters reported. Leading player Tiger Woods stood with head bowed as the flag over the clubhouse at St. Andrews flew at half-staff.

"It's good that they're doing this," world number two Vijay Singh from Fiji, told the news agency.

"It has happened before. We had stoppages during a few tournaments after 9/11 (the 2001 attacks in the U.S.) and also as a tribute to Payne Stewart."

In Paris, as sirens wailed across the city, French President Jacques Chirac stood with visiting Brazilian President Luis Inacio Lula de Silva on the steps of the Elysee Palace after delaying his annual Bastille Day television address.

Government offices, railway stations and airports paused in Italy, as did buses, trams and underground trains in the German capital Berlin, Reuters reported.

And in Brussels, hundreds of European Union officials gathered outside the 25-nation bloc's headquarters as blue-and-gold EU flags flew at half-staff, The Associated Press reported.

In predominantly Muslim Turkey, Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan and other ministers interrupting a meeting to join the silence.

In Stockholm, Sweden's Prime Minister Goran Persson joined other senior politicians for a brief ceremony at government offices.

"We have gathered here today to express our solidarity, our sympathy with the victims and their families and show our support for the open society," Persson told AP.

The ceremony ended with two minutes of silence.

ARE YOU? . . .

Are you afraid?

I'm not afraid ... or at least I'm trying not to be.
Let's keep trying, together, to be fearless.

Show them that we're not afraid.

***

YUCKO . . .

Oh, the irony.
It slays me.




>

American Cities That Best Fit You:

60% Boston

60% San Francisco

60% Washington, DC

55% Austin

55% Denver

Which American Cities Best Fit You?

MOVING FORWARD . . .

It's a blessing and a curse, methinks, that time keeps moving forward, and thus, it is once again, Friday ...

What is your favorite:

1. …romantic novel? Alright, I'm going to admit it: I have a very soft spot in my heart, still, for the very first Danielle Steele novel I ever read: Remembrance. I can barely remember the plot now, but it had something to do with true loves being torn apart at every turn, a Nazi who was actually a good man on the inside, a woman forced to follow her head instead of her heart, and an ultimate reunion of two people who were always meant to be together. Before I realized that Danielle Steele can't write to save her life, this book tugged every single string in my young teenage heart, and made me hope in true love.

2. …romantic movie? It's a total tie between "Pride and Prejudice" (the 6-hour BBC version starring dreamy Colin Firth) and "The Sound of Music." I love surly angry men who are overcome by love in the end.

3. …romantic dinner? The prix fixe at One if By Land, Two if By Sea. Perhaps it's a bit overdone. Perhaps the rose at every table is a bit cliche. Perhaps the attentive service is a bit too attentive. Perhaps it's hyped up by too many people too often. But it still rocks my world.

4. …romantic date? Hand in hand, walking anywhere, everywhere, discovering new things, peering in at shop windows, giggling at the petite dog walking by wearing a dog sweater, learning new things about each other, gazing at artwork, sharing a dirty water dog, sitting in companionable silence next to each other whilst people watching and just being happy.

5. …romantic vacation? I haven't gone on a truly romantic vacation yet, but of the places I'd been to, I'd most love to take my love to a weekend on Block Island or Bar Harbor.

REDUX . . .

My heart is most aggrieved this morning.

I recall, sfter 9/11 and as the United States was commencing its war in Iraq, people saying to me, "if other countries had suffered what we have suffered, then they wouldn't be so against joining in this war." And I remember thinking, "what kind of animal ARE you that you would wish this kind of suffering upon ANYone, just so they can join us in our war-mongering sentiment? How could you wish 9/11 upon any country, any citizenry, any human?" I remember feeling that I would be glad to take one for the team, to have my country be the only one to hurt, if it meant that such pain would never again be inflicted upon or experienced by anyone else.

Unfortunately, my invisible desire to bite the bullet wasn't conveyed to The Bad Guys. They strike again, and again, and again. And today, London reels as America reeled. London weeps as America wept. London got the same sucker-punch whose bruises still linger on America's thick skin. London starts its own trek down the rocky path to normalcy; do we tell them that there is no such end?

Most shocking is the universality of the images. The dirty and bloody survivors being led away, the stretchers being rushed to waiting ambulances, the yellow police tape, the convergence of law enforcement personnel. So familiar to one's eyes and visual memory.

There is no satisfaction in knowing that the United States is no longer alone in its standing as victim. None. What alleviation is to be gained knowing that now there's someone else who will understand what 9/11 was to us, what devastation terrorism wreaked upon our nation? None. What comfort do we glean from the agony of others? None.

Sorrow is the only appropriate way to express oneself today.

***

REQUIEM . . .

The LORD is my shepherd,
I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside quiet waters,

He restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for His name's sake.

Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff,
they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.

-- Psalm 23

DIAMONDS . . .

I know these two really, really great guys, Jims and SpiderBat. Why are they so great? Because every time they come over for a social event, and every time garbage piles up in my garbage can as a result, they, without asking, remove the garbage at the end of the evening and take it out to the Dumpster with them when they leave.

Such a small act, but so huge. It's more than just relieving me of the mess and stank and nominal labor of taking out the trash myself. It's making my life just a tiny bit easier, giving me one less miniscule thing to dwell my tired mind upon, offering one not insignificant way to share a burden.

Minor kindness, multiplied several times over, equals major heart.

THE BEGINNING IS HALF THE ENDING . . .

Or so say the wise people of the Motherland.

This past holiday weekend, instead of sleeping in for an obscene number of hours, I've had need every morning to wake up at an early hour and prepare myself for the day. Knowing this, I moved my coffeemaker out from its customary place in a lower cabinet under my countertop, the coffee filters out from their customary place in an upper cabinet above the mugs, and the airtight container holding the regular coffee closer to the plug into which I would plug the coffeemaker every morning. I set out a mug, a spoon and a packet of Splenda; I filled a coffee filter with a few tablespoons of coffee and poured water into the basin of the coffeemaker. Everything was set for the next morning's cup o' joe.

This morning, as I was pouring myself a scrumptious cup of sludge, it occurred to me that I don't make my own coffee enough, even on weekends that I have all the time in the world to chill out over a cup. And that is largely because of two reasons: first, I don't take the time to prepare for the next morning, or second, I don't set out everything in plain sight so that it's easy and natural for me to make coffee. And it got me thinking ... how many other things am I not doing because I either don't prepare for it or because it's not in plain sight and thus easy for me to do?

NHF's praise team spent an intense thirty-six hours at a training retreat on Friday night and Saturday. Non-stop lectures, practicums, Bible studies, prayer time. A meager forty minutes for meals three times on Saturday, one ten-minute break to pee (or not poo, in my case). And the result of our learning, the result of God teaching us new things, was clearly evident -- at least to us and a few other people -- during Sunday's service. The songs were better organized, the transitions were spotless, we had freedom to experiment with dynamics and personality instead of staring at our songsheets wondering what the heck to do next. And most importantly, we were free to have fun, to enjoy the words we were lifting up to God, to take a chill pill about the music and the "performance" aspects so that we could amp up our feelings and our love for the Lord.

So why didn't we think of this before? Why didn't we struggle through such preparation before, so that the end result would be better, more inviting, more meaningful? And so easy? It makes sense that we didn't know the techniques before we learned them; it does not make sense that we were never moved to make ready.

Even the most mundane things in my life ... sometimes I don't make myself a full dinner meal -- starch, meat, vegetable -- even though I'm really craving a hearty dinner, simply because I (a) didn't go grocery shopping to stock up on supplies; (2) didn't set out the meat to defrost in the refrigerator; or (3) didn't get home with enough time and energy to create such a meal. Why? Why is it so difficult to prepare, to make ready, even for the little things that I do as I live my life?

I forget to do laundry, unless I take the laundry basket out of the closet and set it in the hallway right in front of the washing machine. I forget to send out that important letter or that timely bill, unless I seal it right up and lean it against my front door, so that I have to pick it up in order to leave for work in the morning. I don't go to the gym to exercise in the morning unless I go to sleep the night before wearing my workout clothes, and it's just too pathetic to not go work out. I don't take initiative with church activities for which I am responsible unless it's staring me in the face, offering me an easy way to pick up the task and follow through. Heck, I've had photographs sitting in piles for months, waiting for me to clip that Bed, Bath & Beyond coupon that has been sitting on my desk so that I can go there and buy a photo album.

