Anyone care to wager that the great stuntsman has skipped out? After all, nothing could contain him when he was alive. . . why should anything be different after death?
Story Highlights• Houdini's great-nephew wants to exhume Houdini's body for testing
• There is suspicion that Houdini may have been poisoned
• There are inconsistencies on death certificate and suspicious circumstances
• Internationally known forensic pathologist Dr. Michael Baden interested
NEW YORK (AP) -- For all of his death-defying stunts, Harry Houdini could not escape the Grim Reaper. The unparalleled performer, age 52, died on Halloween 1926, taking with him many of his trade secrets. Rumors he was murdered, however, soon took on a life of their own.
Eighty-one years later, Houdini's great-nephew wants to exhume the escape artist's body to determine if he was poisoned by enemies for his efforts to debunk their claims of contact with the dead.
A team of top-level forensic investigators would conduct new tests once Houdini's body was disinterred, a relative told The Associated Press.
"It needs to be looked at," said George Hardeen, whose grandfather was Houdini's brother, Theodore. "His death shocked the entire nation, if not the world. Now, maybe it's time to take a second look."
The circumstances surrounding Houdini's sudden death were as murky as the rivers from which he emerged unscathed, escaping from chains, locks and wooden boxes. The generally accepted explanation of Houdini's death is that he suffered a ruptured appendix from a punch in the stomach, leading to a fatal case of peritonitis.
But no autopsy was performed, and when the death certificate was filed on November 20, 1926, Houdini's body -- brought by train from Detroit to Manhattan's Grand Central Terminal -- was already buried in Queens.
Within days, a newspaper headline wondered, "Was Houdini Murdered?" A new biography, "The Secret Life of Houdini," raised the issue again and convinced George Hardeen and others that poisoning was a real possibility.
A Friday morning news conference was scheduled for details on the exhumation plans. Prominent New York lawyer Joseph Tacopina is assisting the family in clearing any legal hurdles to the exhumation.
The likeliest murder suspects were a group known as the Spiritualists, which became Houdini's nemesis in his final years. The magician devoted large portions of his stage show to exposing what he said were fraudulent seances by the group. The movement's devotees included Sherlock Holmes author Arthur Conan Doyle.
Houdini will 'get his just desserts meted out'
In the Houdini biography, authors William Kalush and Larry Sloman detail a November 1924 letter from Doyle that smacks of Professor Moriarty-style malevolence: Houdini, it said, would "get his just desserts very exactly meted out. ... I think there is a general payday coming soon."
Two years later, Houdini -- by all accounts an extraordinary physical specimen -- was dead before his 53rd birthday. Kalush and Sloman noted that "the Spiritualist underworld's modus operandi in cases like this was often poisoning" -- possibly arsenic.
The biography additionally detailed the injection of "an experimental serum" into Houdini by one of his doctors at Detroit's Grace Hospital.
While Houdini took the Spiritualists' repeated death threats seriously, he traveled without the security trappings now de rigeur for celebrities -- no bodyguard, no entourage, often just his wife Bess.
"If someone were hell-bent on poisoning Houdini," the authors wrote, "it wouldn't have been very difficult."
The team working on the exhumation includes internationally known forensic pathologist Dr. Michael Baden, and Professor James Starrs, a forensic pathologist who has studied the disinterred remains of gunslinger Jesse James and "Boston Strangler" Albert DeSalvo.
Baden, who chaired panels reinvestigating the deaths of President John F. Kennedy and civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr., pointed out a pair of oddities in Houdini's death certificate: It noted his appendix was on the left side, rather than the right. And the diagnosis of appendicitis caused by a punch was "very unusual."
Starrs said he was long familiar with the story of Houdini's death, and believed the fatal injury was the result of an accident. Details contained in the Houdini biography convinced him otherwise.
"My eyebrows went up when I read this book," Starrs said. "I thought, `This is really startling, surprising and unsettling, and at bottom, suspicious in nature."'
The exhumation plan received support from a surprising source: Anna Thurlow, the great-granddaughter of "medium" Margery, whose husband Dr. Le Roi Crandon was one of the Spiritualist movement's biggest proponents -- and one of Houdini's most virulent enemies.
During a 1924 seance, Margery "channeled" a "spirit" named Walter who greeted Houdini with a threat: "I put a curse on you now that will follow you every day for the rest of your short life."
The prediction of a short life was all too real, and Thurlow believes there may be a connection.
"With people that delusional, you have to question what they're capable of,"' she said. "If there's any circumstantial evidence that Houdini was poisoned, we have to explore that."
Friday, March 23, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
London, the greatest city in the world!
So says The Times. Ok, so it's a British paper. Still. . . I couldn't resist posting this article that sings the praises of my beloved London! When I tell people that I prefer London to New York by a long shot, I often get the oh-you-poor-thing-you-really-aren't-all-there-are-you?-look. And often, I can't really even pinpoint why. It's crowded and noisy and dirty and the Tube is tiny and unairconditioned, and everything grinds to a halt when there's half an inch of snow on the ground, and it's grey and rainy. . . but there's just something about it that reached out and grabbed me the first time I visited the place--and I've been in love ever since. I usually get attached to places because of the people there. . . but if everyone I know and love in London left, I'd still want to live there (even though I'd be very sad and miss them all). It's weird. . . and it's unexplainable. . .but perhaps this article helps a bit.
I've left out some of the parts about why the city's also attracting more business (the biz journo in me resisted, but this is no business blog, so I fought it!). To see the whole thing, click here.
London calling
It’s cool, classy, cosmopolitan — and it should secede from the UK. Business Editor James Harding on why London is the new capital of the world.
A couple of years ago, a friend of mine bought a one bedroom flat in Chalcot Square in Primrose Hill, London NW1. He paid £480,000 — just less than one million dollars. As I was living in the States at the time and flabbergasted by the price, he explained: “Chalcot Square is the best place in Primrose Hill, which is the nicest part of London, which is the coolest city on earth.” Location, location, location. “This is the best property on the planet.”
In fact, he was a few miles off. The most prized piece of real estate on God’s green earth has a view of the Serpentine rather than of Joan Bakewell’s living room. The Candy brothers, two upmarket property developers, have started selling flats at Number One Hyde Park for £4,200 a square foot. That means £84 million — $164 million — for a nice, roomy apartment.
Why? Because London is, indeed, the coolest city on earth. The capital of the world. New York, like Paris, has become a mini-break destination, a playground for grown-ups who enjoy the same standard tourist menu: a walk around Central Park; a shopping trip in SoHo; an entertaining, if unsurprising, show on Broadway; and a very large steak.
The world loves a long weekend in New York but, these days, prefers to make its home in London. New York has the nostalgia, London the future. New York defines the metropolitan, London the cosmopolitan.
And the reason for this is that foreigners in New York are, always, just that. The city treats even its long-term residents from abroad as visitors, welcomed on to the cocktail circuit, perhaps even to a share of a house in the Hamptons, but never to the power-broking tables at the Four Seasons. “New York is always American,” says Bill Roedy, the American who has spent the past 15 years in the UK running MTV world-wide. “Like Paris is French, Moscow is Russian, New York is American.”
London, on the other hand, is passport-blind. It does not have the luxury of being the de facto capital of a continental economy. So, it is international: it treats its visitors as citizens, as players.
Consider Chelsea Football Club, owned by a Russian, managed by a Portuguese and made great by a striker from the Ivory Coast. The Yankees may sign up a third baseman from the Dominican Republic or a pitcher from Japan, but the management is born in Brooklyn.
The men who run two of Britain’s largest mobile phone operators — Vodafone and Orange — are US-educated Indians. The world’s biggest mining companies, run by an American woman and two Australian men, have their headquarters in London.
In January, Nicolas Sarkozy, the French presidential candidate, came to London to chase the votes of young advertising executives and derivatives traders who had quit Paris. Last week, the head of the Democratic National Committee’s fundraising efforts came to the British capital, too, eager to tap up American expats willing to contribute to the 2008 campaign.
The mandarins of New York are currently gripped by a bout of Woody Allen-style neurosis, fretting that the city’s stature as the capital of world capitalism is being sapped by London. Last year, Mayor Mike Bloomberg and the New York senator Chuck Schumer commissioned McKinsey, the management consultants, to examine why international financial business was drifting away from Manhattan. And it suggests that their paranoia is justified.
* * * * *
Deep inside the Bank of England there is a room where the directors meet around a huge, oval mahogany table. The Courtroom is, frankly, a vulgar neoclassical eyesore — but despite the pretentious opulence and faux history of the place, one thing is authentic: the weathervane.
High on the western wall of the room, this clock-face tells which way the wind is blowing. Historically, an east wind would bring the merchant ships up the Thames and, with them, a surge in business. A west wind would prompt the merchants to set sail and the bankers to rein in credit.
The point is that London has long been sensitive to the trade winds. More than that, it has been adept at exploiting changes in the tide and the climate for its own commercial gain. And in recent years it has swollen thanks to this openness to foreign merchants, who have sailed in because they are fed up with the pernickety, litigious culture in the US, or because the City is a short hop from their homes in Moscow and Bombay, or simply because they like the safety on the streets, the serenity in the parks, the quality of schools for their children and the choice of restaurants.
British cuisine, once a contradiction in terms, has become such a hot ticket that you need to book nearly a month in advance to eat a plate of offal at St John on the weekend.
London has qualities: geography, history, culture and, more than that, a grudging embrace of all comers. Within a short walk from Trellik Tower in West London you can find a coffee, a cheese sandwich and a custard pie from Lisbon that make you feel as though you are in a provincial Portuguese cafe; you can eat a plate of steamed dumplings from the Royal China that would satisfy a discerning Shanghainese; a steaming, home-cooked nabemono at Inaho that could come from the Ginza; not to mention a great Indian at Malabar, a fine Lebanese at Fairuz and all that groovy Asian fusion stuff at E&O in Notting Hill.
A weekend in London is like a world’s greatest hits of city living: an English breakfast at Tom’s on Westbourne Grove, a morning spent browsing vintage Americana on Portobello Road, an afternoon watching the best French footballers at Arsenal, Chekhov at the Royal Court or Puccini at the English National Opera, Irish oysters at Sheekey’s for dinner, then out clubbing with the Russians at Annabel’s or the royals at Boujis (I’m making this up now). The next morning, a Spanish string quartet at the Wigmore Hall, a proper Sunday lunch, then a sleepy stroll past the Renoirs at the National Gallery.
No question, all this takes money. A lot of it. Much more than most Londoners have. But the capital’s claim to global leadership is not, sadly, because it is an example of equality. In terms of equal opportunities and the income gap, London has nothing to crow about. It has an alarmingly high level of unemployment — 8 per cent — and the wealth gap is wide and widening.
It’s hard to say which personality, New Yorker or Londoner, is preferable — the ballsy versus the stoic, the gruff versus the curmudgeonly, the sharp-tongued versus the quick-witted. But the real difference between the two is this: New Yorkers come from the five boroughs; Londoners from the five continents. They are Poles, Pakistanis, Brazilians, Americans, Nigerians and more. There are, it is said, 300 languages spoken in London.
London is absurdly expensive. New Yorkers point out that the cost of living in their city is nearly half what it is here. Yet Charles Alexander, who is in charge of the UK operations of General Electric, America’s biggest company, says of his American colleagues in London: “They don’t want to leave.” They like the life, the schools, the style of the city.
* * * * *
In September 2002, Paul Auster wrote in The New York Times about his city’s relationship with the rest of the country: “Alone among American cities, New York is more than just a place or an agglomeration of people. It is also an idea.” New York is the de facto capital of America and still a beacon to people around the world. But London has become an idea, too, and not as a refuge for huddled masses but as the most desirable address for global elites. For them, the argument between New York and London is done. They are just left quibbling over the preferred postcode: NW1 or SW1, Regent’s Park or Hyde Park.
I've left out some of the parts about why the city's also attracting more business (the biz journo in me resisted, but this is no business blog, so I fought it!). To see the whole thing, click here.
London calling
It’s cool, classy, cosmopolitan — and it should secede from the UK. Business Editor James Harding on why London is the new capital of the world.
A couple of years ago, a friend of mine bought a one bedroom flat in Chalcot Square in Primrose Hill, London NW1. He paid £480,000 — just less than one million dollars. As I was living in the States at the time and flabbergasted by the price, he explained: “Chalcot Square is the best place in Primrose Hill, which is the nicest part of London, which is the coolest city on earth.” Location, location, location. “This is the best property on the planet.”
In fact, he was a few miles off. The most prized piece of real estate on God’s green earth has a view of the Serpentine rather than of Joan Bakewell’s living room. The Candy brothers, two upmarket property developers, have started selling flats at Number One Hyde Park for £4,200 a square foot. That means £84 million — $164 million — for a nice, roomy apartment.
Why? Because London is, indeed, the coolest city on earth. The capital of the world. New York, like Paris, has become a mini-break destination, a playground for grown-ups who enjoy the same standard tourist menu: a walk around Central Park; a shopping trip in SoHo; an entertaining, if unsurprising, show on Broadway; and a very large steak.
The world loves a long weekend in New York but, these days, prefers to make its home in London. New York has the nostalgia, London the future. New York defines the metropolitan, London the cosmopolitan.
And the reason for this is that foreigners in New York are, always, just that. The city treats even its long-term residents from abroad as visitors, welcomed on to the cocktail circuit, perhaps even to a share of a house in the Hamptons, but never to the power-broking tables at the Four Seasons. “New York is always American,” says Bill Roedy, the American who has spent the past 15 years in the UK running MTV world-wide. “Like Paris is French, Moscow is Russian, New York is American.”
London, on the other hand, is passport-blind. It does not have the luxury of being the de facto capital of a continental economy. So, it is international: it treats its visitors as citizens, as players.
Consider Chelsea Football Club, owned by a Russian, managed by a Portuguese and made great by a striker from the Ivory Coast. The Yankees may sign up a third baseman from the Dominican Republic or a pitcher from Japan, but the management is born in Brooklyn.
The men who run two of Britain’s largest mobile phone operators — Vodafone and Orange — are US-educated Indians. The world’s biggest mining companies, run by an American woman and two Australian men, have their headquarters in London.
