I had no idea W's youth was so terribly disadvantaged. Here's a quote from the always-perspicacious presidential lips:
As a boy I never even saw a soccer ball...Where I’m from soccer wasn’t played. The sport just didn’t exist.
Somewhere, Germany is crying.
Or not.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Wyoming Welcomes Sinners!
Aside from the fact that Wyoming attracts cantankerous old ladies who get mad when movies based on their stories don't win Best Picture Oscars, it is probably a very nice place to live. Lots of open space, green grass, rivers, cowboys and other wonders of nature that seem increasingly mythological the longer I live in Southern California.
So you might want to consider moving there, if you don't already live in a place where mythological wonders abound (such as New Zealand or Mobile, Alabama). And luckily for you, Campbell County, Wyoming, is putting the finishing touches on a brand-spanking-new subdivision. Why, if you act fast, you could reserve your little piece of paradise right NOW!
In... Sinnerville.
Hey, you can't tell me you aren't just a little bit tempted. And if you do, you're probably lying. Which means you ought to fit right in! So what are you waiting for?
So you might want to consider moving there, if you don't already live in a place where mythological wonders abound (such as New Zealand or Mobile, Alabama). And luckily for you, Campbell County, Wyoming, is putting the finishing touches on a brand-spanking-new subdivision. Why, if you act fast, you could reserve your little piece of paradise right NOW!
In... Sinnerville.
Hey, you can't tell me you aren't just a little bit tempted. And if you do, you're probably lying. Which means you ought to fit right in! So what are you waiting for?
Sunday, May 07, 2006
I Survived...
...my first piano recital in 13 years! Woo-hoo!
Ok, so it isn't the first time in 13 years that I've played in front of an audience. But it IS the first time I've performed a piece of classical music in anything like a formal setting, so I admit I was nervous. As in, my hands were literally shaking, and my palms were literally sweating. Which is a little awkward when playing the piano, because, as you may imagine, you kind of need to use your hands.
Well, I can't say I didn't make mistakes. I mean, I'd like to say that, but I'd be lying. Let's just say it could have been better, but it also could have been a whole lot worse! Considering that I only got the entire piece (three movements, Mozart's Sonata in C Major, K545) memorized about two weeks ago, I was pleased that I made it all the way through without the music.
All in all, there were about seven students, of varying ability and age. Thankfully, there were no child prodigies in attendance to play (ha) on my insecurities. Not that that wouldn't have been a privilege to hear some 4-year-old trotting out a Chopin Impromptu, but it would have been just a teensy bit demoralizing too.
One of the best players, in my opinion, was not the most advanced, not by a long shot. She had only just started learning, and she looked to be in her 40s. She played three pieces, and none of them were more than three lines, but her hand position and technique and musicality were excellent; she looked more comfortable at the keys than another girl who had been taking lessons for 14 years.
One thing that occurred to me while listening to everyone play, and in playing myself, was that the hardest thing when performing at the piano is being able to tap into the emotion of a piece, where you forget that people are watching you, where the music takes on a life of its own, and what matters is what's being evoked in the hearts of the performer and listeners. There was a boy who played Beethoven, and though he managed it well from a technical standpoint, there was little of the passion and life that Beethoven poured into his work. He got a little braver with the Gershwin, so maybe it was just nerves, but it just made me think how much more difficult it is to play the spirit of the piece, and not just the notes.
Anyway it was a fun afternoon, and educational, too; I'm glad I had the chance to be a part of the program. And while I could hardly say I turned out the best performance of my life, I was impressed that I still remembered the training that was drilled into me when I was younger: When you make a mistake, don't make a sign! Act like nothing happened, and just keep going.
And that, believe me, is a LOT harder than it sounds!
Ok, so it isn't the first time in 13 years that I've played in front of an audience. But it IS the first time I've performed a piece of classical music in anything like a formal setting, so I admit I was nervous. As in, my hands were literally shaking, and my palms were literally sweating. Which is a little awkward when playing the piano, because, as you may imagine, you kind of need to use your hands.
Well, I can't say I didn't make mistakes. I mean, I'd like to say that, but I'd be lying. Let's just say it could have been better, but it also could have been a whole lot worse! Considering that I only got the entire piece (three movements, Mozart's Sonata in C Major, K545) memorized about two weeks ago, I was pleased that I made it all the way through without the music.
All in all, there were about seven students, of varying ability and age. Thankfully, there were no child prodigies in attendance to play (ha) on my insecurities. Not that that wouldn't have been a privilege to hear some 4-year-old trotting out a Chopin Impromptu, but it would have been just a teensy bit demoralizing too.