And the stupidest thing really is this: much like making the coffee, the prep work is really easy. I just don't do it. It doesn't occur to me, even type-A me, to do it. But the beginning is half of the ending, it really is ...

***

INTROSPECTION GALORE . . .

There's this game on Yahoo! Games called Alchemy, where you have to arrange different colored and/or shaped icons in a line, either horizontally or vertically, to eliminate the row or column. When all of the rows or columns are eliminated, you move on to the next stage, and each stage introduces new colors and shapes so that the game becomes more random and difficult. When I play Alchemy, I almost always eliminate columns -- I arrange the icons vertically. Once in a while, I'll try to play horizontally, but I get all confused and my brain simply cannot process what is happening on the computer screen. After passing up to five or six vertical screens on the highest level, I can barely get through two horizontal screens. I just can't do it.

I was reminded of this over the weekend, when our praise team was learning how to chart our songsheets so that we can arrange our songs more coherently. I was writing my charts vertically, down the left-hand margin of the songsheet. Our trainer, noticing someone else doing the same thing, instructed that person to write the charts horizontally, so as to leave more room underneath for notes and such. I moved slightly away from the trainer so that he could not see my songsheet, for there was no way on God's green earth that I was going to horizontally chart my sheet; it just wasn't going to happen, I just couldn't do it.

It made me think of all the other ways I take in, process, learn and regurgitate information.

I am not an auditory learner, although I wish I was because it seems so efficient. No, if I'm going to learn something or even appreciate a simple story, it has to be written down, available for me to set my eyes upon. Otherwise, I'll remember it for barely a day. This proves especially difficult at work, where our team tends to talk through issues on our way to resolving them. When Hooch or the Chief talk to me or explain a concept of law to me, I have such a hard time following their speech; sometimes I have to close my eyes or look away into a far corner so that I can zone out and turn their spoken words into pictured words inside my head. Only when their words are "written out " in my brain can I understand what they are saying to me.

I can't write horizontally for very long; I'm a list-maker. When I take notes, I use bullet points or slashes for every little point made; I simply cannot write on and on in one continuous phrase. My notes end up being, on average, about eleven pages longer than everyone else's, simply because I write in list-form, rather than straight-up prose. When I journal, I turn the book on its side so that the spiral ring is at the top. Then I write down one half of the page before moving on to the next half; I just cannot write ALL the way across that long page -- I need to break it up vertically.

I don't communicate very well or clearly in speech. Sure, I can joke around and answer questions and convey concepts accurately enough when totally necessary. But I'm far more comfortable and coherent in writing -- or, in this day and age, email. Writing allows me to choose my words more carefully, to say exactly what I mean and want to say, to view the structure of my thoughts and to ascertain that I'm conveying them accurately, in the order that I want to convey them, with the proper tone and emotion. My spoken words, I can't control -- they're out most of the time before I can catch them and look over them. But my letters or emails, I can always edit, I can always re-read to make sure I'm saying exactly what I mean to say and nothing else. In the same way that I lose focus when I listen, I lose focus when I speak. This could bode very ill for my litigation career, but we'll see what a little more training can do ...

The thing that most fascinates me about myself is not myself; it's the fact that there are people out there who are NOT like me. Those who learn by hearing and get confused by looking at something. Those who can't make lists, but must write everything out lengthwise across that long page of paper. Those who can't write a lick of anything worth reading, but can think on their feet and communicate orally, accurately, coherently, amazingly thoughtfully when they want, how they want. And then there are those who are just a mix of everything. Those who do this one way and that another way. Those who do EVERYTHING and are great at it. It's so interesting how we are made, how our synapses fire off, how our brains light up over here and not over there, how certain different types of people can work together for an incredibly common good, and other different types of people can't even breathe the same air as each other ...

I NEVER READ IT ENOUGH . . .

Happy Independence Day, y'all.

The Declaration of Independence of the Thirteen Colonies
In CONGRESS, July 4, 1776

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. --That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security. —Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain [George III] is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the consent of our legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us, in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:

For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:

For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by the Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Eighty-six years old and stricken by all sorts of medical conditions ... but he sure doesn't look it, does he? Had you been there and heard his voice, you too would have known that the Rev. Billy Graham's strength came not from medicine or nutrition or even his trusty walker or specially-conditioned podium. Words cannot describe the experience of hearing the love that flowed from this man of God, so I'll just stop here.


Photo by James Estrin, The New York Times

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

And to think -- this is just a fraction of the people who showed up at the park to hear Billy Graham. Even in New York -- or perhaps especially in New York -- Billy Graham's message was welcomed with open arms and hearts, even on a sweltering summer weekend. Such a simple message, how could one ignore it? Jesus loves you, so just come.


Photo by Gregory Bull, Associated Press

BLESSINGS . . .

The Reverend Billy Graham ... I got to see him at his crusade after all. What a wonderful man, what a wonderful evening. Would say more, but am so, so, so sleepy. God bless us, everyone.

GET THIS PITH OUT OF MY TEETH . . .

So, there was an article in The New York Times this morning reporting that Connecticut Governor Rell is authorizing state troopers to assist Hartford's police force in stemming the increasing tide of shootings in that not-so-illustrious city, the very same city in which Teams All-In, East/West and Cesar Salad with Chicken faced their athletic demons. Naturally, I had to inform my compatriots of the real character of the city we conquered, and here, displaying the true wit and self-deprecation I've come to love about these men, are some of their insightful responses:

"Dodging bullets probably would've helped me improve my time."

"Hearing gunshots would've made us run/bike/row a little faster."

"I guess that's why there is no night-time adventure racing in Hartford."

FEDERAL FRIDAY . . .

It's that kind of day, and this is the kind of mood I'm in. Thanks to Wonger for fueling my Friday chill groove ...

1. What time did you get up this morning? 6:30 a.m.

2. Diamonds or pearls? Neither, but if I had to choose, square diamonds.

3. What was the last film you saw at the cinema? "Star Wars, Episode 3."

4. What is your favorite TV show? Recently ... "Lost" and "Alias."

5. What did you have for breakfast this morning? An oatmeal/yogurt cereal bar and hot coffee.

6. What is your middle name? Ain't got one.

7. What is your favorite cuisine? Hmmm ... does Korean food count as "cuisine?" If not ... I really pretty much like everything: Spanish, French, Mexican, Indian, Thai, etc.

8. What is your favorite chip flavor? Sour cream and cheddar.

9. What is your favorite CD at the moment? "Tonight, Not Again: Jason Mraz Live at Eagles Ballroom, 2004"

10. What kind of car do you drive? Good Girl, a silver Toyota 4Runner.

11. Favorite sandwich? Italian combo with extra hot peppers on a roll ... or chicken salad with bacon, honey mustard and lettuce.

12. What characteristics do you despise? Elitism ... racism ... sexism ... unwarranted stupidity ... laziness ... close-mindedness hidden beneath the veil of "liberalism" ... constant immaturity stemming from pure unwillingness to grow up (as opposed to just running around and screaming because it's just fun to do sometimes).

13. Favorite item of clothing? Low-slung cropped pants and a tank top.

14. If you could go anywhere on vacation, where would you go? I've been dying to go to London for the longest time ... or a return trip to St. Petersburg in the winter ...

15. What color is your bathroom? White. And I want to change it.

16. Favorite brand of clothing? J.Crew. I'm a total J.Crew sloot.

17. Where would you retire? The Upper West Side of Manhattan.

18. Favorite time of day? Early morning, like real early, when no one else is up and I'm able to hang with the chirpy birds and a cup of coffee and think "this day is full of possibility."

19. What was your most memorable birthday? Last year -- the surprise party that actually and finally was a surprise.

20. Favorite sport to watch? Yankee baseball. Is there any other kind?

21. Favorite Movie? "The Sound of Music" ... "Moulin Rouge" ... "The Godfather" ... "Napoleon Dynamite" ... "When Harry Met Sally" ... "Schindler's List" ... "The Usual Suspects" ...