In January, Nicolas Sarkozy, the French presidential candidate, came to London to chase the votes of young advertising executives and derivatives traders who had quit Paris. Last week, the head of the Democratic National Committee’s fundraising efforts came to the British capital, too, eager to tap up American expats willing to contribute to the 2008 campaign.
The mandarins of New York are currently gripped by a bout of Woody Allen-style neurosis, fretting that the city’s stature as the capital of world capitalism is being sapped by London. Last year, Mayor Mike Bloomberg and the New York senator Chuck Schumer commissioned McKinsey, the management consultants, to examine why international financial business was drifting away from Manhattan. And it suggests that their paranoia is justified.
* * * * *
Deep inside the Bank of England there is a room where the directors meet around a huge, oval mahogany table. The Courtroom is, frankly, a vulgar neoclassical eyesore — but despite the pretentious opulence and faux history of the place, one thing is authentic: the weathervane.
High on the western wall of the room, this clock-face tells which way the wind is blowing. Historically, an east wind would bring the merchant ships up the Thames and, with them, a surge in business. A west wind would prompt the merchants to set sail and the bankers to rein in credit.
The point is that London has long been sensitive to the trade winds. More than that, it has been adept at exploiting changes in the tide and the climate for its own commercial gain. And in recent years it has swollen thanks to this openness to foreign merchants, who have sailed in because they are fed up with the pernickety, litigious culture in the US, or because the City is a short hop from their homes in Moscow and Bombay, or simply because they like the safety on the streets, the serenity in the parks, the quality of schools for their children and the choice of restaurants.
British cuisine, once a contradiction in terms, has become such a hot ticket that you need to book nearly a month in advance to eat a plate of offal at St John on the weekend.
London has qualities: geography, history, culture and, more than that, a grudging embrace of all comers. Within a short walk from Trellik Tower in West London you can find a coffee, a cheese sandwich and a custard pie from Lisbon that make you feel as though you are in a provincial Portuguese cafe; you can eat a plate of steamed dumplings from the Royal China that would satisfy a discerning Shanghainese; a steaming, home-cooked nabemono at Inaho that could come from the Ginza; not to mention a great Indian at Malabar, a fine Lebanese at Fairuz and all that groovy Asian fusion stuff at E&O in Notting Hill.
A weekend in London is like a world’s greatest hits of city living: an English breakfast at Tom’s on Westbourne Grove, a morning spent browsing vintage Americana on Portobello Road, an afternoon watching the best French footballers at Arsenal, Chekhov at the Royal Court or Puccini at the English National Opera, Irish oysters at Sheekey’s for dinner, then out clubbing with the Russians at Annabel’s or the royals at Boujis (I’m making this up now). The next morning, a Spanish string quartet at the Wigmore Hall, a proper Sunday lunch, then a sleepy stroll past the Renoirs at the National Gallery.
No question, all this takes money. A lot of it. Much more than most Londoners have. But the capital’s claim to global leadership is not, sadly, because it is an example of equality. In terms of equal opportunities and the income gap, London has nothing to crow about. It has an alarmingly high level of unemployment — 8 per cent — and the wealth gap is wide and widening.
It’s hard to say which personality, New Yorker or Londoner, is preferable — the ballsy versus the stoic, the gruff versus the curmudgeonly, the sharp-tongued versus the quick-witted. But the real difference between the two is this: New Yorkers come from the five boroughs; Londoners from the five continents. They are Poles, Pakistanis, Brazilians, Americans, Nigerians and more. There are, it is said, 300 languages spoken in London.
London is absurdly expensive. New Yorkers point out that the cost of living in their city is nearly half what it is here. Yet Charles Alexander, who is in charge of the UK operations of General Electric, America’s biggest company, says of his American colleagues in London: “They don’t want to leave.” They like the life, the schools, the style of the city.
* * * * *
In September 2002, Paul Auster wrote in The New York Times about his city’s relationship with the rest of the country: “Alone among American cities, New York is more than just a place or an agglomeration of people. It is also an idea.” New York is the de facto capital of America and still a beacon to people around the world. But London has become an idea, too, and not as a refuge for huddled masses but as the most desirable address for global elites. For them, the argument between New York and London is done. They are just left quibbling over the preferred postcode: NW1 or SW1, Regent’s Park or Hyde Park.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Japanese lessons--for me and Weds
Ohayo! Hajime mashite! Arigato gozaimasu for stopping by my blog. *
That's right. . . after 18 hours of Japanese classes over two weekends, I am now fluent! Haha. . . if only. I can make perfectly useless statements like Biji-san wa doyobi ni tomodachi to restoran de chiso pizza o ni-mai tabemachita (Mr. Biji ate two small pizzas in a restaurant with his friend on Saturday). . . I am hopeful, though, that the ability to compose such a sentence will be useful--maybe I will write a childrens' book on the Adventures of Biji-san!
And I am in the process of imparting all my Japanese wisdom to Weds, who will be flying off to Tokyo all by his big-boy-self in less than two weeks to join Okia. I am a firm believer in the notion that practice makes perfect-- so all our conversations now are strictly in Japanese. I think he's picking it up quite quickly too--I can tell by his responses that he really does have a knack for languages. His meowing sounds distinctly Japanese.
So am I going to miss my little substitute for human companionship (as Nev has taken to calling him)? Yes. Am I going to forget that he's left and go peeking under my couch and behind my bed when he doesn't answer my call? I'm afraid so. Am I going to be sad when he doesn't come trotting in, meowing seriously and insistently at me when I turn off the shower every morning? Very much so. But let's not go there yet. Let's focus instead on my efforts to making him bi-lingual!
*Hello! How do you do? Thank you very much for stopping by my blog.
Weds at two months old, about a month after Okia, my roommate then, brought him home
Weds a few months ago
Weds and me! (yes, he does sit and sleep like a human being)
That's right. . . after 18 hours of Japanese classes over two weekends, I am now fluent! Haha. . . if only. I can make perfectly useless statements like Biji-san wa doyobi ni tomodachi to restoran de chiso pizza o ni-mai tabemachita (Mr. Biji ate two small pizzas in a restaurant with his friend on Saturday). . . I am hopeful, though, that the ability to compose such a sentence will be useful--maybe I will write a childrens' book on the Adventures of Biji-san!
And I am in the process of imparting all my Japanese wisdom to Weds, who will be flying off to Tokyo all by his big-boy-self in less than two weeks to join Okia. I am a firm believer in the notion that practice makes perfect-- so all our conversations now are strictly in Japanese. I think he's picking it up quite quickly too--I can tell by his responses that he really does have a knack for languages. His meowing sounds distinctly Japanese.
So am I going to miss my little substitute for human companionship (as Nev has taken to calling him)? Yes. Am I going to forget that he's left and go peeking under my couch and behind my bed when he doesn't answer my call? I'm afraid so. Am I going to be sad when he doesn't come trotting in, meowing seriously and insistently at me when I turn off the shower every morning? Very much so. But let's not go there yet. Let's focus instead on my efforts to making him bi-lingual!
*Hello! How do you do? Thank you very much for stopping by my blog.
Weds at two months old, about a month after Okia, my roommate then, brought him home
Weds a few months ago
Weds and me! (yes, he does sit and sleep like a human being)
Monday, March 05, 2007
For a drop of water to drink
In August 2004, a young New Yorker was living it large in the Big Apple, as a promoter of top nightclubs and fashion events. But in the midst of his whirlwind of a life, he discovered a feeling of emptiness, a desperate yearning for something more. So Scott Harrison, who had given up on God to enjoy what the world had to offer, decided to make a drastic change, to see what the opposite of his life would look like. He applied for a position aboard the Mercy Ships, a humanitarian organization that operates hospital ships to some of the world's poorest countries. He was (reluctantly) accepted, and set sail for West Africa in the position of the ship's photojournalist.
The transition from his spacious Manhattan loft apartment to the ship's modest quarters was shocking. But when Harrison reached his destination, he found that even the ship was palatial compared with the conditions the people whose lives he was to photograph lived in.
Harrison began documenting what he saw--people who lived in abject material poverty but were infinitely wealthier than he had ever been in faith, heart and spirit. He came across several people with all kinds of unimaginable tumors--benign ones, but of such horrifying sizes and shapes that it was incredible that their fragile human bodies could even support the impossible-looking growths. And even more surprising, these people possessed a quiet peace and simple joy that he had never encountered amidst the abundance and opulence of New York.
Most of the tumors were caused by the dirty, bacteria-infested water that people in these areas had no choice but to drink. Harrison has posted photos and descriptions of his experiences during his travels on Mercy Global (the images on this web site are graphic and often disturbing). He has also created Charity:Water to raise money to fund wells that will provide clean, safe drinking water to these people.
Unfortunately, too many Christians live in complacency, believing that saying "Lord, Lord" is enough to get us into God's kingdom. Or we dismiss the sufferings of people in these countries as being too distant, blame them for their own poverty, or believe we have little time or money to spare for them. Looking at these pictures shows us not just how blessed we are, but also how much is expected of us in caring for those less fortunate than us, physically, spiritually and emotionally.
My church fellowship group has decided to fund one well, which costs about $4,000, and provides water to about 250 people. If you don't have a charity or a cause you're passionate about, I strongly encourage you to look into Charity: Water, and think about supporting this venture. Get a group of friends, your extended family, your work colleagues or your church or fellowship group together to sponsor a well, or go it on your own. Just click on Buy Water for more information on how you can help. Or you can join in my group's effort to raise the money for our well--just email me. Or, if you are not in a position to make a monetary contribution, help spread the word about this effort.
We take so much for granted--including the safe drinking water from our taps that we chug without a second thought. Make a difference in the lives of people who can't afford to take even this most basic of necessities for granted.
The transition from his spacious Manhattan loft apartment to the ship's modest quarters was shocking. But when Harrison reached his destination, he found that even the ship was palatial compared with the conditions the people whose lives he was to photograph lived in.
Harrison began documenting what he saw--people who lived in abject material poverty but were infinitely wealthier than he had ever been in faith, heart and spirit. He came across several people with all kinds of unimaginable tumors--benign ones, but of such horrifying sizes and shapes that it was incredible that their fragile human bodies could even support the impossible-looking growths. And even more surprising, these people possessed a quiet peace and simple joy that he had never encountered amidst the abundance and opulence of New York.
Most of the tumors were caused by the dirty, bacteria-infested water that people in these areas had no choice but to drink. Harrison has posted photos and descriptions of his experiences during his travels on Mercy Global (the images on this web site are graphic and often disturbing). He has also created Charity:Water to raise money to fund wells that will provide clean, safe drinking water to these people.
Unfortunately, too many Christians live in complacency, believing that saying "Lord, Lord" is enough to get us into God's kingdom. Or we dismiss the sufferings of people in these countries as being too distant, blame them for their own poverty, or believe we have little time or money to spare for them. Looking at these pictures shows us not just how blessed we are, but also how much is expected of us in caring for those less fortunate than us, physically, spiritually and emotionally.
My church fellowship group has decided to fund one well, which costs about $4,000, and provides water to about 250 people. If you don't have a charity or a cause you're passionate about, I strongly encourage you to look into Charity: Water, and think about supporting this venture. Get a group of friends, your extended family, your work colleagues or your church or fellowship group together to sponsor a well, or go it on your own. Just click on Buy Water for more information on how you can help. Or you can join in my group's effort to raise the money for our well--just email me. Or, if you are not in a position to make a monetary contribution, help spread the word about this effort.
We take so much for granted--including the safe drinking water from our taps that we chug without a second thought. Make a difference in the lives of people who can't afford to take even this most basic of necessities for granted.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Can you figure this out?
There's twelve of them. No wait! There's thirteen!! Where did the extra person come from?
Click here for the solution.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Against all odds. . .
Ilajna, caveboy and I went to watch Gordon Chambers perform at the BAM last night. As I listened to him, and to Alice Smith, who opened for him, I started to think about people who are so passionate about something that whatever adverse circumstances they face in their quest for that thing seem insignificant. Watching the performers on stage, I was struck by the thought of how difficult it is to make it as a musician or singer or actor--and that those who aspire to such goals need equal doses of passion and perseverance; that they'd rather endure the struggles and hardships inherent in the pursuit of that goal than live life without it.
There are few people in this world with the tenacity to be that passionate--because it involves much risk and heartbreak, and calls for a great deal of strength and sacrifice. And there are even fewer for whom that tenacity endures, and the difficulties along the way don't overwhelm them.
The object of that passion doesn't necessarily have to be a goal like making it as an artist. As I pondered this, the thought kept coming back to me. . .that I used to be that passionate--about my relationship with Christ. And I also realized that I'm not anymore. I thought back to my mid-teens, when I made the conscious decision for the first time to follow Him--and longed for that passion again; when waking up an hour earlier in the morning to pray (when I was already waking up at the crack of dawn) was a joy, because it meant I could spend that time with Him; when I had the ability to see everyone through Christ-tinted lenses; and when nothing mattered as much as being in His presence day and night.
Today, I am anything but that--I mean, I know in my head that I have a relationship with Christ, but my entire existence is dictated by my circumstances. I am constantly in a bad mood (you should see my subway face--and the number of random strangers who tell me to smile as I walk by!), and I certainly am not "joyful always" (I Thess 5:16); I often ignore that twinge of guilt as I badmouth someone. . . and vow that I won't do it again, already knowing that I will; and praying is more of a chore than a joy. And even when I attempt to get back that passion I once had, I already know that any twist I encounter ahead will derail me.
I drew some inspiration from the passion and commitment I imagined last night's performers must have possessed to come this far. And I'm trying to pick myself up once again, and put myself back on course--with a little help from above.
There are few people in this world with the tenacity to be that passionate--because it involves much risk and heartbreak, and calls for a great deal of strength and sacrifice. And there are even fewer for whom that tenacity endures, and the difficulties along the way don't overwhelm them.