One of the best players, in my opinion, was not the most advanced, not by a long shot. She had only just started learning, and she looked to be in her 40s. She played three pieces, and none of them were more than three lines, but her hand position and technique and musicality were excellent; she looked more comfortable at the keys than another girl who had been taking lessons for 14 years.
One thing that occurred to me while listening to everyone play, and in playing myself, was that the hardest thing when performing at the piano is being able to tap into the emotion of a piece, where you forget that people are watching you, where the music takes on a life of its own, and what matters is what's being evoked in the hearts of the performer and listeners. There was a boy who played Beethoven, and though he managed it well from a technical standpoint, there was little of the passion and life that Beethoven poured into his work. He got a little braver with the Gershwin, so maybe it was just nerves, but it just made me think how much more difficult it is to play the spirit of the piece, and not just the notes.
Anyway it was a fun afternoon, and educational, too; I'm glad I had the chance to be a part of the program. And while I could hardly say I turned out the best performance of my life, I was impressed that I still remembered the training that was drilled into me when I was younger: When you make a mistake, don't make a sign! Act like nothing happened, and just keep going.
And that, believe me, is a LOT harder than it sounds!
Saturday, May 06, 2006
I Could Think of Worse Ways Than Shopping to Spend My Day...
... but they would involve death. As it is, going shopping is right up there.
I hate shopping, because it makes me irritable. Especially when I don't find what I want. And it seems like retailers are in cahoots to make sure that I don't. I can imagine them all huddling in a dark alley near the Glendale Galleria on a cold, cloudy morning such as this one. "Hey," they'll whisper to each other. "I've heard news... the frogg is on the move, and she's looking for a simple, white, button-down dress shirt. We all know what to do!" Then I will arrive at the mall and every single store I go into will have dress shirts of every size, color, and style... EXCEPT white and button-down.
Trust me, it's happened before.
Still, the time comes when, like it or not, I have to do some shopping. And today might be one of those days. Which is why I am still lying in bed. I'm hoping I come to my senses before it's too late.
The trouble is, I actually do need some things. Like shoes. I've been wearing flip-flops or sneakers to work but there are times when, in fact, something more dressy is called for. And then what do I do??
The worse trouble is, I hate shoe-shopping more than any other kind of shopping. It's a nightmare, because being tall, I have big feet. Which means I can't ever find cute shoes in my size.
As if to make matters even more complicated on the shopping front, I read this article this morning, all about how women's sizes are shrinking to accommodate the vanity of women who are, shall we say, not shrinking accordingly. So in other words, someone who is normally a size 10 can now fit into (for example) a size 6 even though they haven't lost any weight. Because for some reason, women think their beauty is dependent on the number displayed on a tag on their jeans.
Dave Barry wrote about this strange female tendency, and here's part of what he had to say:
When a man shops for clothes, his primary objective -- follow me closely here -- is to purchase clothes that fit on his particular body. A man will try on a pair of pants, and if those pants are too small, he'll try on a larger pair, and when he finds a pair that fits, he buys them. Most men do not spend a lot of time fretting about the size of their pants. Many men wear jeans with the size printed right on the back label, so that if you're standing behind a man in a supermarket line, you can read his waist and inseam size. A man could have, say, a 52-inch waist and a 30-inch inseam, and his label will proudly display this information, which is basically the same thing as having a sign that says: ``Howdy! My butt is the size of a Federal Express truck!''
The situation is very different with women. When a woman shops for clothes, her primary objective is not to find clothes that fit her particular body.
She would like for that to be the case, but her primary objective is to purchase clothes that are the size she wore when she was 19 years old. This will be some arbitrary number such as ''8'' or ''10.'' Don't ask me ''8'' or ''10'' of what: That question has baffled scientists for centuries. All I know is that if a woman was a size 8 at age 19, she wants to be a size 8 now, and if a size 8 outfit does not fit her, she will not move on to a larger size: She can't! Her size is 8, dammit! So she will keep trying on size 8 items, and unless they start fitting her, she will become extremely unhappy. She may take this unhappiness out on her husband, who is waiting patiently in the mall, perhaps browsing in the Sharper Image store, trying to think of how he could justify purchasing a pair of night-vision binoculars.
''Hi!'' he'll say, when his wife finds him. ``You know how sometimes the electricity goes out at night and ...''
''Am I fat?'' she'll ask, cutting him off.
This is a very bad situation for the man, because if he answers ''yes,'' she'll be angry because he's saying that she's fat, and if he answers ''no,'' she'll be angry because he's obviously lying, because none of the size 8s fit her. There is no escape for the husband. I think a lot of unexplained disappearances occur because guys in malls see their wives unsuccessfully trying on outfits, and they realize their lives will be easier if, before their wives come out and demand to know whether they're fat, the guys just run off and join a UFO cult.