22. What fabric detergent do you use? Tide Unscented.

23. Are you a morning person or night owl? I am more and more becoming a morning person, despite my desperate attempts to remain a night owl ...

24. What is your shoe size? 5.5 shoes; 6 sneakers.

25. Do you have any pets? Hahaha, you must be joking. I merely covet other people's pets. I am not nearly capable enough to care for my own.

***

AND WHILE I'M AT IT . . .

From The Daily Dirt ...

1. Would you rather be a musician or an actor? Can't I be both? Everyone's doing it ... but I'd be MUCH better than J.Lo, Lindsay Lohan, and all the other powder puffs put together, natch. But alright, if I have to choose, I choose "actress." I can't write music OR songs, and I won't stand for critics accusing me of being incompetent and fluffy.

2. Would you rather have a son or a daughter? Provided I can have the other one later, I'd rather have a daughter.

3. Pub or a club for you? Pub. I'm waaaaay too frumpy for a club.

4. Country or city life? Sigh. That's it. I have to say it out loud and admit it to myself: COUNTRY LIFE.

5. Would you rather die in a road accident or be murdered? What the ... alright, I confess I sometimes think about this, and I think I'm going to have to say "road accident." The likelihood of my body being identified is higher, and the possibilities of assault, rape, robbery, kidnapping and/or not being found for a very very long time are almost nonexistent. Whatever lessens the agony for my family is good enough for me.

TOO MIRACULOUS . . .

Last night, our care group discussion centered on Jesus' miracles: why He performed them, for whom He performed them, when He performed them. As an introduction to this study, the question was posed: If you could be any super-hero and have any super-power, who would you be and what would your powers be, and what would you name yourself?

The replies were varied and hilarious. There was SpiderBat, a lethal (but kind, of course) combination of Spiderman/Peter Parker and Batman/Bruce Wayne. There was Rain, the female embodiment of nearly all of the X-Men characters and their powers. There was Ranger (NOT "Ranger Jay," which evokes a whole different genre), who had the power to fly and heal wounded animals. There was InvisibleDashYoda, or just DashYoda for short, who had the wisdom of Yoda, the speed of Dash and ... well, was just also invisible. There was Inertia, who had the power to pull, repel and react to the kinetic energy emitted by forces around him, until he met his tragic end in suicide because his powers grew too strong. There was me, who simply wanted to be Sydney Bristow from "Alias," a well-trained young woman who was smart, strong and kicked the bad guys' butts to save the world over and over again.

After the study was over, after we had studied Jesus' miracles of healing the woman who had been hemmorhaging for twelve years, turning water into wine at a wedding feast, casting out demons that had been using human bodies to terrorize the neighbors, making lepers' bodies whole and clean, feeding 5,000 hungry people with just a few loaves of bread and a couple of fish, and raising a man's beloved daughter from death, another question was asked: Why did no one want to have the super-powers of possessing ultimate compassion, healing the sick, feeding the poor, righting wrongs and bringing justice and salvation to the nations?

I actually had thought of these powers, these miraculous powers. I had almost voiced them, but for some reason, felt foolish and idealistic, like a goody-goody, so I kept quiet and came up with Sydney Bristow instead (the next best thing, right?). But after the question was asked, and I slept on the indictment overnight, I woke up to the thought that the other reason I hadn't voiced the desire to possess these super-powers was this: some part of me, some major part of me, doesn't believe that such miracles can be performed now.

Somehow, I recognized, I had become a person who thought that it was more likely that I could perform covert operations on behalf of my government, wearing hundreds of different disguises, shooting dozens of different kinds of guns, rappelling down all sorts of high-rise buildings, killing all manner of bad guys, and saving the world from nuclear destruction twenty times over, than that I could, with the power of Christ, stamp out hunger, end human suffering and injustice, and bring peace and love to Creation.

How shameful. I am so embarrassed that I would think that one completely unreal and impossible scenario was so reachable and attainable, and that the other proven, achieved and attained scenario was not so. What a sad state of the world, that such goodness and satisfaction seem so far-fetched, and what a sad state of me, that I would not recognize the hope that is in Christ and strive to achieve it, no matter the expense to myself or the loftiness of the goal towards which I run.

FUNNIES . . .

For when you're bored at the office: Overheard in the Office.

A GOOD MAN . . .

The Reverend Billy Graham speaks this weekend at Flushing Meadows Park. It will be one of the greatest regrets of my life that I won't be able to see him speak, probably for the last time in this area. Let it not be one of yours. Go!

THIS TIME, BILLY GRAHAM IS STAYING FOCUSED ON GOSPEL
By ANDY NEWMAN

The Rev. Billy Graham, 86 years old and ailing, made his first New York appearance in years at a news conference today to promote his three-night crusade in Queens that begins on Friday. He expressed pleasure that what might be the final crusade of his 68-year ministry had returned him to the city that had helped make him famous, a city he said still sorely needed help to heal the wounds of Sept. 11, 2001.

While clearly a shadow of his fiery, fast-talking self, Mr. Graham spoke for 20 minutes, parried a bit with the reporters and even cracked a few jokes. He brought easy laughter to the 64th-floor conference room in Rockefeller Center when he evoked the day that , Christians say, Jesus Christ will return to reign over earth.

"I hope I meet all of you there," Mr. Graham said with a glint in his eye, "and bring your camera, because I may have one, too."

Mr. Graham, hobbled by the combined effects of prostate cancer, water on the brain, failing hearing and a broken hip and pelvis, seemed a little unfocused at times, offering rambling, tangential responses to some questions in a thick burr of a voice that could be hard to make out.

But when it came to the primacy of Jesus Christ, the subject on which he is expected to preach to crowds expected to number 70,000 a night at Flushing Meadows-Corona Park, Mr. Graham did not waver.

He promised that his sermons this weekend would sound familiar to anyone who heard him at the 1957 crusade at Madison Square Garden that ran for 16 weeks and launched him to world prominence.

"The message that I preach here is going to be the same," he said. "It hasn't changed. Circumstances have changed. Problems have changed. But deep inside, man has not changed and the gospel hasn't changed. Because the Bible says that we've all sinned and we're all sinners."

Mr. Graham plans to preach for about 35 minutes each evening on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. He speaks now from a podium designed to allow him to sit while speaking, and he sat throughout today's news conference.

He said he was particularly pleased to be speaking at the park, which though it was not his organization's first choice (the city rejected a request for a crusade in Central Park), lies in the center of the most ethnically diverse part of the city.

"Here in New York, not only is there a mixture of ethnic background but there's a mixture of the problems of the world," he said. "There's 100-and-something languages spoken within walking distance of Corona Park, and I know that the problems of the world are there. And I believe that the gospel of Christ is the answer, not part of the answer, but the whole answer."

Mr. Graham promised not to talk about politics, and though several reporters tried to draw him into the subject with questions about evangelism's growing role in American political life and the pros and cons of international debt relief, he stayed on message till the end.

"If I get up and talk about some political issues," he said, "it divides the audience. What I want is a united audience to hear only the gospel. There are many times I went too far in talking about such issues. And I think that this time I want to stick only to the gospel."

Mr. Graham was helped to his feet and, leaning heavily on his walker, made his way slowly from the room.

A DAY AT THE STADIUM . . .

I almost fell asleep during today's game, but thank goodness I managed to keep my eyes open for this: Derek Jeter's first career grand slam EVAH..

And the icing on the cake? In the grand tradition of the C.o.S., I CALLED IT.

Cheech: You know, of all the major league players who have been playing as long as Jeter has, he's the only to never have hit a grand slam.
Me: Really? How sad.
Pause.
Me, pointing to outfield: Then he's going to jack one RIGHT NOW.

And BAM. It be done. 'Twas jacked.

***

I don't get our national anthem. It's about a flag. Alright, alright, the tune is inspirational, and I still get all sorts of weepy-eyed and tingly whenever I hear the Whitney Houston-Super Bowl version (pre-crack Whitney, that is). But it's still about a flag. And people don't know the words to it anyway, which is just about the saddest thing. And then people -- the same people who don't know the words -- stop singing the wrong words with several left to go, and start whistling and hooting and hollering and clapping. SO DISRESPECTFUL, it gets my hackles up every time. In no other country would people do that to their national anthem (no other country, as far as I know, as a national anthem about a flag); in some countries you get shot for doing that; in some countries, the music is so dreary, it doesn't even really lend itself to thoughts of applause.