The object of that passion doesn't necessarily have to be a goal like making it as an artist. As I pondered this, the thought kept coming back to me. . .that I used to be that passionate--about my relationship with Christ. And I also realized that I'm not anymore. I thought back to my mid-teens, when I made the conscious decision for the first time to follow Him--and longed for that passion again; when waking up an hour earlier in the morning to pray (when I was already waking up at the crack of dawn) was a joy, because it meant I could spend that time with Him; when I had the ability to see everyone through Christ-tinted lenses; and when nothing mattered as much as being in His presence day and night.
Today, I am anything but that--I mean, I know in my head that I have a relationship with Christ, but my entire existence is dictated by my circumstances. I am constantly in a bad mood (you should see my subway face--and the number of random strangers who tell me to smile as I walk by!), and I certainly am not "joyful always" (I Thess 5:16); I often ignore that twinge of guilt as I badmouth someone. . . and vow that I won't do it again, already knowing that I will; and praying is more of a chore than a joy. And even when I attempt to get back that passion I once had, I already know that any twist I encounter ahead will derail me.
I drew some inspiration from the passion and commitment I imagined last night's performers must have possessed to come this far. And I'm trying to pick myself up once again, and put myself back on course--with a little help from above.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Remembering. . .
Memory is a funny thing, isn't it? I have training all this week at work, and have been struggling to find ways to keep myself gainfully occupied during the longish lunchtimes, as I usually don't take more than a 10-minute break--and, while I have many little things to do, can't do them while I'm at work. So today, on my longer-than-usual lunch break, I decided to take a walk (yes, in all the snow and slush, I decided I needed a jaunt). As I sauntered (waded) along, I found myself passing the library and decided to go in.
I fished around on the shelves for some quick, mindless reading, and soon found myself browing through books by an author whom I had not read, but who I knew wrote novels that fell into that category. I picked up the first book and turned to the synopsis. And I realized the story was familiar. Not just in a remote, vague kind of way either. I clearly remembered reading the book about 15 years ago. I remembered the plot, the main characters, and as I skimmed through the summary, realized that a vivid picture was forming in my mind of the story's very dramatic and surprising ending--even though the synopsis didn't even hint at it.
It was very strange. When I was a teenager, I used to read voraciously, my taste switching frenziedly between suspense paperbacks and hardbound classics. By the time I got to the third book, I'd already forgotten many of the details in the first one. So it was bizarre that I remembered so much about one of the random novels I zipped through during one of my reading marathons. My explanation is this-- the book is very VERY loosely based on Biblical events and prophesies (some would say blasphemously so), so maybe the fact that it is connected to something that is so much a part of my life is what made me remember it?
The thing though, is that there are certain books, events, even dreams, that I. . .we. . . remember clearly, for no apparent reason, while we forget other, seemingly more important details. Why is it that our minds latch on to certain memories, while carelessly, even eagerly, releasing others?
I fished around on the shelves for some quick, mindless reading, and soon found myself browing through books by an author whom I had not read, but who I knew wrote novels that fell into that category. I picked up the first book and turned to the synopsis. And I realized the story was familiar. Not just in a remote, vague kind of way either. I clearly remembered reading the book about 15 years ago. I remembered the plot, the main characters, and as I skimmed through the summary, realized that a vivid picture was forming in my mind of the story's very dramatic and surprising ending--even though the synopsis didn't even hint at it.
It was very strange. When I was a teenager, I used to read voraciously, my taste switching frenziedly between suspense paperbacks and hardbound classics. By the time I got to the third book, I'd already forgotten many of the details in the first one. So it was bizarre that I remembered so much about one of the random novels I zipped through during one of my reading marathons. My explanation is this-- the book is very VERY loosely based on Biblical events and prophesies (some would say blasphemously so), so maybe the fact that it is connected to something that is so much a part of my life is what made me remember it?
The thing though, is that there are certain books, events, even dreams, that I. . .we. . . remember clearly, for no apparent reason, while we forget other, seemingly more important details. Why is it that our minds latch on to certain memories, while carelessly, even eagerly, releasing others?
Monday, February 12, 2007
Water off a duck's back? Not so much. . .
Sigh! It's crabbiness galore in Ini-land these days. Things that I'd normally brush off have me seething--a bad choppy haircut (I can pull off a ponytail for a month or two, can't I?), earphones that don't fit in my ear while working out (I've always known that my ears were a earphone-unfriendly shape--why does it bother me now?) a couple of messages that have gone unreturned (that's certainly not new), and just getting on the subway everyday. Teeny tiny things that would normally slip right off my back, that I'd usually not even notice--after all, this is someone who was walking around blissfully unaware of sporting two noticeably-uneven eyebrows for two months--have me up in arms. It might be time for a change of scene . . .
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Journalism at its worst?
In my humble opinion, the coverage of the story about Lisa Nowak-- the NASA astronaut who was arrested for allegedly attempting to kidnap and kill a female air force captain who she perceived as a rival for the love of a male NASA astronaut--is journalism at its worst. I finally learned late yesterday how to change the channel of my TV at work (which was set to CNN by my predecessor) and endured no less than 25 separate repetitions of the story throughout the day.
I understand the lure of the words "love triangle" for most human beings, but the level of coverage this story has gotten is nothing short of overkill. One very unhappy, confused, disturbed woman attempted to do something which I'm sure she'll spend the rest of her life regretting. Or perhaps not. But as I watched the story being repeated every half hour on what is supposed to be a serious news channel, I kept shaking my head in disbelief. There are floods in Indonesia, wars in Africa, a House panel inquiry into misuse of Iraq reconstruction funds, and new talks with North Korea about its nuclear program. And the biggest story of the past two days was a female astronaut who flew off the handle.
It is a big story, I don't disagree. But the biggest? Surely not! Or am I missing something?
I understand the lure of the words "love triangle" for most human beings, but the level of coverage this story has gotten is nothing short of overkill. One very unhappy, confused, disturbed woman attempted to do something which I'm sure she'll spend the rest of her life regretting. Or perhaps not. But as I watched the story being repeated every half hour on what is supposed to be a serious news channel, I kept shaking my head in disbelief. There are floods in Indonesia, wars in Africa, a House panel inquiry into misuse of Iraq reconstruction funds, and new talks with North Korea about its nuclear program. And the biggest story of the past two days was a female astronaut who flew off the handle.
It is a big story, I don't disagree. But the biggest? Surely not! Or am I missing something?
Where has all my free time gone?
So I've been wondering. . . where on earth has all my spare time gone? My very deadline-oriented new job means that, while the 9 to 6 hours are biz biz bizy, once it hits 6:00, or a little bit later as I wrap up the assignment in progress, I can leave. So what have I been doing with myself? I haven't gone to the gym, I haven't watched much TV, I haven't stayed much past six at work, I haven't hung out much with friends, and I certainly haven't been pursuing my beloved passtime of blog reading:(. But I feel like I'm running around like. . . well, like I did when I was in college. . . when I was YOUNG and had lots of energy! It looks like there's one thing after another that needed to be done YESTERDAY. And I'm chasing my tail trying to catch up with myself.
In a couple of months, chapter six will be over. And then, maybe at the beginning of chapter seven, there'll be time to spare?
In a couple of months, chapter six will be over. And then, maybe at the beginning of chapter seven, there'll be time to spare?
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
The new job
So, I'm sure my beloved readers have been waiting with bated breath to hear about my new job. Yes, yes, I know you have! At least you were before the waiting got to be too much and you couldn't take the fruitless checking any more. So I've decided to end the unbearable suspense and enlighten you!
For the first few days, I was drowning in new information. Lots to learn, lots to remember and memorize, a seemingly infinite number of little details to tuck away and as many minute tasks to remember to do. But as the days have passed, I have been learning--by watching, stumbling through the assignments. . . and making mistakes. Fortunately, in my eight days at The Wire so far, we've only had to put out a correction once for something I wrote. I know if that pattern keeps up, I'll rack up quite a number. But I prefer to see the glass as half full! My heart did jump into my mouth today when I got a new kind of assignment that I hadn't done before but fortunately, it ended up being too important for a rookie like me to do, so I ended up in the spectator role instead. Which suited me just fine--until the next time.
And I'm becoming quite the new junkie, what with the news on all day and the hundreds of stories flashing across my screen. So, whether it's the Boston "suspicious package" scare or Tyra Banks' weight woes, or the Fed's latest move (or lack thereof, as it turns out), I'm your woman!
The corporate culture at The Wire does take some getting used to. Because, while The Mag was also technically part of a big company, it had a distinct journalistic feel, and felt like a separate entity from the rest of the organization. The Wire, on the other hand, is much more integrated into the rest of the corporation--which might take a while to get accustomed to.
So overall, as we used to say in college: It's All Geeewwwd!
For the first few days, I was drowning in new information. Lots to learn, lots to remember and memorize, a seemingly infinite number of little details to tuck away and as many minute tasks to remember to do. But as the days have passed, I have been learning--by watching, stumbling through the assignments. . . and making mistakes. Fortunately, in my eight days at The Wire so far, we've only had to put out a correction once for something I wrote. I know if that pattern keeps up, I'll rack up quite a number. But I prefer to see the glass as half full! My heart did jump into my mouth today when I got a new kind of assignment that I hadn't done before but fortunately, it ended up being too important for a rookie like me to do, so I ended up in the spectator role instead. Which suited me just fine--until the next time.
And I'm becoming quite the new junkie, what with the news on all day and the hundreds of stories flashing across my screen. So, whether it's the Boston "suspicious package" scare or Tyra Banks' weight woes, or the Fed's latest move (or lack thereof, as it turns out), I'm your woman!
The corporate culture at The Wire does take some getting used to. Because, while The Mag was also technically part of a big company, it had a distinct journalistic feel, and felt like a separate entity from the rest of the organization. The Wire, on the other hand, is much more integrated into the rest of the corporation--which might take a while to get accustomed to.
So overall, as we used to say in college: It's All Geeewwwd!
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The answer. . .
In my last post, I wondered if happiness comes from giving or holding back. My perspective in that post was a worldy one. And I think I got some consensus that putting yourself out there, and givng and caring, you put yourself at risk of getting hurt. So should you still continue to give and love and care?
I found the answer over the weekend, while reading the book Mocha on the Mount for the Soul Per Suit an online Bible study recommended by LL Barkat. Mocha on the Mount is based on Jesus' teachings in His sermon on the mount, the "Blessed are the. . ." part of the Bible. The author, Sandra Glahn, distinguishes between happiness and blessing. Here is what caught my attention:
"Happiness depends on external circumstances--I got a new job, I got engaged, my relationships are going well. But blessing depends on being rightly related to God despite external circumstances. Horatio Spafford, though his daughters had just drowned in a boating accident, was still able to write, "It is well with my soul." I seriously doubt he felt happy. Yet he knew he was blessed. Lady Juliana of Norwich, writing in the fourteenth century, said, "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
"Jesus' message would never fly on Madison Avenue. Sigh up for the Christian life. Come, be poor and mourn and die!"
The author goes on to quote Ken Gire in The Reflective Life, who confesses that he wants to be like Christ in His glory, not Christ when he was hated, disgraced and spat on.
And as I thought more about this, I realized that my answer had been within my post, when I wrote that the world rejected and scoffed at Christ 2000 years ago.
Happiness in this world might require less love and caring, and more isolation and selfishness, but blessedness requires the opposite. I'm not saying that only in suffering and rejection do we find blessing--God absolutely rejoices in our happiness. But living by God's heart sometimes means loving and caring and giving even when we don't get much in return.
We still need to guard our hearts, and know when to step away and when there's nothing more we can do in a situation--after all, Christ calls us to love others AS we love ourselves. And, as a Christian, I realized that that is my part, and that is what I need to try my best to do--even if I don't always get the same in return.
I found the answer over the weekend, while reading the book Mocha on the Mount for the Soul Per Suit an online Bible study recommended by LL Barkat. Mocha on the Mount is based on Jesus' teachings in His sermon on the mount, the "Blessed are the. . ." part of the Bible. The author, Sandra Glahn, distinguishes between happiness and blessing. Here is what caught my attention:
"Happiness depends on external circumstances--I got a new job, I got engaged, my relationships are going well. But blessing depends on being rightly related to God despite external circumstances. Horatio Spafford, though his daughters had just drowned in a boating accident, was still able to write, "It is well with my soul." I seriously doubt he felt happy. Yet he knew he was blessed. Lady Juliana of Norwich, writing in the fourteenth century, said, "All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.
"Jesus' message would never fly on Madison Avenue. Sigh up for the Christian life. Come, be poor and mourn and die!"
The author goes on to quote Ken Gire in The Reflective Life, who confesses that he wants to be like Christ in His glory, not Christ when he was hated, disgraced and spat on.
And as I thought more about this, I realized that my answer had been within my post, when I wrote that the world rejected and scoffed at Christ 2000 years ago.
Happiness in this world might require less love and caring, and more isolation and selfishness, but blessedness requires the opposite. I'm not saying that only in suffering and rejection do we find blessing--God absolutely rejoices in our happiness. But living by God's heart sometimes means loving and caring and giving even when we don't get much in return.
We still need to guard our hearts, and know when to step away and when there's nothing more we can do in a situation--after all, Christ calls us to love others AS we love ourselves. And, as a Christian, I realized that that is my part, and that is what I need to try my best to do--even if I don't always get the same in return.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Happiness comes from giving. . . or holding back?
Caveboy and I have been talking a lot about happiness lately--perhaps partly the effect of discoveringThe Happiness Project blog. He even wrote a blog entry about it as a guest blogger, but then refused to let me post it. So I decided to write my own, albeit slightly different one.
The idealistic notion of happiness is that the more you give, the more you get. If you give love and kindness and caring, you get it all back, many-fold. In other words, as Luke 6:38 puts it: "Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."
This doesn't always hold true in the world we live in today--the more you give, the more you put yourself out there, the more you risk unhappiness--because you leave yourself vulnerable to being hurt, rejected, scoffed at, an open shot for those who are not willing to give as much. And you let your happiness be determined by others. But those who don't give, or choose carefully how much of themselves they do give, tend to be happier. They don't face as much hurt and rejection, because they protect themselves from it. Maybe they are less passionate, their loving a little less intense, but they are generally shielded from the hurt that comes from getting nothing or very little in return.
