SHH, DON'T TELL HER . . .

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

***

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

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

IT'S LIKE A MOVIE . . .

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


Gina Ferazzi/L.A. Times


Luis Sinco/L.A. Times


Al Seib/L.A. Times


Carolyn Cole/L.A. Times


Gina Ferazzi/L.A. Times

YUM . . .

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

And I'm craving a medium-rare steak.

OOH, THEY'RE GONNA BE MAAAAD . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FUN N' GAMES . . .


You are Storm!

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


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

FIRE . . .

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


Getty Images

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

LOVE ME, LOVE MY FRIENDS . . .

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

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

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORE KIBBLES N' BITS . . .

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

***

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

***

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

MORNING QUICKIES . . .

Oh, get your minds out of the gutter!

***

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

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

***

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

I'm having steak for dinner tonight.

YUM.

SHE SPEAKS . . .

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

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

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

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

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

And in succumbing, she will be restored.

MIDNIGHT PONDERATIONS . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

***

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

***

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

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

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

***

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

5:10PM . . .

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

IT'S SNOWING.

Sigh.

I am melancholy today.

HERE, FISHIE, FISHIE . . .

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


Ozier Muhammad/NYT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Barton Silverman/NYT

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

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

- Tyler Kepner/NYT


Barton Silverman/NYT

Rock on. See you in Cooperstown.

CRAMPED . . .

My world just got way smaller.

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

Wow. Talk about shrinkage.

QUESTIONS I AM MULLING TODAY . . .

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

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

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

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

TWO TO GO . . .


Reuters


G. Paul Burnett/NYT


G. Paul Burnett/NYT


G. Paul Burnett/NYT

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

11:30PM ADDENDUM . . .

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

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

IS THIS SOMETHING I COULD DO? . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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