I'm no raging right-wing Republican patriot, but even I have boundaries. Don't let the flag touch the ground. Take your hat off when the anthem starts up, and stand up for heaven's sake. Learn the words and sing them correctly. And for all that is mighty and good, wait until the song is over before you start screaming like a banshee just because you hear the words "land of the free and the home of the brave."

***

In the same vein, I don't really understand the 7th-inning stretch anymore either, and I'm very curious about people's responses to it. I don't know about other ballparks, but at The Stadium (is there really any other? Puh-leeze.), they play "God Bless America" before busting into "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" and "Cotton-Eyed Joe" (which is just a whole other phenomenon I don't really get). And everyone rises, takes off their caps, and places their hands over their heart ... AS IF IT'S THE NATIONAL ANTHEM. What the?!?!?

I personally would love it if it were our national anthem -- you know, the song being about our country and not merely its flag, and all. But I realized today: the song is a prayer. To God. I wondered today how many people around me who would disclaim God completely sang that song -- with their caps off and their hands over their hearts -- with utter abandon. And what would they do if someone pointed out to them, "dude, you just sang a prayer to God"? Soooo curious.

Yes, these are the things I think about while at a baseball game.

And then of course, there was that asinine clapping and screaming towards the end of the song. Poor Ronan Tynan -- his grand finale always gets washed out by the crowd, in prayer.

***

So I'm home now, trying to stay awake until a more respectable hour to go to sleep. And what do I hear from the house next door, through their and my open windows? Some young child -- or so I would assume -- warming up his trumpet. Very flatly warming up his trumpet, but valiant effort, I say. And he proceeds to bust into a hearty, though musically suspect, rendition of "God Bless America."

Thankfully, his small audience waited to applaud until after the song had ended.

THERE IS NO WHITE BRONCO . . .

Alright, I admit it, I was watching "Oprah" when the ABC News Special Report broke in with news that another helicopter had crashed in the East River (second time this week!). As I thought my first thoughts that (1) I don't really care, can we get back to "Oprah" and (2) I wonder if it was a form of terrorism, I became riveted by the scene that unfolded before me through the lens of the Eyewitness NewsCopter. Civilians leaving their cars on the northbound FDR Drive to jump the fence and run to the end of the dock near 42nd Street to try to pull people out of the water. Emergency personnel arriving on scene and rushing to the edge with stretchers, life preservers and medical equipment. People grabbing a ladder from somewhere and dropping it into the water into the arms of survivors. EMS workers performing CPR on a man lying on the ground. And then the most fascinating sight I've seen in a long time on television:

A scuba team gearing up and dropping into the water, just like in the movies.

I don't know why that was so awesome to me. I mean, it's just two dudes in wetsuits with oxygen tanks on their backs, grabbing ropes to tether to the sunken helicopter they hope to find, turning around and dropping backwards into the East River. But still. I'm totally riveted. I can't look away even long enough to properly type these words.

I guess I'm just sort of vicariously thrilled at the reality of this scene. Not the reality of the fright and excitement and tragedy, but the reality of the speed of people's responses, the willingness of strangers to leave their evening commutes and hop a ragged wire fence to save someone's life, and how quickly things can be mobilized -- when it really matters -- in this crazy, clogged-up, bureaucratic, unfeeling, jaded city of ours. Just goes to show ... the guys in scuba gear are always there for ya.

Post-script: alright, it's been twenty minutes now and my short American attention-span has failed me once again. I'm bored with the helicopter story and they drone on incessantly about it anyway. Even the scuba guys are out and dry. Forget it, I'm gonna go read a book or something.

SO PRETENTIOUS . . .

But I love the idea of this women's literary circle. Of course, I don't have sleek Chanel suits or strands of real pearls or insightful essays to share ... and in this day and age, my ladies and I would probably meet over martinis and blog entries ... but the idea is so charming, the pretentiousness doesn't bother me.

READ IT AND WEEP . . .

RAPED, KIDNAPPED AND SILENCED
By Nicholas D. Kristof

No wonder the Pakistan government can't catch Osama bin Laden. It is too busy harassing, detaining - and now kidnapping - a gang-rape victim for daring to protest and for planning a visit to the United States.

Last fall I wrote about Mukhtaran Bibi, a woman who was sentenced by a tribal council in Pakistan to be gang-raped because of an infraction supposedly committed by her brother. Four men raped Ms. Mukhtaran, then village leaders forced her to walk home nearly naked in front of a jeering crowd of 300.

Ms. Mukhtaran was supposed to have committed suicide. Instead, with the backing of a local Islamic leader, she fought back and testified against her persecutors. Six were convicted.

Then Ms. Mukhtaran, who believed that the best way to overcome such abuses was through better education, used her compensation money to start two schools in her village, one for boys and the other for girls. She went out of her way to enroll the children of her attackers in the schools, showing that she bore no grudges.

Readers of my column sent in more than $133,000 for her. Mercy Corps, a U.S. aid organization, has helped her administer the money, and she has expanded the schools, started a shelter for abused women and bought a van that is used as an ambulance for the area. She has also emerged as a ferocious spokeswoman against honor killings, rapes and acid attacks on women. (If you want to help her, please don't send checks to me but to Mercy Corps, with "Mukhtaran Bibi" in the memo line: 3015 S.W. First, Portland, Ore. 97201.)

A group of Pakistani-Americans invited Ms. Mukhtaran to visit the U.S. starting this Saturday (see www.4anaa.org). Then a few days ago, the Pakistani government went berserk.

On Thursday, the authorities put Ms. Mukhtaran under house arrest - to stop her from speaking out. In phone conversations in the last few days, she said that when she tried to step outside, police pointed their guns at her. To silence her, the police cut off her land line.

After she had been detained, a court ordered her attackers released, putting her life in jeopardy. That happened on a Friday afternoon, when the courts do not normally operate, and apparently was a warning to Ms. Mukhtaran to shut up. Instead, Ms. Mukhtaran continued her protests by cellphone. But at dawn yesterday the police bustled her off, and there's been no word from her since. Her cellphone doesn't answer.

Asma Jahangir, a Pakistani lawyer who is head of the Human Rights Commission of Pakistan, said she had learned that Ms. Mukhtaran was taken to Islamabad, furiously berated and told that President Pervez Musharraf was very angry with her. She was led sobbing to detention at a secret location. She is barred from contacting anyone, including her lawyer.

"She's in their custody, in illegal custody," Ms. Jahangir said. "They have gone completely crazy."

Even if Ms. Mukhtaran were released, airports have been alerted to bar her from leaving the country. According to Dawn, a Karachi newspaper, the government took this step, "fearing that she might malign Pakistan's image."

Excuse me, but Ms. Mukhtaran, a symbol of courage and altruism, is the best hope for Pakistan's image. The threat to Pakistan's image comes from President Musharraf for all this thuggish behavior.

I've been sympathetic to Mr. Musharraf till now, despite his nuclear negligence, partly because he's cooperated in the war on terrorism and partly because he has done a good job nurturing Pakistan's economic growth, which in the long run is probably the best way to fight fundamentalism. So even when Mr. Musharraf denied me visas all this year, to block me from visiting Ms. Mukhtaran again and writing a follow-up column, I bit my tongue.

But now President Musharraf has gone nuts.

"This is all because they think they have the support of the U.S. and can get away with murder," Ms. Jahangir said. Indeed, on Friday, just as all this was happening, President Bush received Pakistan's foreign minister in the White House and praised President Musharraf's "bold leadership."

So, Mr. Bush, how about asking Mr. Musharraf to focus on finding Osama, instead of kidnapping rape victims who speak out? And invite Ms. Mukhtaran to the Oval Office - to show that Americans stand not only with generals who seize power, but also with ordinary people of extraordinary courage.

PLAIN TRUTH . . .

The bare fact of the matter is this: persons will go on and on about how much they love you, how much they love everything about you, how much they would do anything for you, but the bottom line really is that when a speed bump approaches, or when things don't go exactly their way, or when you don't act the way they want you to, that love disappears just a little bit. Or they withhold their love. Or they convince themselves that you must not love them fully back.