Take Dr. Izzy Stevens on the show Grey's Anatomy, for instance. She's actually my favourite character, because she gives abundantly but also expects much from those she gives to. But because she loves and cares so much, she also gets hurt the most. "But she was incredibly loved by Denny," Caveboy responded when I brought up the example. "Yes, and she lost him," I told him. "Well, um. . . he died," came the reply. But what was the guarantee? Maybe if Denny had gotten better and left the hospital and gone out into the world, he'd have fallen in love with someone else. And Izzy, for having loved him to the extent she did, would have been left to pick up the pieces.
Caveboy contends that those who are shallow, who hold back, are not really happy. Yes, they give less, so they get less. But they are also satisfied and content with less. Happiness is greater than contentment, Caveboy argued. Contentment beats heartbreak and misery, I shot back.
Ultimately, I don't think I am the pessimist I come across as. But I see, over and over, those who choose to go above and beyond in giving and loving get hurt and broken while those who hold back sail through, for the most part, intact. It happened 2000 years ago with Christ*, and not much has changed today. And in my own life, in every instance in which I've given completely, it's come back to bite me. Impulsive and hard-headed as I am, I have not learned from these experiences--much as I wish I had. I know that I will, in some instances, continue to care blindly, but the more it ends up backfiring, the more I wonder how much it is worth.
*I'm talking about the world's response to Him, not His coming into glory after His earthly death and the implications of that).
The idealistic notion of happiness is that the more you give, the more you get. If you give love and kindness and caring, you get it all back, many-fold. In other words, as Luke 6:38 puts it: "Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you."
This doesn't always hold true in the world we live in today--the more you give, the more you put yourself out there, the more you risk unhappiness--because you leave yourself vulnerable to being hurt, rejected, scoffed at, an open shot for those who are not willing to give as much. And you let your happiness be determined by others. But those who don't give, or choose carefully how much of themselves they do give, tend to be happier. They don't face as much hurt and rejection, because they protect themselves from it. Maybe they are less passionate, their loving a little less intense, but they are generally shielded from the hurt that comes from getting nothing or very little in return.
Take Dr. Izzy Stevens on the show Grey's Anatomy, for instance. She's actually my favourite character, because she gives abundantly but also expects much from those she gives to. But because she loves and cares so much, she also gets hurt the most. "But she was incredibly loved by Denny," Caveboy responded when I brought up the example. "Yes, and she lost him," I told him. "Well, um. . . he died," came the reply. But what was the guarantee? Maybe if Denny had gotten better and left the hospital and gone out into the world, he'd have fallen in love with someone else. And Izzy, for having loved him to the extent she did, would have been left to pick up the pieces.
Caveboy contends that those who are shallow, who hold back, are not really happy. Yes, they give less, so they get less. But they are also satisfied and content with less. Happiness is greater than contentment, Caveboy argued. Contentment beats heartbreak and misery, I shot back.
Ultimately, I don't think I am the pessimist I come across as. But I see, over and over, those who choose to go above and beyond in giving and loving get hurt and broken while those who hold back sail through, for the most part, intact. It happened 2000 years ago with Christ*, and not much has changed today. And in my own life, in every instance in which I've given completely, it's come back to bite me. Impulsive and hard-headed as I am, I have not learned from these experiences--much as I wish I had. I know that I will, in some instances, continue to care blindly, but the more it ends up backfiring, the more I wonder how much it is worth.
*I'm talking about the world's response to Him, not His coming into glory after His earthly death and the implications of that).
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Convos with Caveboy--part II
On the first day of my internship at The Mag:
Caveboy: omg
tell me all
SPILL THE BEANS.
Ini: lol
not much to tell
C: i've been waiting
on the edge of my seat
THE EDGE.
it's scary, the edge.
Ini: lol
yes i can imagine
it's going pretty ok
i've been going to random meetings
editor's meetings, international section meeting
photo selection meeting
C: random! we like random!
it keeps you on your toes!
the edge of your toes!
oooh
sounds glam.
I: hehe, yes
editing a couple of things
editing comments
i'm getting my feet wet,
C: egads.
wet!
we love wet!
I: then we hope to be able to write something
C: and edge!
omg omg
too exciting.
I: :)
my ed is quite good
C: yayayayay
I: he always calls me to all the meetings
C: we <3 good editors
I: and shows me editing stuff
C: we <3 going to meetings
C: we <3 being showed editing stuff.
I: brb
C: ok dokey karaoke smokey
*************************
C: i need an emotional number.
that's what i need.
I: lol
don't we all?
C: nah
i like my emoticons.
they're cute, and i keep them tucked inside, and then when i want, i wear them on my sleeve
and they make me handsome.
oh god
i'm a freak.
I :S
C: SUPER FREAK.
I: indeed
i told you
realization is good
and acceptance is even better
:)
C: hilarious.
ur hilarious.
i'm awesome.
Caveboy: omg
tell me all
SPILL THE BEANS.
Ini: lol
not much to tell
C: i've been waiting
on the edge of my seat
THE EDGE.
it's scary, the edge.
Ini: lol
yes i can imagine
it's going pretty ok
i've been going to random meetings
editor's meetings, international section meeting
photo selection meeting
C: random! we like random!
it keeps you on your toes!
the edge of your toes!
oooh
sounds glam.
I: hehe, yes
editing a couple of things
editing comments
i'm getting my feet wet,
C: egads.
wet!
we love wet!
I: then we hope to be able to write something
C: and edge!
omg omg
too exciting.
I: :)
my ed is quite good
C: yayayayay
I: he always calls me to all the meetings
C: we <3 good editors
I: and shows me editing stuff
C: we <3 going to meetings
C: we <3 being showed editing stuff.
I: brb
C: ok dokey karaoke smokey
*************************
C: i need an emotional number.
that's what i need.
I: lol
don't we all?
C: nah
i like my emoticons.
they're cute, and i keep them tucked inside, and then when i want, i wear them on my sleeve
and they make me handsome.
oh god
i'm a freak.
I :S
C: SUPER FREAK.
I: indeed
i told you
realization is good
and acceptance is even better
:)
C: hilarious.
ur hilarious.
i'm awesome.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Two kinds of people
It takes all kinds to make a world, they say. If you boil that down to the most basic of denominators, you end up with two--those who make a difference and those who don't.
There are those who waltz into your life and never quite waltz back out. Years later, you find yourself telling your friends, your aquaintances, your grandkids about that person who made an indelible impression on you. People are drawn to them wherever they go--they're the life of the party, the glue of the group, the ones everyone falls in love with, and often leave a trail of broken hearts in their wake.
Then there are the others. The ones with whom you form a loose bond--or if you do manage a stronger one, it's usually temporary; the ones whom you see when they're there but don't particularly miss when they're not; the ones who stand on the fringes, never quite comfortable with themselves or anyone else; the ones who are easily forgotten and gotten over; the ones who are usually left, repeatedly, with the broken hearts.
I think most people are different in different circumstances, and can flit between these two categories, depending on whom they're with and what the situation calls for. But there are a few--very few, I believe--who fall squarely into one or the other, and don't quite manage to ever leave it. In which case, is it better to belong to the first or the second? And what does one do upon making the discovery?
There are those who waltz into your life and never quite waltz back out. Years later, you find yourself telling your friends, your aquaintances, your grandkids about that person who made an indelible impression on you. People are drawn to them wherever they go--they're the life of the party, the glue of the group, the ones everyone falls in love with, and often leave a trail of broken hearts in their wake.
Then there are the others. The ones with whom you form a loose bond--or if you do manage a stronger one, it's usually temporary; the ones whom you see when they're there but don't particularly miss when they're not; the ones who stand on the fringes, never quite comfortable with themselves or anyone else; the ones who are easily forgotten and gotten over; the ones who are usually left, repeatedly, with the broken hearts.
I think most people are different in different circumstances, and can flit between these two categories, depending on whom they're with and what the situation calls for. But there are a few--very few, I believe--who fall squarely into one or the other, and don't quite manage to ever leave it. In which case, is it better to belong to the first or the second? And what does one do upon making the discovery?
Friday, January 12, 2007
Changes. . .
Today was my last day at The Mag. I take next week off to work on some freelance projects, finish up a couple of stories I've been working on for The Mag, gather my wits and my emotions together, and prepare myself for starting my new job at The Wire the following Monday.
The past couple of weeks have been a roller coaster ride. The Mag has been a haven for me, and leaving that security is daunting. I fear I will never work with such caring, accomodating souls again (although The Rock did present me with two scenarios: a. that I would be hired by The Mag in the future, or b. that I would come back and take his job--we'll see).
During the week before my departure from London, as I made my way down to my goodbye party with two colleagues, I told them that the beginnings and ends of the chapters of my life have always been clearly delineated. One closes unequivocally before another opens. I am now nearing the conclusion of chapter six. And I am worried and confused.
A job at The Wire means a lot more than just another new job(more on that later). And this time, an additional, personal, variable has made things even more confusing, and I hesitate. For, with this job comes a turn that is difficult to retrace my steps from. And while everyone else exclaims at the opportunities that lie ahead of me, all I can muster is a sigh and a "Yeah, I guess it'll be ok." Because I fear I may be giving up one opportunity for another--and in so doing, making a choice that will define the rest of my life.
Confusion begets worry and fear and frustration, and one result of all this is that I may have caused irreparable damage to a valuable friendship. Amid all the confusion, I felt wronged and hurt by this friend, and I told them so, not very pleasantly, without really considering their position. The conversation I'd imagined in my head went so much better than the actual one. The moment I'd uttered the words, I cursed myself for having said them. I learned the power of words--both good and bad--a long time ago, but forgot those lessons. And I also learned many years ago that, while work-wise, I may be thick-skinned, I am not so when it comes to those who mean much to me--and that what gets to me more than anything else is having something come between me and someone I care about, regardless of which side the fault lies with. I will joyfully take all the blame if it will bring reconciliation. And reconciliation I need now--as all my efforts to contact this friend have been fruitless.
So the close of this week finds me minus one internship, plus one job, possibly minus one friend, plus many doubts. But contradictory as this may seem, I also have an absolute, concrete-block kind of sense that this job, and the direction it will take me in, is part of God's plan for me. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that I'm losing something. . .
The past couple of weeks have been a roller coaster ride. The Mag has been a haven for me, and leaving that security is daunting. I fear I will never work with such caring, accomodating souls again (although The Rock did present me with two scenarios: a. that I would be hired by The Mag in the future, or b. that I would come back and take his job--we'll see).
During the week before my departure from London, as I made my way down to my goodbye party with two colleagues, I told them that the beginnings and ends of the chapters of my life have always been clearly delineated. One closes unequivocally before another opens. I am now nearing the conclusion of chapter six. And I am worried and confused.
A job at The Wire means a lot more than just another new job(more on that later). And this time, an additional, personal, variable has made things even more confusing, and I hesitate. For, with this job comes a turn that is difficult to retrace my steps from. And while everyone else exclaims at the opportunities that lie ahead of me, all I can muster is a sigh and a "Yeah, I guess it'll be ok." Because I fear I may be giving up one opportunity for another--and in so doing, making a choice that will define the rest of my life.
Confusion begets worry and fear and frustration, and one result of all this is that I may have caused irreparable damage to a valuable friendship. Amid all the confusion, I felt wronged and hurt by this friend, and I told them so, not very pleasantly, without really considering their position. The conversation I'd imagined in my head went so much better than the actual one. The moment I'd uttered the words, I cursed myself for having said them. I learned the power of words--both good and bad--a long time ago, but forgot those lessons. And I also learned many years ago that, while work-wise, I may be thick-skinned, I am not so when it comes to those who mean much to me--and that what gets to me more than anything else is having something come between me and someone I care about, regardless of which side the fault lies with. I will joyfully take all the blame if it will bring reconciliation. And reconciliation I need now--as all my efforts to contact this friend have been fruitless.
So the close of this week finds me minus one internship, plus one job, possibly minus one friend, plus many doubts. But contradictory as this may seem, I also have an absolute, concrete-block kind of sense that this job, and the direction it will take me in, is part of God's plan for me. And yet, I can't shake the feeling that I'm losing something. . .
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Convos with Caveboy--part I
I have decided to introduce a new section to my blog, to be updated intermittently. I am convinced that Caveboy is quite the joker (or possibly quite mad). So, I'm putting parts of our (insane) chat conversations on my blog, so the rest of the world can enjoy the benefits of knowing this complex and fascinating human being. Here's the first installment:
Ini: what r u up to?
Caveboy: i am waiting for
COUCH
I: ohhh yaay! finally
C: FINALLY
pray PRAY
that it fits.
PRAY.
I: hehe
ok
C: I have cleaned the apt
in anticipation.
I: lol
Viren: yes, "lol."
I: ru trying to impress the delivery guys?
C: no,
i am trying to introduce my apt
to the couch
gently
(for an update on Caveboy's couch problems, please visit his blog and read from Reports from New York on till the second last post in the blog.)
**************************************
I: Is it a circuit or a circuit breaker that you trip?
C: nope
I:?????
Ini: what r u up to?
Caveboy: i am waiting for
COUCH
I: ohhh yaay! finally
C: FINALLY
pray PRAY
that it fits.
PRAY.
I: hehe
ok
C: I have cleaned the apt
in anticipation.
I: lol
Viren: yes, "lol."
I: ru trying to impress the delivery guys?
C: no,
i am trying to introduce my apt
to the couch
gently
(for an update on Caveboy's couch problems, please visit his blog and read from Reports from New York on till the second last post in the blog.)
**************************************
I: Is it a circuit or a circuit breaker that you trip?
C: nope
I:?????
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Fishie pictures, part deux
Here are more photos from the GA aquarium (continued from previous post):
Fishie pictures
Nev and I went to the Georgia Aquarium--the largest in the world--when I visited Atlanta over Thanksgiving. I finally got around to downloading the photos from that visit. There's something so surreal about every aquarium I've been to--the water, the incredibly, breathtakingly beautiful fish, and, if I could block out the hordes of noisy tourists, the unbelievable serenity that comes from just gazing into the tanks.