See, reason #253 why the frogg is still single is that men haven't figured out that she hates shopping, and that she never asks, "Am I fat?" So they aren't aware of what a consequently good catch that makes her--alarming evidence of their short-sightedness and, in some cases, stupidity.
Which, taken together, would be reason #1.
I hate shopping, because it makes me irritable. Especially when I don't find what I want. And it seems like retailers are in cahoots to make sure that I don't. I can imagine them all huddling in a dark alley near the Glendale Galleria on a cold, cloudy morning such as this one. "Hey," they'll whisper to each other. "I've heard news... the frogg is on the move, and she's looking for a simple, white, button-down dress shirt. We all know what to do!" Then I will arrive at the mall and every single store I go into will have dress shirts of every size, color, and style... EXCEPT white and button-down.
Trust me, it's happened before.
Still, the time comes when, like it or not, I have to do some shopping. And today might be one of those days. Which is why I am still lying in bed. I'm hoping I come to my senses before it's too late.
The trouble is, I actually do need some things. Like shoes. I've been wearing flip-flops or sneakers to work but there are times when, in fact, something more dressy is called for. And then what do I do??
The worse trouble is, I hate shoe-shopping more than any other kind of shopping. It's a nightmare, because being tall, I have big feet. Which means I can't ever find cute shoes in my size.
As if to make matters even more complicated on the shopping front, I read this article this morning, all about how women's sizes are shrinking to accommodate the vanity of women who are, shall we say, not shrinking accordingly. So in other words, someone who is normally a size 10 can now fit into (for example) a size 6 even though they haven't lost any weight. Because for some reason, women think their beauty is dependent on the number displayed on a tag on their jeans.
Dave Barry wrote about this strange female tendency, and here's part of what he had to say:
When a man shops for clothes, his primary objective -- follow me closely here -- is to purchase clothes that fit on his particular body. A man will try on a pair of pants, and if those pants are too small, he'll try on a larger pair, and when he finds a pair that fits, he buys them. Most men do not spend a lot of time fretting about the size of their pants. Many men wear jeans with the size printed right on the back label, so that if you're standing behind a man in a supermarket line, you can read his waist and inseam size. A man could have, say, a 52-inch waist and a 30-inch inseam, and his label will proudly display this information, which is basically the same thing as having a sign that says: ``Howdy! My butt is the size of a Federal Express truck!''
The situation is very different with women. When a woman shops for clothes, her primary objective is not to find clothes that fit her particular body.
She would like for that to be the case, but her primary objective is to purchase clothes that are the size she wore when she was 19 years old. This will be some arbitrary number such as ''8'' or ''10.'' Don't ask me ''8'' or ''10'' of what: That question has baffled scientists for centuries. All I know is that if a woman was a size 8 at age 19, she wants to be a size 8 now, and if a size 8 outfit does not fit her, she will not move on to a larger size: She can't! Her size is 8, dammit! So she will keep trying on size 8 items, and unless they start fitting her, she will become extremely unhappy. She may take this unhappiness out on her husband, who is waiting patiently in the mall, perhaps browsing in the Sharper Image store, trying to think of how he could justify purchasing a pair of night-vision binoculars.
''Hi!'' he'll say, when his wife finds him. ``You know how sometimes the electricity goes out at night and ...''
''Am I fat?'' she'll ask, cutting him off.
This is a very bad situation for the man, because if he answers ''yes,'' she'll be angry because he's saying that she's fat, and if he answers ''no,'' she'll be angry because he's obviously lying, because none of the size 8s fit her. There is no escape for the husband. I think a lot of unexplained disappearances occur because guys in malls see their wives unsuccessfully trying on outfits, and they realize their lives will be easier if, before their wives come out and demand to know whether they're fat, the guys just run off and join a UFO cult.
See, reason #253 why the frogg is still single is that men haven't figured out that she hates shopping, and that she never asks, "Am I fat?" So they aren't aware of what a consequently good catch that makes her--alarming evidence of their short-sightedness and, in some cases, stupidity.
Which, taken together, would be reason #1.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Best Headline EVER Award
Well, the search is over, folks. As you know, I am a bizarre-news junkie. I can't get enough of weird, quirky news stories, and I am always on the lookout for the elusive this-can't-possibly-be-real headline. At long last, I have discovered what I can only assume is the most hilarious headline ever written by man or woman, at least up until this point. (Many thanks to Dave Barry's blog.)