That's just human nature, I suppose. Our egos, though created by the Almighty, are so fragile and so needy, and every affront -- real or perceived -- can wound so deeply. I understand that, and though it frustrates me to try to convince my loved ones of my love and devotion and dedication, I know that I must, because that is something I too would wish.

But it also makes me consider that much more how precisely unconditional God's love is. He doesn't get miffed if I don't do exactly what He wants when He wants it. He doesn't talk about me behind my back. He doesn't glare at me balefully, or huff and puff in exasperation. He doesn't give me the cold shoulder, or say "whatever" to me, or make me grovel for His eyes to rest gently upon me. He doesn't ever, EVER do any of these utterly human and base and needful things.

And so, although I toss and turn in minor turmoil about potential brokenness, I also rest myself in His fulfilling and satisfying love.

***

GRATITUDE . . .

For prayers and thoughtfulness. For unexpected good times. For friends sticking through thick and thin and thick and thin again. For insights and amusements and distractions that heal. You know who you are.

***

IF I HAVEN'T GONE TO SLEEP, IT'S STILL FRIDAY . . .

What is your favorite...

1. ...Smell? Clean un-cologned man ... percolating coffee ... kimchi jigae ... rain ... jasmine tea ... meat grilling on a summer evening ... clean powdery baby.

2. ...Sound? Whir of cars going by on the highway ... multitude of voices united in song ... piano and guitar ... the voice of a loved one ... that harmony that is right on, but just slightly off and waiting to resolve.

3. ...Flavor? Coffee ... salt ... savory.

4. ...Word? Pumpkin ... quantum ... panties ... cardiologist ... histrionic ... pudding ... f*cker.

5. ...Sight? Passionate, gentle smile ... sun rising, risen, or setting ... beloved family and/or friends relaxing, in repose ... me in the mirror on a day that I feel sassy and confident ... clean and orderly desk, room, closet.

NOT A SUCKER . . .

I'm watching "Primetime Live" right now, Diane Sawyer's interview with Brad Pitt. Alright, I confess that a small, very very small, tiny, miniscule part of me was vaguely curious about Brangelina (Lord, I love these nicknames). But I am hooked not by the lurid details of Pitt's love life, but by his modesty and the raw emotion with which he speaks of fighting poverty and AIDS in Africa.

I speak of The One Campaign, started by Bono, and supported by dozens of celebrities, thousands of churches, millions of 'civilians'. This campaign seeks to raise awareness in this country, this abundant, luxurious, well-watered and well-fed country, of the poverty and sickness and need that millions of Africans -- particularly women and children -- suffer every minute.

I listen to Pitt's voice break as he speaks: "I can't fathom it." And I don't have the heart to be mad at the media for manipulating my emotions, or to be cynical at Pitt and think he's faking it. He's not faking it.

The One Campaign.
Be a sucker.
Check it out.

***

TREMBLING . . .

Once in a long blue moon, I am moved to weep by a song I hear. The music, the words, the chords, the tone make me acknowledge that place deep in the pit of my stomach, hidden away somewhere around my spine, behind my liver, under the intestines, in a dark dark place that doesn't get much light for it would shrivel in the face of such exposure. And then it wells up, ripping up through my guts and gushing through my windpipe until I can't breathe, and have to let the tear ducts fill up and flow out to relieve the pressure.

The last song that made me feel this way, so full and satisfied and wistful and hopeless and hopeful all at once, was "Baby," whispered to me by Dave Matthews in the dark summer nights of 2003.

And now, in the summer of 2005, it's Jason Mraz, coming straight at me with "Sleeping to Dream," off of his live album "Tonight, Not Again." I am struck by this song because ... well, you know when you can't find the words to say what you want to say? And it's so good that I found someone else to say it for me so perfectly. It's miraculous, really. The words to say what I want to say ...

I'm dreaming of sleeping next to you
I'm feeling like a lost little boy in a brand new town
I'm counting my sheep and each one that passes
is another dream to ashes
and they all fall down.

As I lay me down tonight,
I close my eyes and what a beautiful sight

I'm sleeping to dream about you
I'm so tired of having to live without you
So I'm sleeping to dream about you and I'm so tired

I found myself in the riches (Your eyes, your lips, your hair.)
Well you were everywhere
But I woke up in the ditches.
I hit the light and I thought you might be here
but you were nowhere.
You were nowhere at home.

As I lay me back to sleep
Lord I pray that I can keep

Sleeping to dream about you
I'm so tired of having to live without you
So I'm sleeping to dream about you and I'm so tired

(It's just a little a lullaby to keep myself from crying myself to sleep at night.)

Sleeping to dream about you
I'm so tired of having to live without you
So I'm sleeping to dream about you and I'm so tired

USE THE FORCE . . .

He did it!

Another one has joined the anti-dark side: Juice made The Switch and is now the proud owner of a Mac.

My heart swells with pride and joy.

TEENY BITS . . .

1. I can't get enough of "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" lately.

2. C.S. Lewis's Chronicles of Narnia is coming to the big screen this Christmas. AWESOME ... and yikes!

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

This is the first documented photo of me, Chicken, half of Team Cesar Salad with Chicken, taken about two hours in to the 2005 Genesis Adventure Sprint at Hartford, CT. (And yes, I named myself Chicken because I was scared to death about doing this race, and anything related to it.)

The first leg -- mountain biking around a 6-mile trail -- was pure agony. Cesar Salad, I think, enjoyed it and just didn't want to get off his bike long enough to take a picture. I, Chicken, on the other hand, nearly died on that course, and would have fled into the woods if Cesar Salad had made any efforts to document my pain and suffering.

Here, we are faux-cheating. After a nice downstream float, we found ourselves fighting both wind AND current on our way back to the fourth Checkpoint. We saw some other teams drag their kayaks onto land and walk back, so we attempted to try the same.

We ended up on some bizarre trail that sort of paralleled the river. We dragged that poor kayak across all manner of terrain: dirt, rocks, pebbles, pavement, grass. We encountered a group of young men in the woods who were totally drunk and tried to help us. (Incidentally, that was the only time I felt scared for my life.) We scraped up the bottom of that kayak nice and good before we decided it was too damn heavy to carry anymore, and we relaunched into the river.

When we got back to shore -- legally, this time -- we dragged the kayak out of the water. "DON'T DRAG IT! LIFT IT AND CARRY IT!" berated the Checkpoint monitor.

Cesar Salad and I exchanged looks and smirks. Oh, if they only knew ...

And so, the adventure began.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Only I'm happy in this picture. Cesar Salad had a bit of a rough time with the kayaking, and I'm convinced I enjoyed it so much more than he did because I have a lower center of gravity.

Nonetheless, once we got the kayak BACK IN the water, we enjoyed the breeze (even when it was blowing against us) and the chill of the water as it splashed us and cooled us down.

And even Cesar Salad said, after the agonizing third leg of biking AND running, that he missed the water.

Hmmm ... he didn't say he missed the kayaking ...

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Under a highway overpass. Or was it a railroad? Hard to tell.

All we knew was that it was cool, dark, totally creepy, and was on the direct route for where we wanted to go.

Others probably took main roads, even if they were slightly roundabout circuits. Whatever. Cesar Salad with Chicken was all about the direct route from Point A to Point B.

Even if it took us here.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Okay, this is me running for the camera after we finally made our way back to West Hartford to find the last two checkpoints. We had already decided at this point that from now on, we only had to start running when we were crossing a street and cars were coming at us. We found this to be a very efficient use of our energy.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

What started out hard-core for Team Cesar Salad with Chicken turned into a leisurely tour of Hartford (with which we now have a hate-hate relationship), complete with blazing hot sunshine, running along the barrier of a major highway, climbing up a rock embankment and scrambling down the muddy other side, wading through thigh-high brush, encountering all manner of weird drunk men in the woods, deciding that running really wasn't necessary in this "race," and jumping fences that led to nowhere.

Here, we stop by a flower bed and think, "Other teams are using their precious seconds to run as fast as they can in this heat. How silly they are. Let's take a picture."