In 1998, when I left my parents in India for the first time (way after many of my boarding school friends), and went to Sri Lanka to apply for my student visa to come to the U.S. I'd never felt more lonely or afraid. In my cousin's house, where I stayed, there was a small fish tank with about three fish. I'd often stand in front of that tank when I became overcome by a wave of panic and homesickness, watching the fish swimming around, completely oblvious to the chaos that is this world. And I would inevitably find myself growing calmer and breathing easier.
Here are some of the pictures:
This picture of Nev is should be treasured, because it shows him smiling--and that is almost impossible to find in photos. Nev is a firm believer in scowling at cameras.
In 1998, when I left my parents in India for the first time (way after many of my boarding school friends), and went to Sri Lanka to apply for my student visa to come to the U.S. I'd never felt more lonely or afraid. In my cousin's house, where I stayed, there was a small fish tank with about three fish. I'd often stand in front of that tank when I became overcome by a wave of panic and homesickness, watching the fish swimming around, completely oblvious to the chaos that is this world. And I would inevitably find myself growing calmer and breathing easier.
Here are some of the pictures:
This picture of Nev is should be treasured, because it shows him smiling--and that is almost impossible to find in photos. Nev is a firm believer in scowling at cameras. 
Thursday, January 04, 2007
New Year's money
We have a charming little New Year's tradition in my part of the world that I've missed for the past nine years (gosh, it's been that long?!?!). Parents and other adults would give their children and other youngsters cash--without being asked! It wouldn't be much--just five rupees, upped to 10, then 20, as age and inflation necessitated--not even enough to buy a candy cane on sale here.
But it was the whole build up to it, trying to guess how much would be forthcoming, and figuring out which adults could be milked for the money that was fun; and the well-laid plans afterwards for spending it. Plus, it was all done very surreptitiously--I've never quite figured out why. Usually we'd go to midnight mass, after which we'd come back home, eat, drink and make merry. At some point, there'd be hugging and kissing and wishing, and in the middle of all the swishing of new clothes and whirling of newly-done hair, somehow the cash would change hands. . .and before I knew it I would be standing there, 10 rupees richer.
There was a catch though--we had to keep the new money until the end of the year. Of course, we could use the cash from the previous year. But if it was a year when we got 10 rupees, but had only received five the previous year, we did feel a bit jipped. But the thought of five extra rupees to spend the following year kept us going.
I never quite asked why or how the tradition started. I guess the obvious answer is that it was a wish for prosperity and happiness for the following year. To me, at that time, it was a treasure that I would safely keep in my little red plastic purse, take out and look at occasionally, and plan carefully--taking into account the depreciating value of the currency and what world events were affecting inflation and all, of course--how I was going to spend it come next New Year's.
But it was the whole build up to it, trying to guess how much would be forthcoming, and figuring out which adults could be milked for the money that was fun; and the well-laid plans afterwards for spending it. Plus, it was all done very surreptitiously--I've never quite figured out why. Usually we'd go to midnight mass, after which we'd come back home, eat, drink and make merry. At some point, there'd be hugging and kissing and wishing, and in the middle of all the swishing of new clothes and whirling of newly-done hair, somehow the cash would change hands. . .and before I knew it I would be standing there, 10 rupees richer.
There was a catch though--we had to keep the new money until the end of the year. Of course, we could use the cash from the previous year. But if it was a year when we got 10 rupees, but had only received five the previous year, we did feel a bit jipped. But the thought of five extra rupees to spend the following year kept us going.
I never quite asked why or how the tradition started. I guess the obvious answer is that it was a wish for prosperity and happiness for the following year. To me, at that time, it was a treasure that I would safely keep in my little red plastic purse, take out and look at occasionally, and plan carefully--taking into account the depreciating value of the currency and what world events were affecting inflation and all, of course--how I was going to spend it come next New Year's.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Diet anyone?
I thought this might be fitting for this time of year. . . (I don't know why it's so small. Click on it to see full size).
Friday, December 29, 2006
Long lost twin?
This photo ran in The Mag this week, in a story that was held from the week after Thanksgiving. I've been waiting for it to show up ever since then, because of this conversation on my return from Atlanta.The Rock to Crislin: So apparently they've decided to hold the story.
Crislin: Oh ok.
The Rock to spacey Me: So that means your picture won't run this week.
Me to The Rock: blank stare
Crislin: Oh yeah, that's true. Well, next week.
Me to Crislin: blank stare
The Rock and Crislin: Hahaha.
Me to both: blank stare
Finally The Rock deigned to explain: We chose a photo with a woman who we all think looks like you to run with the story.
Me: Ohhhh. Ok. (trying to act nonchalant, but secretly dying to see this photo, convinced it's not going to be a flattering resemblance--or worse, someone that I think I look nothing like, but everyone else thinks is a carbon copy.)
The Rock: Of course, everytime someone says you (generic you) look like someone, you always think they look nothing like you.
Me: Yeah, I know. (now nervously) Hehe.
Since then, as soon as the weekly email plopped into my inbox saying that latest issue was in, I'd run to the library to page through the mag to see if the story was there, not even entirely sure what I was looking for--just a photo of someone who might look kinda, sorta like me. But no. Last week, an email came from The Rock with the PDF of the story (it took me a while to figure out which story the photo was running with, but I did, finally). PDF=photo! I immediately opened it, and there it was finally--the photo of my supposed twin, albeit a profile. And to be honest, although I've examined it from every angle, I can't even tell if she looks like me or not. Although, truth be told, I'm not entirely disappointed.
So? Does she? Doesn't she? Shocked at the uncanny resemblance? Or going "what?!?!? How could they even think that?" Or as confused as me?
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Kiddie party
Today, we had the kiddie version of our work Christmas party. As I am kiddie-less, I didn't go. But it is impossible to not notice some 20-odd bundles of energy darting about the hallways. I happened upon one of these--stationary this time--near the library. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, about two feet high, her tiny face in a half-frown, half-smile, palms up in a questioning gesture, demanding of the world-at-large: "Where's daddy? Where'd daddy go?" "Hmmm! Where DID daddy go?" I wondered. And, as I watched, the half-frown disappeared, to be replaced by a full grin, as daddy appeared. "There's daddy!"
I went into the kitchen, and stumbled upon another little guy, only slightly older, sitting at the dining table, picking at a piece of pizza, long gone cold, somberly absorbed in the news on TV. Someone came in and asked him where his parents were. He mumbled something shyly, and went back to playing with his food and watching the news. "Hah!" I thought. "A journo in the making!"
And as I walked back to my cubicle, one of The Rock's two daughters, and a boy of unknown parentage, shot past me shouting, "Hide! Hide!" (At first, I thought she was yelling "Hi! Hi!" and I was almost moved to tears that she remembered me.) They rushed into the empty office next to mine, and I tuned out. A few minutes later, my attention was drawn to them again as The Rock and Pendio, a senior reporter, approached the office.
"You know, Pendio here is the BEAR of the whole of The Mag," The Rock informed the kids. Pendio duly growled to show that he was indeed the bear of the office. "Yes, he's the BRAIN of this WHOLE place." Pendio puffed out his chest, and pointed to his head. "So you guys need to be quiet, so he can THINK!"
The kids were clearly unimpressed by Pendio's greatness. "Well, we're leaving now anyway," one of them informed The Rock, duly putting him and all of Pendio's bearness and braininess in place. And, after a little more high-pitched excitement, they did.
Ah, for peace and quiet. Although, I must say, it is fun to have little people around--for a little bit at least-- in such a very grown-up place.
I went into the kitchen, and stumbled upon another little guy, only slightly older, sitting at the dining table, picking at a piece of pizza, long gone cold, somberly absorbed in the news on TV. Someone came in and asked him where his parents were. He mumbled something shyly, and went back to playing with his food and watching the news. "Hah!" I thought. "A journo in the making!"
And as I walked back to my cubicle, one of The Rock's two daughters, and a boy of unknown parentage, shot past me shouting, "Hide! Hide!" (At first, I thought she was yelling "Hi! Hi!" and I was almost moved to tears that she remembered me.) They rushed into the empty office next to mine, and I tuned out. A few minutes later, my attention was drawn to them again as The Rock and Pendio, a senior reporter, approached the office.
"You know, Pendio here is the BEAR of the whole of The Mag," The Rock informed the kids. Pendio duly growled to show that he was indeed the bear of the office. "Yes, he's the BRAIN of this WHOLE place." Pendio puffed out his chest, and pointed to his head. "So you guys need to be quiet, so he can THINK!"
The kids were clearly unimpressed by Pendio's greatness. "Well, we're leaving now anyway," one of them informed The Rock, duly putting him and all of Pendio's bearness and braininess in place. And, after a little more high-pitched excitement, they did.
Ah, for peace and quiet. Although, I must say, it is fun to have little people around--for a little bit at least-- in such a very grown-up place.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
My Christmas pet peeve
This is the season to be kind and giving and forgiving, and generally, I am (I like to think anyway:)If you disagree, SHHHHHH!!!). But one pet peeve that rears its head at this time of year concerns people who whinge about "having" to spend Christmas with their families.
Yes, I understand that families have their problems, and some worse than others. But they're still FAMILY. Unless they've done something horrendous that's scarred you for life, and seeing them is clinically traumatizing, this is the time to put aside your differences and enjoy them. And to be glad that you have them, and that you get to spend time with them. Not to continue to hold grudges and have a bad attitude, and join the throngs that complain about another Christmas at home.
Put these people far far away from their families, where they can't see them or spend time with them. . . and I'm willing to bet the farm* that the majority of them will be singing a different tune.
There! It's out now! My Christmas pet peeve!
Merry Christmas all!!
*I don't actually have a farm. . . but I'm willing to bet Weds instead, if you prefer. And you know he's worth more than any farm to me. . . and to Okia, his real owner--who I'm sure wouldn't appreciate me using her cat as a pawn in my betting!
Yes, I understand that families have their problems, and some worse than others. But they're still FAMILY. Unless they've done something horrendous that's scarred you for life, and seeing them is clinically traumatizing, this is the time to put aside your differences and enjoy them. And to be glad that you have them, and that you get to spend time with them. Not to continue to hold grudges and have a bad attitude, and join the throngs that complain about another Christmas at home.
Put these people far far away from their families, where they can't see them or spend time with them. . . and I'm willing to bet the farm* that the majority of them will be singing a different tune.
There! It's out now! My Christmas pet peeve!
Merry Christmas all!!
*I don't actually have a farm. . . but I'm willing to bet Weds instead, if you prefer. And you know he's worth more than any farm to me. . . and to Okia, his real owner--who I'm sure wouldn't appreciate me using her cat as a pawn in my betting!
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Static
Have you ever felt like you're standing in a corner, looking on, while the world whirls on around you? I feel a little bit like that now--I'm static, very much an observer, watching as everyone else's lives change, move forward, on to the next level.
The Bart, Chaps, Lala are all getting married, Jags is legally married already, Oiram is the same, Gio is going to be a daddy, Emsten's starting a new business and trying to become a mommy, and Juff Juff's gotten serious about his relationship. And as I become aware of each development in my friends' lives, I become more and more of an onlooker--a happy one, but an onlooker all the same. Yes, there are changes in my life too (soon, hopefully), but those are more beginning of life changes--new job, moving to new place etc. The others' changes are more, I don't know, "grown-up." Growing up. They're all growing up, and becoming big people, people with families and responsibilities. And I'm still, in some ways, not much different from the 10-, 12-, 17- 23-year-old I was when I met some of them.
It's a strange feeling. Not necessarily a bad one. It's actually fun to see the world, and the lives of people I care about, changing, moving on to the next phase. But it's a strange feeling, nonetheless.
The Bart, Chaps, Lala are all getting married, Jags is legally married already, Oiram is the same, Gio is going to be a daddy, Emsten's starting a new business and trying to become a mommy, and Juff Juff's gotten serious about his relationship. And as I become aware of each development in my friends' lives, I become more and more of an onlooker--a happy one, but an onlooker all the same. Yes, there are changes in my life too (soon, hopefully), but those are more beginning of life changes--new job, moving to new place etc. The others' changes are more, I don't know, "grown-up." Growing up. They're all growing up, and becoming big people, people with families and responsibilities. And I'm still, in some ways, not much different from the 10-, 12-, 17- 23-year-old I was when I met some of them.
It's a strange feeling. Not necessarily a bad one. It's actually fun to see the world, and the lives of people I care about, changing, moving on to the next phase. But it's a strange feeling, nonetheless.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!!!
I left the gym in a bad mood today, and fuming and scowling, made my way to the bus stop and back home. As I slipped my key into the keyhole, I heard a strange buzzing noise, coming, fittingly enough, from my apartment. "Ugh, great," I thought. "Just what I needed."
I entered the apartment, and the loud buzzing enveloped me. I promptly burst into tears, and went in search of the source of the annoyance. I found it in a small metal panel, the size of a switch plate, screwed into the wall in the kitchen. I felt the panel. It was warm. "What do I do?" I demanded of myself. I tripped the circuit breaker. Nothing. "Aaargh." And another bout of tears.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I dialed the management office number, then the emergency pager number. I paged, and waited. A few minutes later, as I began dialing the pager number for the second time, the call came. I explained the situation, then repeated it to someone else. I was ordered to trip the circuit breaker again, and did so. Nothing. Then I was told to go down to the garage and do the same again on my apartment's circuit breaker. I dutifully did so. Still nothing.
They said they were sending someone over to investigate, but he was coming from Jersey City and it would take about half an hour. In the meantime, I should call the electricity company to see if they could figure out what the problem was, and what the mysterious panel was. I did as I was told, spoke to someone clueless, who told me to call an electrician "Erm, I don't think it has anything to do with electricity," I informed her. "Yes, I know. That's why you should call an electrician," came the reply. I gave up, hung up, and decided to wait for the guy from the management office.
About 20 minutes later, after a pointless phone call to Nev--an engineer who informed me that he couldn't diagnose a problem from just a buzzing noise--several confused looks from an annoyed Weds, and a splitting headache in the making, I heard a knock on the door. Wondering why he hadn't buzzed the doorbell, I opened the door. He looked at me, looked at the doorbell, looked back at me, pressed the doorbell, and asked "Is this it?" The buzzing noise stopped instantly. Blessed peace.