Are you ready? Drum roll please. Here it is:
Filipino judge sacked for consulting trio of mystic dwarves
And as if that weren't hilarious enough, check out the first paragraph:
A Filipino judge who "claimed he could see into the future and admitted consulting imaginary mystic dwarfs" is asking to be reinstated after getting the boot for incompetence, Reuters reports.
There's so much I'd like to say about this, but really... the article says it all.
I do wonder how the journalist felt who got assigned this story. Then again, having had some, shall we say, intriguing assignments myself in my occasional tenure as a contributor to the local hometown rag, I think I can pretty well imagine.
Are you ready? Drum roll please. Here it is:
Filipino judge sacked for consulting trio of mystic dwarves
And as if that weren't hilarious enough, check out the first paragraph:
A Filipino judge who "claimed he could see into the future and admitted consulting imaginary mystic dwarfs" is asking to be reinstated after getting the boot for incompetence, Reuters reports.
There's so much I'd like to say about this, but really... the article says it all.
I do wonder how the journalist felt who got assigned this story. Then again, having had some, shall we say, intriguing assignments myself in my occasional tenure as a contributor to the local hometown rag, I think I can pretty well imagine.
Friday Afternoon, Yay!
Well, it's Friday at last. I thought it would never get here. What a week!
It's also Cinco de Mayo, or Cinco de Drinko as my co-worker calls it. So have fun and be safe--and no, those concepts do not have to be mutually exclusive, ok?
As for me, I am heading to a friend's house after work, to watch a movie based on a Victorian novel while curled up on the couch in my comfy yellow pants. All of which, taken together, could comprise reason #2,012 why the frogg is still single, but hey, who's counting?
It's also Cinco de Mayo, or Cinco de Drinko as my co-worker calls it. So have fun and be safe--and no, those concepts do not have to be mutually exclusive, ok?
As for me, I am heading to a friend's house after work, to watch a movie based on a Victorian novel while curled up on the couch in my comfy yellow pants. All of which, taken together, could comprise reason #2,012 why the frogg is still single, but hey, who's counting?
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Introspective
A friend sent me a link to a video, of a woman who is part of the Westborough Baptist church. The woman was being interviewed on "Hannity & Colmes." Westborough Baptist has been in the news, because the members have a habit of protesting at military funerals, carrying signs that say, "God hates you," "Thank God for 9/11" and "Don't worship the dead." They say that every dead soldier is a judgment from God on a nation that has turned away from Him. They say that God is allowing these soldiers to die because they are in the service of a country that has turned its back on God.
As I listened to this woman, I felt sick. She was horrible, just horrible. How can she think it's morally acceptable to be cruel to people who are hurting over the loss of loved ones? How can she hate people in the name of God? How can she tell other people that God hates them, and feel good about it? What God is she talking about? I don't know him.
Thank God I don't.
Her words and demeanor were so chilling. But while her coldness frightened me, and her words made me angry, they also gave me pause--that I ought to be careful to see the areas in my own heart where i have not allowed an understanding of the deep, rich grace of God to permeate my thinking. Even now I'm recalling hard, mean things that I have said about other people, and sweeping judgments I have made. Not in the far distant past, either. I am far more critical than not, I'm afraid. And I wonder if, on the inside, I look so very different from that woman on the video.
I want to cry when I think about it. I am crying.
I know very well that I am not such a good example of whatever people mean when they say the word "Christian." To be honest, there are times when I can't figure out what I mean anymore by it. I know what I try to be, but I also know how often I don't succeed.
What I know most of all is this:
God is not the sum of my--or anyone else's--imperfections.
And thank God he isn't.
As I listened to this woman, I felt sick. She was horrible, just horrible. How can she think it's morally acceptable to be cruel to people who are hurting over the loss of loved ones? How can she hate people in the name of God? How can she tell other people that God hates them, and feel good about it? What God is she talking about? I don't know him.
Thank God I don't.
Her words and demeanor were so chilling. But while her coldness frightened me, and her words made me angry, they also gave me pause--that I ought to be careful to see the areas in my own heart where i have not allowed an understanding of the deep, rich grace of God to permeate my thinking. Even now I'm recalling hard, mean things that I have said about other people, and sweeping judgments I have made. Not in the far distant past, either. I am far more critical than not, I'm afraid. And I wonder if, on the inside, I look so very different from that woman on the video.
I want to cry when I think about it. I am crying.
I know very well that I am not such a good example of whatever people mean when they say the word "Christian." To be honest, there are times when I can't figure out what I mean anymore by it. I know what I try to be, but I also know how often I don't succeed.
What I know most of all is this:
God is not the sum of my--or anyone else's--imperfections.
And thank God he isn't.
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