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Somewhere between Checkpoint 7 and Checkpoint 8, we found ourselves ONCE AGAIN under some random overpass, gazing upon remnants of human life and many, many cigarette butts.

These dark places were kind of creepy. No, they were VERY creepy. And I was sure I was breathing in all manner of dust and things that would give me Hanta virus. But it was so THANKFULLY cool down there ...

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

This was, if I recall correctly, right before we tried to steal some picnickers' McDonald's french fries and right after someone asked us if we were on "The Amazing Race."

Then we thought, "hey, maybe we can stop for some pizza." But we decided that would look bad if we crossed the finish line holding crusts and cans of beer.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Team Cesar Salad with Chicken is the first NHF team to cross the finish line!

(Small print: we are also the last team in our division to finish, but let bygones be bygones ...)

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Team Cesar Salad with Chicken, looking refreshed but feeling no less triumphant after several cups of ice-cold Gatorade, a few bags of potato chips, a handful of cookies and a banana.

And the icing on the cake? Our matching jerseys, which won the self-given Salvatore Ferragamo Fashion Award, thank-you-very-much-Banana.

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

And here comes Team All-In, having battled upstream currents, twice capsized, launched themselves over gopher holes, scraped up every exposed part of their bodies, and fought off diarrhea and stomach cramps. Truly my heroes ... and they're talking about doing it again! Whatever!

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Team East/West comes running in, last but not least. The best part is: they're smiling all the way in. What an encouraging sight! That totally made my day ...

Originally uploaded by chaesq.

Unclear as to why I have the stupid "I just won 'The Price is Right' and I'm going to Disneyland in my new Pontiac" grin on my face ... but I sure was glad to be at the finish line and not still stuck somewhere in God-forsaken Hartford.

Actually, the goofy smile was to keep from weeping at the overwhelming sensation of accomplishment, reached at the end of a long line of teamwork, pain, laughter, tears and plain ol' good times.

Two snaps in a big fat circle to All-In, East/West, and of course, Cesar Salad without whom Chicken would have been pounded, breaded and deep-fried into oblivion.

JUST BECAUSE . . .

I have a sinus headache and can't bear the thought of starting work yet ...

What is your favorite...
1. ...Soft drink? I don't drink a lot of soda, but sometimes, nothing is better or brings back more sweet memories than a chilly 7-UP.

2. ...Hot beverage? Strong, sludgy coffee, or chamomile tea with sugar and milk.

3. ...Comfort drink? I don't really know what this means. But I sure do like room-temperature water.

4. ...Mixed drink? Black Russian with Grey Goose. Or cranberry-and-Absolut, for old times' sake.

5. ...Drink to combat a hot, steamy, sticky, miserable August afternoon? Room-temperature water. It just tastes so good!

NOT QUITE COMATOSE . . .

... But not quite awake either.

Today, five of my friends from NHF and I participated in the 2005 Hartford Genesis Adventure Race.

No, seriously, what the hell were we thinking?

I am far too tired and my muscles are far too loopy to describe much more of our day ... but some tidbits to be related at a future date -- complete with ridiculous photos -- include: (1) the crushing moment I went novice; (2) the crushing moment my team, Cesar Salad with Chicken, realized the current was against us; (3) the crushing moment we realized that a plastic kayak is f*cking heavy; (4) the crushing moment we understood that running is, like, hard; (5) the really crushing moment when I fell off my bike seat and landed ... ON THE CENTER BAR, still straddling the bike (can I get an "oh sh*t"?) (6) running along what we think was I-91 with traffic whizzing by us at approximately 65 miles an hour; (7) scrambling up rocky highway embankments and skidding down muddy ones on the other side; (8) tromping through brush that hasn't seen a human foot in decades and wondering, "if I die out here, will anyone notice before years pass?"; (9) the weird dude with the sweatshirt and the bike in the middle of the brush; (10) salted almonds, OH, those salted almonds; (11) the moment we realized we only needed to run in order to cross the street before cars hit us; (12) the crucial moment where we had to decide, "do we stop for pizza or not?"; (13) climbing the stairs to the top near the end instead of taking the ramp, just because; (14) making a valiant jog for the finish line even though we had just spent two leisurely hours taking a scenic, if fast-paced, stroll through downtown Hartford (which, incidentally, is utterly boring and desolate and we hate it and we're never going back, EVER, because Connecticut is PURE EVIL and it's HOT there); (15) stuffing our faces with chocolate chip cookies, bananas, potato chips and Gatorade, not caring that JKA was documenting every single moment of our shrunken-stomach gluttony with her camera; (16) watching my gang, forever my brothers in sweat, tears and muscle cramps, cross the finish line; (17) driving home and realizing, "OH MY GOD. I JUST DID AN ADVENTURE RACE AND I LIVED TO TELL THE STORY," then bawling and bawling uncontrollably because I just can't believe myself.

Well, we'll see about living to tell the story. For now, she sleeps, not looking forward to the crushing moment in the morning when she has to get out of bed and realizes she can't move.

AIN'T NO THANG . . .

I realized today that for someone who has a lot of inhibitions, I don't have many inhibitions, or at least not of the external kind.

Case in point: I pooed at Whole Foods Market today, after asking some WFM employees to watch my cart for me. Didn't even care that there were other women in the bathroom. Just strolled right into a stall, shucked my undies and pooed. And damn, it felt good.

Five years ago, I never would have done that.

Ten years ago, I never would have done that in a bathroom full of people, even strangers.

Fifteen years ago, I never would have had the nerve to even open my mouth to ask the employees to watch my shopping cart.

I shudder to think what I'll be like twenty years from NOW.

(Incidentally, I am enough of a nerd that when I was sitting in the stall -- very briefly, for I'm efficient that way, unless something is very very wrong -- I thought to myself, "This is too funny. I'm pooing in a Whole Foods. I have to tell someone. Nah, I'll just blog about it.")

I BEEN HIT . . .

"Hit Me, Baby, One More Time" premieres tonight at 9:00 p.m. on NBC. I believe Tiffany, Flock of Seagulls and Loverboy are on the block tonight. Coming soon ... WANG CHUNG.

Last night, I learned that Wang Chung got its name from the alleged noise made by a strum of a guitar: wang-CHUNG. Whatever.

Everybody wang chung tonight.

***

STILL LOST . . .

They are re-running "Lost" this summer. Last night was the first episode, the first hour of the two-hour pilot. I am going to tape every single re-run, then watch each episode, then watch each episode again in slow-motion, then take notes of every thing that jumps out at me (literally or not), then cross-check everything I note against every theory bouncing around out there on the ABC messages boards (not that I read them or anything).

I am officially obsessed and I'm not ashamed of it and until they develop a 12-step program for Losties like me, I'm not letting go of it because it's not a problem and I'm not in denial.

***

TICK, TOCK . . .

I'm so impatient, I can't stand the anticipation and the unspoken words and the small intakes of breath before a question that isn't asked and the jump across the not-so-dangerous chasm that isn't taken and the idle conversation that replaces the words that really need to be said and the coffee that could have been drunk but wasn't for no good reason and the standing around like it's high school all over again and I'm hanging out in the middle of the street on a summer night after finals are over but before graduation ceremonies just enjoying the stars and the chats and the laughter and the touch that is going to be ignored.

SLOW DAY AT THE OFFICE . . .

Can you tell?

So, LiveAid (apparently now to be renamed Live-8, to coincide with the G-8 meetings in London this summer) is revived via Bob Geldof. Free tickets. I want to go. If I had a jet-pack that I could strap on and zip around the world, I'd definitely want to check out Annie Lennox, Madonna, Joss Stone and R.E.M. in London ... DMB and Jay-Z in Philadelphia ... Lauryn Hill and CSN in Berlin ... Duran Duran in Rome ... and Jamiroquai in Paris.

If only.

Slooooow day at the office ...

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PSST . . .

So, The New York Times published this story about a blog devoted to secrets, where people send in postcards on which their secrets are written, printed, glued, decoupaged, whatever. It's quite a remarkable site, and it's naively stunning to see how many and how varied are the secrets that are out there. Some of the secrets are so, so funny ... and others are so heartbreaking.

If I had the time, the postcard, the cojones to send in my own postcard(s), I wonder what secret I would tell.