He started laughing, while I grinned sheepishly, and apologized profusely. A phone call to the management office and more apologies later, the repair man left. And I kicked myself. Why didn't I think of it? The freakin' doorbell of all things. Figures!
I entered the apartment, and the loud buzzing enveloped me. I promptly burst into tears, and went in search of the source of the annoyance. I found it in a small metal panel, the size of a switch plate, screwed into the wall in the kitchen. I felt the panel. It was warm. "What do I do?" I demanded of myself. I tripped the circuit breaker. Nothing. "Aaargh." And another bout of tears.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I dialed the management office number, then the emergency pager number. I paged, and waited. A few minutes later, as I began dialing the pager number for the second time, the call came. I explained the situation, then repeated it to someone else. I was ordered to trip the circuit breaker again, and did so. Nothing. Then I was told to go down to the garage and do the same again on my apartment's circuit breaker. I dutifully did so. Still nothing.
They said they were sending someone over to investigate, but he was coming from Jersey City and it would take about half an hour. In the meantime, I should call the electricity company to see if they could figure out what the problem was, and what the mysterious panel was. I did as I was told, spoke to someone clueless, who told me to call an electrician "Erm, I don't think it has anything to do with electricity," I informed her. "Yes, I know. That's why you should call an electrician," came the reply. I gave up, hung up, and decided to wait for the guy from the management office.
About 20 minutes later, after a pointless phone call to Nev--an engineer who informed me that he couldn't diagnose a problem from just a buzzing noise--several confused looks from an annoyed Weds, and a splitting headache in the making, I heard a knock on the door. Wondering why he hadn't buzzed the doorbell, I opened the door. He looked at me, looked at the doorbell, looked back at me, pressed the doorbell, and asked "Is this it?" The buzzing noise stopped instantly. Blessed peace.
He started laughing, while I grinned sheepishly, and apologized profusely. A phone call to the management office and more apologies later, the repair man left. And I kicked myself. Why didn't I think of it? The freakin' doorbell of all things. Figures!
Monday, December 11, 2006
Temporary bliss
On Saturday, I decided I was going to clean. My apartment was sufficiently covered in cat hair, my sink was sufficiently full of dirty dishes, and my pile of laundry was sufficienty daunting. So, after much hemming and hawing, I decided to finally whip out the hand vac and broom, the cleaning fluid, my pile of laundry quarters, and get to work.
The good thing though, is that once I get started, I go all out. So it was that, three hours later, I had vacuumed, swept, and scrubbed till every corner of my apartment was clean and shiny, and my laundry was spinning contentedly in the dryer.
I showered, made some spicy chai, helped myself to some frozen Fig Newtons, lit an apple cinnamon candle and the scented oil burner, and sat down to enjoy my newly (albeit temporarily) sparkling home. I popped in a "Law and Order: SVU" DVD (not exactly fitting with the whole bliss theme, but it happened to be next on my Netflix list) and sat down to enjoy the lack of mess. Weds clambered onto a cushion on the other couch, settled himself comfortably, and looked just as ready to do the same.
And enjoy we did--until my first sneeze. Followed by another. And another. Now, believe it or not, I STILL DON'T HAVE HEAT!! As I had been moving around earlier, my body had been sufficiently warm. But, as soon as I sat down, the cold hit. And so it was that at the end of a few hours, I was reduced to a sneezing, sniffling mess, surrounded by tissues and shivering like a leaf under my blanket. I was sure that a good night's sleep would do the trick.
But I woke up yesterday, still freezing, still sneezing and sniffling. And even Weds couldn't hold back a sneeze--and a mighty one at that, for such a wee nose.
I think a lawsuit may be in the making if my heat isn't turned on in the next couple of days.
A blissful Weds
The good thing though, is that once I get started, I go all out. So it was that, three hours later, I had vacuumed, swept, and scrubbed till every corner of my apartment was clean and shiny, and my laundry was spinning contentedly in the dryer.
I showered, made some spicy chai, helped myself to some frozen Fig Newtons, lit an apple cinnamon candle and the scented oil burner, and sat down to enjoy my newly (albeit temporarily) sparkling home. I popped in a "Law and Order: SVU" DVD (not exactly fitting with the whole bliss theme, but it happened to be next on my Netflix list) and sat down to enjoy the lack of mess. Weds clambered onto a cushion on the other couch, settled himself comfortably, and looked just as ready to do the same.
And enjoy we did--until my first sneeze. Followed by another. And another. Now, believe it or not, I STILL DON'T HAVE HEAT!! As I had been moving around earlier, my body had been sufficiently warm. But, as soon as I sat down, the cold hit. And so it was that at the end of a few hours, I was reduced to a sneezing, sniffling mess, surrounded by tissues and shivering like a leaf under my blanket. I was sure that a good night's sleep would do the trick.
But I woke up yesterday, still freezing, still sneezing and sniffling. And even Weds couldn't hold back a sneeze--and a mighty one at that, for such a wee nose.
I think a lawsuit may be in the making if my heat isn't turned on in the next couple of days.
A blissful Weds
Sunday, December 10, 2006
12 days of "holidays?"
Wowie. . . lots of posts today. Here's a column from BusinessWeek magazine in favour of putting the word "Christmas" back into our celebrations this year--albeit from a business perspective. I did see a piece on the news recently that more stores/businesses were greeting customers with "Merry Christmas" again this year.
An Unreasonable Fear of Christmas
Our columnist thinks if advertisers want the huge spike in sales that Christmas provides, they should acknowledge the holiday itself
by Steve McKee
I miss Christmas.
The other night I saw a TV commercial for Lowe's (LOW) that was built on a cute premise. A clumsy young guy approached a female warehouse employee and blurted out, "Would you be my wife?" Startled, the clerk hesitantly began walking the man through the store until she realized that all he wanted was a woman's opinion about the gift he was thinking about buying for the love of his life.
But here's where the spot went south: As the young man role-played with the clerk, turning around and presenting the gift (presumably on Christmas morning), he looked at her and exclaimed, "Happy Holidays!"
Happy holidays? Is that really what a husband would say to his wife? By trying to cover all the bases, the spot ended up feeling forced. It was a departure from reality and a prime example of the unreasonable fear advertisers have these days of saying the word "Christmas."
Where's the Emotion?
It used to be that people wrung their hands about the over-commercialization of Christmas. These days we have almost the opposite problem—Christmas is disappearing entirely. Advertisers still want the huge spike in sales that Christmas provides but they're afraid to acknowledge the holiday itself.
It's almost funny to watch them trip over themselves trying to find politically correct substitutions as they avoid saying the dreaded "C" word. But "happy holidays" and "season's greetings" only go so far. They sound hollow and synthetic, and that kind of approach is no way to build a connection with your target audience.
It seems companies have become so afraid of offending some mythical person out there that they're unwilling to express their true sentiments. After 20 years in the advertising business there's one thing I've learned: Every ad is offensive to someone. Still, I find it a stretch to think that wishing your customers a "Merry Christmas" is going to set somebody off. And if it does, well, there's a word for them: Scrooge.
Don't Lump Them
Ah, you say, but Christmas is a religious holiday—what about people from other faiths? It's true that to millions of people Christmas is the most religious holiday of the year, but to millions of others it's all about Santa Claus and reindeer and stockings hung by the chimney with care.
As the song says, it truly is the most wonderful time of the year, even for many who don't celebrate it as a religious holiday. And there's no reason why the recognition of one holiday precludes the celebration of others. Lumping them together only makes each less special.
Remember A Charlie Brown Christmas? Of course you do, because it's perhaps the most popular Christmas television program of all time. For 41 years this charming (and overtly religious) special has been delighting children of all ages, and it has lost none of its appeal. Why? Because people love Christmas.
The Coca-Cola Claus
And just think of all the warm advertising traditions associated with Christmas, from the Budweiser (BUD) Clydesdales to the Norelco Santa. In fact, not so long ago Norelco (PHG) used to call itself "Noelco" during the holidays, using the tagline "Even our name says Merry Christmas."
Seventy-five years ago Coca-Cola (KO) invented the modern image of Santa Claus, a fact of which—to their credit—they still proudly boast. But even Coke has gotten cold feet; they're featuring Santa on their packaging this year but still won't call it a "Christmas Can" (despite the nice alliteration). Instead, they printed "Holiday Can" at the top. Ugh.
By all means don't be insincere. If you don't want people to have a merry Christmas, don't say so. But if you do, don't be afraid to let your advertising spread a little Christmas cheer. Otherwise, before long we'll all be reduced to humming holiday carols as we open our holiday cards and put holiday presents under our holiday trees. Not to mention dreaming of a white holiday.
To that I say humbug. Merry Christmas!
McKee is president of McKee Wallwork Cleveland Advertising, an ad agency specializing in working with fast-growth companies and businesses whose ad budgets are under $10 million.
An Unreasonable Fear of Christmas
Our columnist thinks if advertisers want the huge spike in sales that Christmas provides, they should acknowledge the holiday itself
by Steve McKee
I miss Christmas.
The other night I saw a TV commercial for Lowe's (LOW) that was built on a cute premise. A clumsy young guy approached a female warehouse employee and blurted out, "Would you be my wife?" Startled, the clerk hesitantly began walking the man through the store until she realized that all he wanted was a woman's opinion about the gift he was thinking about buying for the love of his life.
But here's where the spot went south: As the young man role-played with the clerk, turning around and presenting the gift (presumably on Christmas morning), he looked at her and exclaimed, "Happy Holidays!"
Happy holidays? Is that really what a husband would say to his wife? By trying to cover all the bases, the spot ended up feeling forced. It was a departure from reality and a prime example of the unreasonable fear advertisers have these days of saying the word "Christmas."
Where's the Emotion?
It used to be that people wrung their hands about the over-commercialization of Christmas. These days we have almost the opposite problem—Christmas is disappearing entirely. Advertisers still want the huge spike in sales that Christmas provides but they're afraid to acknowledge the holiday itself.
It's almost funny to watch them trip over themselves trying to find politically correct substitutions as they avoid saying the dreaded "C" word. But "happy holidays" and "season's greetings" only go so far. They sound hollow and synthetic, and that kind of approach is no way to build a connection with your target audience.
It seems companies have become so afraid of offending some mythical person out there that they're unwilling to express their true sentiments. After 20 years in the advertising business there's one thing I've learned: Every ad is offensive to someone. Still, I find it a stretch to think that wishing your customers a "Merry Christmas" is going to set somebody off. And if it does, well, there's a word for them: Scrooge.
Don't Lump Them
Ah, you say, but Christmas is a religious holiday—what about people from other faiths? It's true that to millions of people Christmas is the most religious holiday of the year, but to millions of others it's all about Santa Claus and reindeer and stockings hung by the chimney with care.
As the song says, it truly is the most wonderful time of the year, even for many who don't celebrate it as a religious holiday. And there's no reason why the recognition of one holiday precludes the celebration of others. Lumping them together only makes each less special.
Remember A Charlie Brown Christmas? Of course you do, because it's perhaps the most popular Christmas television program of all time. For 41 years this charming (and overtly religious) special has been delighting children of all ages, and it has lost none of its appeal. Why? Because people love Christmas.
The Coca-Cola Claus
And just think of all the warm advertising traditions associated with Christmas, from the Budweiser (BUD) Clydesdales to the Norelco Santa. In fact, not so long ago Norelco (PHG) used to call itself "Noelco" during the holidays, using the tagline "Even our name says Merry Christmas."
Seventy-five years ago Coca-Cola (KO) invented the modern image of Santa Claus, a fact of which—to their credit—they still proudly boast. But even Coke has gotten cold feet; they're featuring Santa on their packaging this year but still won't call it a "Christmas Can" (despite the nice alliteration). Instead, they printed "Holiday Can" at the top. Ugh.
By all means don't be insincere. If you don't want people to have a merry Christmas, don't say so. But if you do, don't be afraid to let your advertising spread a little Christmas cheer. Otherwise, before long we'll all be reduced to humming holiday carols as we open our holiday cards and put holiday presents under our holiday trees. Not to mention dreaming of a white holiday.
To that I say humbug. Merry Christmas!
McKee is president of McKee Wallwork Cleveland Advertising, an ad agency specializing in working with fast-growth companies and businesses whose ad budgets are under $10 million.
Strange Bibles
Here's an interesting story that ran in The Wall Street Journal on Dec. 6 that kind of tickled me. Some food for thought too, I guess.
Heavens, Bibles Are Really Booming
By JOANNE KAUFMAN
December 6, 2006; Page D12
Several weeks ago, Christian book publisher Thomas Nelson Inc. received a curious submission, "sort of an alarmist Bible," recalled Wayne Hastings, a senior vice president of the Nashville, Tenn.-based company. "A lot of it had to do with what recently went on in Israel and Lebanon."
The offering featured headlines that had been snipped from the front pages of USA Today, then pasted below select New Testament verses. Also included was some newspaper boldface about the collapse of the Jessica Simpson-Nick Lachey marriage accompanied by relevant text from Scripture, presumably not Genesis' 2:24 dictum: "a man shall leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife."
Thomas Nelson, which produces 150 different editions of the Bible each year, arguably more than any other publisher in the world, "gets all sorts of interesting proposals," said Mr. Hastings. Some, like the alarmist Bible and a submission featuring 20 iterations of Scripture woven together -- "It was confusing and overwhelming," he said -- got a thanks but no thanks. The idea of tucking the New Testament between the boldly colored covers of what looked like a teen fashion magazine as a way of appealing to adolescents -- Corinthians and Colossians for the Cosmo girl -- and the notion of a water-resistant Bible, inspired by a leaf of paper sent to Thomas Nelson by a vendor -- well, folks, start the presses.
Always a dependable seller, the Bible is in the midst of a boom. Christian bookstores had a 25% increase in sales of Scriptures from 2003 to 2005, according to statistics gathered by the Phoenix, Ariz.-based Evangelical Christian Publishers Association, a trade group. General-interest bookstores, while declining to give figures, have also seen increasingly strong sales. "Bibles are a growth area for us and we're giving them more space in our stores," said Jane Love, religion buyer for Barnes & Noble. "It's partly because of the way they've evolved over the last three or four years."
Indeed, publishers like Thomas Nelson; Grand Rapids, Mich.-based Zondervan; and Tyndale House in Carol Stream, Ill. -- which together represent an estimated 80% of the Bible market -- have gone far beyond offering the Scriptures between black, burgundy, navy or white covers.
"For a long time the Bible was just the Bible," noted Kevin O'Brien, director of Bibles at Tyndale House. "You put it out there and people bought it. They didn't ask about the options, because there weren't any options. But now, especially in evangelical circles, people are seeing their lives not just in color but high-definition color, and they want the Bible to fit in with that. This is not your mother's Bible."
Thus, following the gospel of Seventh Avenue, publishers are displaying their wares in the season's hot colors. "This year alone I've seen four shades of purple," said Ms. Love, whose stores have also done well with two-tone Bibles. The pink and brown model has been particularly popular. Bibles are also available in the colors of your college, with a fur cover, a flower-patterned cover, and to appeal to young adherents, with a camouflage cover, a metal cover and a duct-tape cover. Next spring Tyndale House will be bringing out a paperback Bible in a plastic case that looks like a flattened Nalgene bottle.
But Bibles are becoming as much personal statements as fashion statements. "What people are saying is 'I want to find a Bible that is really me," noted Rodney Hatfield, a vice president of marketing at Thomas Nelson. "It's no different than with anything else in our culture."
Responding to such desires, publishers offer compact Old and New Testaments like Thomas Nelson's so-called checkbook Bible and Zondervan's Bible in a Bag, as well as myriad themed Bibles, among them archaeology, leadership and sports. "Sometimes what you have to work with seems quite inadequate," begins one section of the basketball edition. "Consider the plight of Rollie Massimino, the coach of the Villanova Wildcats...Villanova was ranked, well nowhere...Several thousand years earlier there was another underdog group that didn't have much to work with. They were called the Israelites."
There are PDA Bibles; audio versions like James Earl Jones reading the New Testament and Zondervan's just released "Bible Experience" with the voices of such African-American stars as Angela Bassett, Denzel Washington and Cuba Gooding Jr. Coming soon from Thomas Nelson: Johnny Cash reading the New Testament. There are Bibles aimed at children and teens, Bibles aimed at women. There's that water-resistant version of the New Testament -- "Immerse," from Thomas Nelson -- for camping trips, days at the beach, and perhaps baptisms. "We had a customer test it by keeping it in a bucket overnight and it was fine," said Mr. Hastings. Prices range from $1 to almost $200 for a 2,400-page study Bible hand bound in calfskin.
Fortunately for Bible publishers, consumers seem to think that if one copy of the Good Book is good, two or more are even better. "Forty percent of my customers own three to 10 Bibles," said Mr. Hastings. "It's sort of like me and golf. I have Tiger Woods's book and Ernie Els's book. I want all those different approaches to how to play golf. It's the same with Bibles."
The expansion of outlets -- Wal-Mart, Costco, Sam's Club -- partly explains the uptick in Bible sales, believes Paul Caminiti, a vice president at Zondervan. "Our company has seen a 20% growth in the last 10 years because of that," he said. The large array of translations has also played a role, according to Mark Kuyper, president and CEO of the Evangelical Christian Publishers Association. "It means there's more opportunity for them to appeal to groups with different theological perspectives," he said.
In some instances, spiritual leaders are embracing myriad translations and their flocks are following suit. "You go back 20 years and the pastor would stand in the pulpit and say 'you need to have this Bible, this translation. Go to the store and buy it,'" said Thomas Nelson's Mr. Hatfield. "But now pastors are reaching out and grabbing the translation that best suits their point for a particular sermon."
The parlous times are also a big motivator for people to open their wallets. "Part of what we see," said Mr. Kuyper, "is that when there is incredible unrest people are asking themselves existential questions and they're drawn to search Scripture. We saw a huge jump in sales after 9/11. We're not in that environment today, but we're certainly in an unsettled environment."
However interested they are in broadening their customer base, publishers say there is a very distinct line between the sacred and the profane. And don't even get them started on the "Jesus Loves Porn Stars" Bible that was distributed this past summer at an erotica convention in Los Angeles. "We're not going to do anything that is overtly seductive," said Mr. Hastings. "And we are not going to get into centuries-old arguments about denominational preferences between Catholics and Protestants. We're not going to do something to stir the pot. We'd turn down anything offensive to either side, that was either heretical or controversial."
"The question is always how do we create Bibles that people will pick up and use but that will not be too gimmicky," said Tyndale House's Mr. O'Brien. "If you get too trendy you've turned the Bible into a widget."
Ms. Kaufman writes about the arts and culture for the Journal.
URL for this article:
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB116536078510241660.html
Heavens, Bibles Are Really Booming
By JOANNE KAUFMAN
December 6, 2006; Page D12
Several weeks ago, Christian book publisher Thomas Nelson Inc. received a curious submission, "sort of an alarmist Bible," recalled Wayne Hastings, a senior vice president of the Nashville, Tenn.-based company. "A lot of it had to do with what recently went on in Israel and Lebanon."
The offering featured headlines that had been snipped from the front pages of USA Today, then pasted below select New Testament verses. Also included was some newspaper boldface about the collapse of the Jessica Simpson-Nick Lachey marriage accompanied by relevant text from Scripture, presumably not Genesis' 2:24 dictum: "a man shall leave his father and his mother and shall cleave unto his wife."
Thomas Nelson, which produces 150 different editions of the Bible each year, arguably more than any other publisher in the world, "gets all sorts of interesting proposals," said Mr. Hastings. Some, like the alarmist Bible and a submission featuring 20 iterations of Scripture woven together -- "It was confusing and overwhelming," he said -- got a thanks but no thanks. The idea of tucking the New Testament between the boldly colored covers of what looked like a teen fashion magazine as a way of appealing to adolescents -- Corinthians and Colossians for the Cosmo girl -- and the notion of a water-resistant Bible, inspired by a leaf of paper sent to Thomas Nelson by a vendor -- well, folks, start the presses.
Always a dependable seller, the Bible is in the midst of a boom. Christian bookstores had a 25% increase in sales of Scriptures from 2003 to 2005, according to statistics gathered by the Phoenix, Ariz.-based Evangelical Christian Publishers Association, a trade group. General-interest bookstores, while declining to give figures, have also seen increasingly strong sales. "Bibles are a growth area for us and we're giving them more space in our stores," said Jane Love, religion buyer for Barnes & Noble. "It's partly because of the way they've evolved over the last three or four years."
Indeed, publishers like Thomas Nelson; Grand Rapids, Mich.-based Zondervan; and Tyndale House in Carol Stream, Ill. -- which together represent an estimated 80% of the Bible market -- have gone far beyond offering the Scriptures between black, burgundy, navy or white covers.
"For a long time the Bible was just the Bible," noted Kevin O'Brien, director of Bibles at Tyndale House. "You put it out there and people bought it. They didn't ask about the options, because there weren't any options. But now, especially in evangelical circles, people are seeing their lives not just in color but high-definition color, and they want the Bible to fit in with that. This is not your mother's Bible."
Thus, following the gospel of Seventh Avenue, publishers are displaying their wares in the season's hot colors. "This year alone I've seen four shades of purple," said Ms. Love, whose stores have also done well with two-tone Bibles. The pink and brown model has been particularly popular. Bibles are also available in the colors of your college, with a fur cover, a flower-patterned cover, and to appeal to young adherents, with a camouflage cover, a metal cover and a duct-tape cover. Next spring Tyndale House will be bringing out a paperback Bible in a plastic case that looks like a flattened Nalgene bottle.
But Bibles are becoming as much personal statements as fashion statements. "What people are saying is 'I want to find a Bible that is really me," noted Rodney Hatfield, a vice president of marketing at Thomas Nelson. "It's no different than with anything else in our culture."
Responding to such desires, publishers offer compact Old and New Testaments like Thomas Nelson's so-called checkbook Bible and Zondervan's Bible in a Bag, as well as myriad themed Bibles, among them archaeology, leadership and sports. "Sometimes what you have to work with seems quite inadequate," begins one section of the basketball edition. "Consider the plight of Rollie Massimino, the coach of the Villanova Wildcats...Villanova was ranked, well nowhere...Several thousand years earlier there was another underdog group that didn't have much to work with. They were called the Israelites."
There are PDA Bibles; audio versions like James Earl Jones reading the New Testament and Zondervan's just released "Bible Experience" with the voices of such African-American stars as Angela Bassett, Denzel Washington and Cuba Gooding Jr. Coming soon from Thomas Nelson: Johnny Cash reading the New Testament. There are Bibles aimed at children and teens, Bibles aimed at women. There's that water-resistant version of the New Testament -- "Immerse," from Thomas Nelson -- for camping trips, days at the beach, and perhaps baptisms. "We had a customer test it by keeping it in a bucket overnight and it was fine," said Mr. Hastings. Prices range from $1 to almost $200 for a 2,400-page study Bible hand bound in calfskin.
Fortunately for Bible publishers, consumers seem to think that if one copy of the Good Book is good, two or more are even better. "Forty percent of my customers own three to 10 Bibles," said Mr. Hastings. "It's sort of like me and golf. I have Tiger Woods's book and Ernie Els's book. I want all those different approaches to how to play golf. It's the same with Bibles."
The expansion of outlets -- Wal-Mart, Costco, Sam's Club -- partly explains the uptick in Bible sales, believes Paul Caminiti, a vice president at Zondervan. "Our company has seen a 20% growth in the last 10 years because of that," he said. The large array of translations has also played a role, according to Mark Kuyper, president and CEO of the Evangelical Christian Publishers Association. "It means there's more opportunity for them to appeal to groups with different theological perspectives," he said.
In some instances, spiritual leaders are embracing myriad translations and their flocks are following suit. "You go back 20 years and the pastor would stand in the pulpit and say 'you need to have this Bible, this translation. Go to the store and buy it,'" said Thomas Nelson's Mr. Hatfield. "But now pastors are reaching out and grabbing the translation that best suits their point for a particular sermon."
The parlous times are also a big motivator for people to open their wallets. "Part of what we see," said Mr. Kuyper, "is that when there is incredible unrest people are asking themselves existential questions and they're drawn to search Scripture. We saw a huge jump in sales after 9/11. We're not in that environment today, but we're certainly in an unsettled environment."
However interested they are in broadening their customer base, publishers say there is a very distinct line between the sacred and the profane. And don't even get them started on the "Jesus Loves Porn Stars" Bible that was distributed this past summer at an erotica convention in Los Angeles. "We're not going to do anything that is overtly seductive," said Mr. Hastings. "And we are not going to get into centuries-old arguments about denominational preferences between Catholics and Protestants. We're not going to do something to stir the pot. We'd turn down anything offensive to either side, that was either heretical or controversial."
"The question is always how do we create Bibles that people will pick up and use but that will not be too gimmicky," said Tyndale House's Mr. O'Brien. "If you get too trendy you've turned the Bible into a widget."
Ms. Kaufman writes about the arts and culture for the Journal.
URL for this article:
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB116536078510241660.html
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Six months at The Mag
As of this past Tuesday, I've been at The Mag for six months. SIX MONTHS! These same six months last year seemed to drag on forever. Time indeed passes quickly when you're having fun. And fun it has been. When I've worked at huge companies and publications in the past, I've often felt lost and confused, more superfluous than anything else, like an unwanted pet that has to be taken care of, and that care given grudgingly.
When I started at The Mag, that was what I feared--no, was sure--would happen. The tight deadlines, the layoffs which had happened a few months earlier, and the fact that it's part of a huge corporation, all made me sure that I would be no more than a pain amidst the hustle and bustle of life here, and that busy editors would see me as more of a hindrance than help. And I fretted and worried.
But I've been proved so wrong. I've been taken seriously, given daily responsibilities, stories to work on, and encouraged to develop my own ideas, even outside of my assigned section. I've pitched stories to editors, who have painstakingly worked with me to develop and shape them into comprehensive stories. When my job offers were being rescinded, editors joined together to ensure that I had enough work to keep me on while I figured out my next move. When I've helped reporters on stories outside of my section, I've had more than one editor say, "If they don't give you a byline for that story, let me know, and I'll deal with it." I've felt depended on, useful, and anything but unwanted.
These have been a strange six months. But this job has been a haven, and I believe, in God's own way, the withdrawal of the other job offers was a good thing after all.
NOTE: I try to stay away from work-related entries, but since I am at my six-month point, thought I would be justified in making an exception.
When I started at The Mag, that was what I feared--no, was sure--would happen. The tight deadlines, the layoffs which had happened a few months earlier, and the fact that it's part of a huge corporation, all made me sure that I would be no more than a pain amidst the hustle and bustle of life here, and that busy editors would see me as more of a hindrance than help. And I fretted and worried.
But I've been proved so wrong. I've been taken seriously, given daily responsibilities, stories to work on, and encouraged to develop my own ideas, even outside of my assigned section. I've pitched stories to editors, who have painstakingly worked with me to develop and shape them into comprehensive stories. When my job offers were being rescinded, editors joined together to ensure that I had enough work to keep me on while I figured out my next move. When I've helped reporters on stories outside of my section, I've had more than one editor say, "If they don't give you a byline for that story, let me know, and I'll deal with it." I've felt depended on, useful, and anything but unwanted.
These have been a strange six months. But this job has been a haven, and I believe, in God's own way, the withdrawal of the other job offers was a good thing after all.
NOTE: I try to stay away from work-related entries, but since I am at my six-month point, thought I would be justified in making an exception.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Forgiveness
At church this Sunday, the worship leader sang this song by Hillsong United. I used to go to Hillsong church in London, so have a soft spot for all things Hillsong. But this song, in particular, struck a chord. I've been irked by my tendency to go on "sinning binges" and trying to find a balance between questioning the nature of my relationship with God, finding excuses for my actions, and wondering if I take my salvation through Christ for granted.