Maybe the one about ___ ... or how I feel about ___ ... or I wish I had ___ ... or what I would do to ___ ... or how I had ___ ... or the time I ___ ... or what happened when I ___ ... or how I wished she would ___ ... or how I wish he would ___ ...

Juicy, juicy!

***

WHAT THE . . .

Alright, I watched the season finale of "Alias."
WHATEVER!

This is just too nuts. The show is turning all sorts of "Days of Our Lives" on me, and I just can't keep track of who's dead, who's revived, who never died in the first place, who is whose real parents, who is whose fake parents, whose name is what, who is bad, who went good, who turned bad again. All that, and the world almost ended. All you need is Dierdre Hall with her eyes glowing green and levitating out of her bed, and you have a class-A NBC soap opera masquerading as a spy drama.

I just want the spying to come back. You know, good guys get the bad guys. Use some cool gadgets, throw some cool kickboxing moves, bang-bang, you're dead and the good guys come riding home in the sunset. Call me traditionalist, but Vaughn's real name not being Vaughn does not constitute good spy action drama to me.

***

BLEH . . .

I am stricken with inertia.

Perhaps it's because I've been sick for most of my recent memory and can't remember the last day that I didn't cough periodically and blow my nose to the point of nostril-crustiness.

Perhaps it's because it's 2005 and almost June, to boot, and I can't help but wonder, "where did the last five months go and what useful things have I done in that time?"

Perhaps it's because I'm nearly thirty and I can't help but wonder, "am I truly satisfied with my life right now and am I really able to trust God with it?"

Perhaps it's because I see other people having things that I want, but I haven't the first clue as to how to go about getting those things for myself too.

Perhaps it's because I feel like I'm being teased, with something being dangled just centimeters out of my reach, something that is yanked away everytime I reach for it, and all I need to do is make that one final lunge that puts that something into my fingers' grasp.

Perhaps it's because I'm just sleepy but my genes don't let me sleep well.

Perhaps it's because I'm hungry but I can't figure out what I want to cook.

Perhaps it's because I'm mentally still on the academic calendar, and AP-exams have ended, and now it's just movie-watching in class before school breaks for the summer and I can do nothing of substance for three whole months. I wish.

SCHNOTS . . .

I have been sick for two weeks now. ICK.

You know when your nose runs so much and you blow it so much that your nostrils get all hard and crusty and sensitive, and you feel like they are covered in concrete and are three times their normal size? You know when only one nostril is operative, so you tilt your head to one side so that the other one clears up, but then the first operative nostril clogs up, so you end up having to mouth-breathe? You know when you can't fall asleep because every tickle in your nose and throat catapults you into paroxysms of coughing that make you feel like you're going to vomit? You know when you feel like such a loser and a pariah because you carry around a stash of wadded up tissues, itching your eyes, wiping your concrete nostrils, sucking on cough drops while breathing through your mouth which is completely dry and so your breath is probably disgusting too?

Yeah, I hate that.

***

STILL NOT FOUND . . .

So I finally watched the "Lost" finale. Consider me lost too.

1. Why Walt? I knew as soon as Rousseau said "they said they wanted the boy" that The Others wanted WALT and not the baby. But why Walt? Because he's black? That would be so wrong. Because of the polar bear in his comic book that came alive on the island? Because he knows about the hatch without knowing about the hatch? And where is he going anyway? Are we ever going to see him again? Is he a ritual sacrifice that the island demands every time someone crash lands there? Or is he going to come back and be all zombie and stupid-like, like Claire was after she came back from being kidnapped by Tom Cruise's cousin?

2. Is Sawyer dead? He better not be, because he's pretty hot, and I like that bad-boy-needs-glasses-to-read thing he's got going on.

3. Is Jin dead? He better not be, because we all need more Korean-American men on television ... okay, we need one Korean-American man on television ... and dang it, he was just learning to speak English (better than he can speak Korean, I hope).

4. Could Shannon be more annoying? (Answer: no. But at least she was kind enough to give Sayid a hug yesterday after he and Charlie rescued the baby.)

5. Why, oh why, did Charlie take the Virgin Mary heroin? WHY??!?!?!? How dismaying. I am ever-so-sad at his apparent return to the drugs. Very bad. Very very bad.

6. What was up with the cranking noise as Locke was being pulled away by the Thing We Do Not See? That was more frightening than anything else in the episode: the impenetrable-ness of that noise, the grinding of it, the strength of it, the loudness of it. Is it a man or a machine? I don't know! And naturally, the not knowing is scarier than anything else.

7. What is up with Locke seeing the Thing We Do Not See, and apparently not being afraid of it until the very last moment? Is the Thing We Do Not See akin to Jack-Jack in "The Incredibles," who appears to be a cute little baby, but then turns into all sorts of horrific things when necessary? Maybe it appeared to Locke as some sort of Jesus figure -- you know, since he was healed of his paralysis and all -- but then at the last second, as it neared Locke, it morphed into something evil and terrifying (I have so many issues with that if that is indeed the case)? And what is up with Locke wanting to be sucked into the ground because he'll "be alright"? Whatever. I don't ever want to be sucked into the ground, not for anything.

8. What is up with Hurley almost being killed by the dynamite? No, no, no. Don't get rid of Hurley. Do not even put him in the line of danger, because he's one of the best things this show has got going for it (aside from hot Sawyer, natch). But I definitely got the heebs when, near the end of episode, he walked down the aisle of the doomed plane, made eye contact with Walt-the-snatched, winked and gave a thumbs-up. Those two are connected and they know something I don't know and I don't like that.

9. What's the deal with the black smoke that arises from a fire that was created without leaving any footprints or tracks, and that vaporizes into itself and zips around the jungle with a primal scream? Freaky.

10. Why do I have to wait three months to see another new episode of "Lost"? I do not approve of this thing known as 'the summer hiatus.' My only hope is that ABC will air reruns, starting from the beginning, so that I can record and watch them all and debrief them thoroughly with whoever is willing to talk about the show with me.

FULL HOUSE . . .

We are five and complete again: Cheech is home for the summer.

When we sat down for dinner, and Appa prayed aloud for our meal, I almost started to cry. So many emotions, so many thoughts, even among the blessings we sought and the praises we raised. All the things that had been running in and out of my head and my life and my heart over the past several months, all my worries, all my happinesses, all the burdens I carried for those I love, all the hopes I held out for the future ... all of these sat on my bowed head like a precariously-balanced circus act. And I thought about our full table, how abundantly loaded it was with all sorts of home-cooked goodies, how crowded it was now that we were all finally sitting at it together, how happy it was because Gran had her cast off and Omma and Appa had their children at home and Cheech and I had not had a petty disagreement yet. And I thought about all the families out there that might not have this luxury, this sheer joy of sharing a meal together and relishing it. And I thought about the fact that this might the last summer that Cheech is with us ... no, it most certainly will be his last, because from now on, he faces a life that isn't his own to live, a schedule that isn't his own to dictate, a commitment to the lives of thousands of as-yet-unknowns that isn't his to break. Any five-person meal after August is totally in the hands of God to arrange ...

And still I was thankful and so, so happy, and so, so reluctant to leave. I want to move back home for the next three months and soak up my family until I'm big and plump and stretched and saturated with happiness oozing out of every pore.

DO-GOODERS . . .

I know there are some of you out there thinking, "omigod, like I need another excuse to go shopping." Well, yes, you do, and if you're going to spend big bucks on yo'self, you might as well do some good at the same time. Support "Shop 4 Class," which raises money to buy books for New York City public school libraries. Go to the following stores to buy something you don't need between Friday, May 20th and Friday, May 27th, and give NYC's public school kids something they do need ...

MANHATTAN
ABC Carpet & Home (www.abchome.com)
888 Broadway, 212.473.3000

Bergdorf Goodman (www.bergdorfgoodman.com)
754 Fifth Avenue, 800.558.1855

Betsey Bunky Nini
980 Lexington Avenue, 212.744.6716

Bliss Spas (www.blissworld.com)
568 Broadway / 19 East 57th Street
212.219.8970

Blue Bench (www.bluebenchnyc.com)
159 Duane Street, 212.267.1500

Bombay Company (www.bombaycompany.com)
441 Columbus Avenue, 212.721.1417
1542 3rd Avenue, 212.987.3990
900 Broadway, 212.420.1315

Bond No. 9 New York (www.saks.com)
9 Bond Street, 212.228.1732
680 Madison Avenue, 212.838.2780
897 Madison Avenue, 212.794.4480

Books of Wonder (www.booksofwonder.net)
18 West 18th Street, 212.989.3270

Borders Books & Music (www.borders.com)
100 Broadway / 576 Second Avenue / 461 Park Avenue / 10 Columbus Circle
888.81BOOKS

Brooks Brothers (www.brooksbrothers.com)
346 Madison Avenue / 666 Fifth Avenue / One Liberty Plaza
212.682.8800

C.O. Bigelow Chemists (www.bigelowchemists.com)
414 Sixth Avenue, 212.533.2700

The Compleat Strategist, Inc. (www.thecompleatstrategist.com)
11 East 33rd Street, 212.685.3880

Crumbs Bakeshop (www.crumbsbakeshop.com)
1371 Third Avenue / 321 1/2 Amsterdam Avenue
212.794.9800

Cynthia Rowley (www.cynthiarowley.com)
376 Bleecker Street, 212.242.3803

Daffy's (www.daffys.com)
201.902.0800

Dinosaur Hill (www.dinosaurhill.com)
East Ninth Street, 212.473.5850

Fetch (www.fetchpets.com)
43 Greenwich Avenue, 212.352.8591

Fishs Eddy (www.fishseddy.com)
889 Broadway, 212.420.9020

Flight 001 (www.flight001.com)
96 Greenwich Avenue, 212.691.1001

Gracious Home (www.gracioushome.com)
1220 Third Avenue, 212.517.6300
1217 Third Avenue, 212.988.8990
1201 Third Avenue, 212.517.6300
1992 Broadway, 212.231.7800

J&R Music and Computer World (www.jr.com)
Park Row, 212.238.9000

Jack of Diamonds Jewelers International (www.jackofdiamondsintl.com)
52 West 47th Street, 212.869.7272

Kidding Around (www.kiddingaround.us)
60 West 15th Street, 212.645.6337

Macy's Herald Square (www.macys.com)
151 West 34th Street, 212.695.4400

Manhattan Dollhouse
428 Second Avenue, 212.725.4520

Our Name is Mud (www.ournameismud.com)
1566 Second Avenue, 212.570.6868
59 Greenwich Avenue, 212.647.7899
506 Amsterdam Avenue, 212.579.5575
Grand Central Terminal, 212.388.9559

Pearl River Mart (www.pearlriver.com)
477 Broadway, 212.925.2140

Plain Jane, Inc. (www.plainjanekids.com)
525 Amsterdam Avenue, 212.595.6916

Portico (www.porticohome.com)
72 Spring Street, 212.941.7800
903 Broadway, 212.473.6662
75 Ninth Avenue, 212.243.8515

Posman Books @ GCT (www.posmanbooks.com)
9 Grand Central Terminal, 212.983.1111

The Scholastic Store (www.scholastic.com/sohostore)
557 Broadway

Shoofly (www.shooflynyc.com)
42 Hudson Street, 212.406.3270

Space Kiddets (www.spacekiddets.com)
46 East 21st Street, 212.420.9878

Starbright Floral Design (www.starflor.com)
150 West 28th Street, 800.520.8999

Super Runners Shop (www.superrunnersshop.com)
1337 Lexington Avenue, 631.549.3006

Uncle Sam's Army Navy Outfitters (www.armynavydeals.com)
37 West 8th Street, 212.674.2222

Vivaldi Boutique (www.vivaldiny.com)
1388 Third Avenue, 212.934.2805

West Side Kids
498 Amsterdam Avenue, 212.496.7282

BROOKLYN
Atlantic Terminal / Atlantic Center Mall
The intersection of Atlantic and Flatbush Avenue, 718.834.3400

Calabar Imports (www.calabar-imports.com)
820 Washington Avenue, 718.638.4288

Kleinfeld (www.kleinfeldbridal.com)
8202 Fifth Avenue, 718.765.8500

Wall Couture (www.wallcouture.com)
649 Vanderbilt Avenue, 718.288.2260

QUEENS
Queens Place Mall
88-01 Queens Blvd., 718.393.9400

***

BY THE WAY . . .

I still have my voice. It doesn't want to be here, but it's still here.

HEAR ME roar . . .

I am so sexy right now, I can't stand it.

Is it the Old Navy grey athletic shirt I'm wearing? Noooooo. Is it the damp hair, lying limp against my head after my post-workout shower? Nooooo. Is it the pink and white flannel pajama bottoms I have on? Nooooo. Maybe it's the granny glasses I put on after taking my contact lenses out. Noooooo. Oh wait, is it the pesto sauce from dinner stuck in various places in my teeth? Uh, no.

It's that my voice, on the verge of petering out completely, is husky and catchy, in kind of a Stevie-Nicks-gone-Asian sort of way.

I'm fascinated by the fact that I might lose my voice. It's such a strange sensation to open my mouth and force air through my stomach and vocal chords, to have absolutely nothing come out. It's sheepishly awesome to sing along to the CD in the car, and hear that cool husky quality in myself ... too bad my range has now become limited to all of three notes. Go any further in either direction, and I start to sound like a choir-boy-gone-puberty. It's just not pretty.

And losing my voice sucks. It's happened to me only twice before -- unlike the girls in high school who were always losing their voices, for whatever asinine reason -- and each time, I hated it because yes, I have that one day of sounding sexy beforehand, but being mute afterwards is miserable and NOT sexy. And it HURTS like HELL. And I have to be OBNOXIOUS to be HEARD. And then people LAUGH at me and shopkeepers think I can't speak ENGLISH. And then people STILL look at me like I have some COMMUNICABLE DISEASE, which I DON'T, I just lost my VOICE, STUPID. And then the DOGS come running because the air out of my throat vibrates at some INHUMAN decibel level. It's really quite dreadful and most lacking in sexual allure.

But until that awful day of muteness arrives, I am going to sing simple songs to myself, just so I can think I'm as cool and awesome and and sexy and eminently recordable as Stevie Nicks. Purrrrr.

IF I DON'T COUGH, I'M NOT SICK . . .

It's all about denial. And it's all about Comtrex, which, I have discovered, is particularly handy when I want to stay awake and alert for Margaret Cho on her Assassin, a/k/a State of Emergency tour, stopping tonight at the Beacon Theater in NYC.

Dang, I just appreciate her a whole lot.

I like that she's smart -- she doesn't just rant and rail in a burst of hot air. No, she edjumacates herself and does her homework makes sure that she knows what she's talking about. And she's consistent. When she puts herself forth as a proponent of gay rights or women's rights, she doesn't equivocate, or stand up for the pretty, palatable issues. She puts her whole self behind the causes she believes in, and fights for them with all she's got. Agree or disagree, I have no choice but to respect that. And she's proud. As a fellow Korean-American woman, I can say that that's a hard thing to be in this country: proud of who you are, of what you are, of how you are. She is all of those things; not without struggle, I'm sure, but she is still proud. And she's witty. She puts out turns of phrases that cut to the quick, and immediately tempers it by showing her softer side, then turns on herself with a healthy dose of self-deprecation, then invites the audience to laugh at themselves with her. She is merciful to no one, but neither is she senselessly cruel. And she's talented. She can be Bjork, her immigrant mother, a gay black man, a lipstick lesbian, a Hollywood starlet, and a clueless straight white man. She shamelessly contorts herself, and knows her audience better than it knows itself. And she's pushy. She makes me laugh hysterically until I'm wiping the smeared mascara from underneath my eyes, but then she makes me think. She makes me think about gay marriage, about women's health, about politics, about my identity as a woman, a Christian, an Asian-American, a human being. She makes me think about how I treat people. She makes me appreciate my family. She makes me think about the things that I do -- or more embarrassingly, don't -- stand up for.

She's got just a few shows left; if you can, see her. Have a good laugh. Blush at her liberal use of naughty words. Squirm at how she pins you down and makes you question yourself. Weep at her rendition of Bjork-gone-wild.

Enjoy.