And even as I contemplated this, this song reminded me of God's unfailing love and His grace through Christ, and that, even if we don't, He does indeed forgive "seventy times seven."
All for love, a Father gave
For only love could make a way
All for love, the heavens cried
For love was crucified
Oh, how many times have I broken Your heart
But still You forgive if only I ask
And how many times have You heard me pray
Draw near to me
Everything I need is You
My beginning, my forever
Everything I need is You
Let me sing all for love
I will join the angel song
Ever holy is the Lord
King of glory, King of all
Oh, how many times have I broken Your heart
But still You forgive if only I ask
And how many times have You heard me pray
Draw near to me
Everything I need is You My beginning, my forever
Everything I need is You
All for love a Savior prayed
Abba Father, have Your way
Though they know not what they do
Let the cross draw man to You, to You, to You
And even as I contemplated this, this song reminded me of God's unfailing love and His grace through Christ, and that, even if we don't, He does indeed forgive "seventy times seven."
All for love, a Father gave
For only love could make a way
All for love, the heavens cried
For love was crucified
Oh, how many times have I broken Your heart
But still You forgive if only I ask
And how many times have You heard me pray
Draw near to me
Everything I need is You
My beginning, my forever
Everything I need is You
Let me sing all for love
I will join the angel song
Ever holy is the Lord
King of glory, King of all
Oh, how many times have I broken Your heart
But still You forgive if only I ask
And how many times have You heard me pray
Draw near to me
Everything I need is You My beginning, my forever
Everything I need is You
All for love a Savior prayed
Abba Father, have Your way
Though they know not what they do
Let the cross draw man to You, to You, to You
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Writer's block, and a bad novel
Lack of motivation, writer's block and brainfreeze brought on by the sudden onslaught of winter are deadly in combination. Particularly when you write for a living, and have a huge story--which you've been (supposedly) working on for the past 1.5 months--to start, er, I mean, finish.
All I want to do is curl up in bed and read a novel--no, not the one I've been reading for the past three months, and refuse to give up on because I want to start my book review blog (yes, yes it's still on its way) reviewing what might be the most unsuspenseful suspense novel ever written. And I hardly ever read novels, except as treats. I know, I know. I couldn't write one to save my life. But then, I don't claim to be a writer of suspense novels, do I? I'm just a deadly dull journo with writer's block.
But I may, in the spirit of Christmas, extend some grace to the author, and be a little less mean when I review it. If I finish it before Christmas, that is. And if I actually review it. Or I might extend him some more grace, and stop reading it altogether. I'm sure he'd be hugely relieved.
All I want to do is curl up in bed and read a novel--no, not the one I've been reading for the past three months, and refuse to give up on because I want to start my book review blog (yes, yes it's still on its way) reviewing what might be the most unsuspenseful suspense novel ever written. And I hardly ever read novels, except as treats. I know, I know. I couldn't write one to save my life. But then, I don't claim to be a writer of suspense novels, do I? I'm just a deadly dull journo with writer's block.
But I may, in the spirit of Christmas, extend some grace to the author, and be a little less mean when I review it. If I finish it before Christmas, that is. And if I actually review it. Or I might extend him some more grace, and stop reading it altogether. I'm sure he'd be hugely relieved.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Big foot problems
Note to self: Do not buy shoes smaller than your abnormally gigantic feet--even if they are only half a size. Especially if they are the high-heeled, pointy-toed ones. Because, that would mean not only limping around the office, drawing curious stares, but also sitting in your apartment in your PJs, wearing two pairs of thick workout socks, with your feet stuffed into your too-small shoes, fruitlessly attempting to stretch them.
Just accept that you have big feet. That would solve a lot of problems.
Just accept that you have big feet. That would solve a lot of problems.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Weds' Thanksgiving
All though Thanksgiving weekend in Atlanta, I kept telling Nev, "I hope the cat is alive when I get back," and "If he's alive, I hope the cat hasn't trashed my apartment."
I had good reason to be worried. I'd poured him enough water to last, I hoped, the four days I'd be away. But he'd splashed half of it out before I even left, and I was having nightmares that I'd return to find him flat on the floor, parched and panting, at best. And if that hadn't happened, he usually tore apart anything he laid his paws on when I was home. I couldn't imagine what he might do left to his own devices for days.
So it was with a fair bit of apprehension that I opened the door to my apartment yesterday. "Wednesday," I called out. No answer, and no excited cat came bounding up. That was unusual. A feeling of dread came over me. "Wednesday," I called again, as I walked in, my suitcase forgotten outside. I made my way through the apartment, peering under the couch, looking on top of the fridge, peeking into his little tent--all his favorite hiding places. But no cat.
Then I heard mewing, pitiful and scared. "Wednesday?"
The mewing grew louder, and I realized it was coming from inside. . . my bedroom.
My heart froze. I rushed to my bedroom and flung the door open. Weds sprinted past me. I stared at him in shock, and at the mess covering the floor. The items from the top of my dresser and nighstands were on the floor, the trash can's contents spilled, and drawers stood open. The curtain covering my window had collapsed, and bits of cat puke were on the bed and floor.
"How did you get in here?" I demanded of Weds. He mewed back, and rubbed himself against my legs. In my utter confusion, one thing was clear--I vividly remembered shutting the bedroom door, and seeing Weds in the living room as I left the apartment. And he had used his litterbox--so he couldn't have been locked inside my bedroom the entire time.
Then I thought, "Someone broke in and locked Weds in the room." This was too much. The confusion, the thought of someone else in my home, and the mess in my bedroom overcame me, and I collapsed in tears. I recovered after a few mintues, and looked through all the drawers, but nothing seemed to be missing.
I sighed, went back out to retrieve my suitcase, and set about cleaning up the mess. I was still confused, but Weds seemed completely untraumatised, and I managed to calm down.
As the day went on, my confusion lifted. I kept shutting the bedroom door only to find it open a few minutes later, and the industrious little feline sitting serenely inside. I examined the doorknob, and the answer dawned on me. I had hung a couple of bags on the doorknob before I left, and realized that when I turned it to open the door, the weight of the bags kept it that way. So, when I shut the door, the doorknob didn't turn back to secure the door, which allowed Weds to push it open. I realized that, once inside, he must have playfully pushed the door shut, and was then unable to get out.
The mystery was solved, and I thought no more of it. Until today, when I told The Rock the short version of the story--the cat somehow locked himself into my bedroom. "Wow," The Rock responded. "That must have stunk like crazy."
"Actually, no," I told him. "I think he may only have been inside for a couple of days."
"A couple of days is enough," he replied, laughing.
"Hmmm," I said. That was true. If he'd been inside for any length of time, the damage would have been much worse. So I guess he let himself in, or at least locked himself in, the previous night. Thank God for small mercies.
I had good reason to be worried. I'd poured him enough water to last, I hoped, the four days I'd be away. But he'd splashed half of it out before I even left, and I was having nightmares that I'd return to find him flat on the floor, parched and panting, at best. And if that hadn't happened, he usually tore apart anything he laid his paws on when I was home. I couldn't imagine what he might do left to his own devices for days.
So it was with a fair bit of apprehension that I opened the door to my apartment yesterday. "Wednesday," I called out. No answer, and no excited cat came bounding up. That was unusual. A feeling of dread came over me. "Wednesday," I called again, as I walked in, my suitcase forgotten outside. I made my way through the apartment, peering under the couch, looking on top of the fridge, peeking into his little tent--all his favorite hiding places. But no cat.
Then I heard mewing, pitiful and scared. "Wednesday?"
The mewing grew louder, and I realized it was coming from inside. . . my bedroom.
My heart froze. I rushed to my bedroom and flung the door open. Weds sprinted past me. I stared at him in shock, and at the mess covering the floor. The items from the top of my dresser and nighstands were on the floor, the trash can's contents spilled, and drawers stood open. The curtain covering my window had collapsed, and bits of cat puke were on the bed and floor.
"How did you get in here?" I demanded of Weds. He mewed back, and rubbed himself against my legs. In my utter confusion, one thing was clear--I vividly remembered shutting the bedroom door, and seeing Weds in the living room as I left the apartment. And he had used his litterbox--so he couldn't have been locked inside my bedroom the entire time.
Then I thought, "Someone broke in and locked Weds in the room." This was too much. The confusion, the thought of someone else in my home, and the mess in my bedroom overcame me, and I collapsed in tears. I recovered after a few mintues, and looked through all the drawers, but nothing seemed to be missing.
I sighed, went back out to retrieve my suitcase, and set about cleaning up the mess. I was still confused, but Weds seemed completely untraumatised, and I managed to calm down.
As the day went on, my confusion lifted. I kept shutting the bedroom door only to find it open a few minutes later, and the industrious little feline sitting serenely inside. I examined the doorknob, and the answer dawned on me. I had hung a couple of bags on the doorknob before I left, and realized that when I turned it to open the door, the weight of the bags kept it that way. So, when I shut the door, the doorknob didn't turn back to secure the door, which allowed Weds to push it open. I realized that, once inside, he must have playfully pushed the door shut, and was then unable to get out.
The mystery was solved, and I thought no more of it. Until today, when I told The Rock the short version of the story--the cat somehow locked himself into my bedroom. "Wow," The Rock responded. "That must have stunk like crazy."
"Actually, no," I told him. "I think he may only have been inside for a couple of days."
"A couple of days is enough," he replied, laughing.
"Hmmm," I said. That was true. If he'd been inside for any length of time, the damage would have been much worse. So I guess he let himself in, or at least locked himself in, the previous night. Thank God for small mercies.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
David Blaine: latest antics
David Blaine is, as of now, suspended 40 feet above Times Square in a three-ringed gyroscope, spinning constantly. His challenge (sponsored by Target): To free himself by 6 a.m. on Nov. 24. If he succeeds, he will take 100 children chosen by the Salvation Army shopping for free at Target on Black Friday.
Here are pictures I shot of him on my way back from work. He looked like he had freed one arm. We may have a Houdini in the making :)
Here are pictures I shot of him on my way back from work. He looked like he had freed one arm. We may have a Houdini in the making :)
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
I am thankful. . .
. . .for the long Thanksgiving weekend. SO thankful. Because it means a respite from the mountains of paper spread out all over my desk and the numbers and graphs floating in front of my feverish, head-achy eyes. Because, if, after today, I have to look at another company's SEC filings, I will poke my eyes out and run around the building screaming. You just wait and see!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
My name is Ini and I love Lucky Charms
Is it wierd that I am almost 26 years old, and my favourite cereal is Lucky Charms?
I was standing in the kitchen at work today, pouring some milk into my cereal, when a colleague walked in. "Is that Lucky Charms?" he asked me.
"Yes," I told him. "But shhhh! Don't tell anyone."
"It's ok," he went on. "Although. . . we only let our kids eat Lucky Charms on special occasions."
"Well," I said, defensively. "I only let myself eat them on special occasions." Really, I do. I just happen to have lots of special occasions. And of course, if you open a box, you have to finish it. The fact that I buy the huge, ginormous boxes of Lucky Charms, and the puny little boxes of other cereals--you know, the ones that finish in three days--doesn't count. And anyway, Lucky Charms have way less fat than even "healthy" cereals like granola. Check the nutrition information on the box--just don't read all the way down to the sugar content.
But anyway, back to our conversation. "Oh, it's ok," he said. "I love Frosted Flakes. It's just one of those things that you get used to as a kid and then continue to like as an adult."
Silence.
"Did you have them as a kid?"
"Ummm, no."
"Oh."
Awkward silence, and an abrupt end to our conversation.
I believe I am now the wierd adult in the office who eats kids cereals.
I was standing in the kitchen at work today, pouring some milk into my cereal, when a colleague walked in. "Is that Lucky Charms?" he asked me.
"Yes," I told him. "But shhhh! Don't tell anyone."
"It's ok," he went on. "Although. . . we only let our kids eat Lucky Charms on special occasions."
"Well," I said, defensively. "I only let myself eat them on special occasions." Really, I do. I just happen to have lots of special occasions. And of course, if you open a box, you have to finish it. The fact that I buy the huge, ginormous boxes of Lucky Charms, and the puny little boxes of other cereals--you know, the ones that finish in three days--doesn't count. And anyway, Lucky Charms have way less fat than even "healthy" cereals like granola. Check the nutrition information on the box--just don't read all the way down to the sugar content.
But anyway, back to our conversation. "Oh, it's ok," he said. "I love Frosted Flakes. It's just one of those things that you get used to as a kid and then continue to like as an adult."
Silence.
"Did you have them as a kid?"
"Ummm, no."
"Oh."
Awkward silence, and an abrupt end to our conversation.
I believe I am now the wierd adult in the office who eats kids cereals.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Cozy Sundays. . .
I've been hunting for cozy little coffee shops--you know, the ones with the comfy chairs (ok, space, and hence huge sofas, are a rarity in New York City, so that might be asking too much), and frothy cappucinos in the humungous cups. With the weather turning crisp, I've started looking forward to spending Sundays curled up with a hot cup of coffee with the paper or a good book. Here are my finds. Please feel free to add suggestions (or to join me:)).
Blind Tiger
281 Bleecker St (Cross Street: Between 7th Avenue & Jones)
New York, NY 10014
(212) 462-4682
"Once you walk into the place, you wouldn't want to leave. Luckly enough, they have FREE wi-fi and friendly staffs who don't mind you staying there forever."
71 Irving Place
71 Irving Pl (Cross Street: E 18th Street)
New York, NY 10003-2220View Map
(888) 710-3844
Cozy little neighborhood cafe.
Full City Coffee
409 Grand St (Cross Street: Clinton Street)
New York 10002
Phone: 212-260-2363
Cute little cafe, great coffee, has sofas, tables, music & books.
Gotham Coffee House
1298 2nd Ave, (At 68th St)
New York 10012
Phone: 212-717-0457
A cozy, indie feel, great for studying, reading the paper, or catching up with old friends.
Ceci-Cela
55 Spring St (Cross Street: Between Lafayette Street and Mulberry Street)
New York, NY 10012-5727View Map
(212) 274-9179
Oversized coffee mugs! But some complaints about service.
Caffe Reggio
119 Macdougal St
New York, NY 10012-1202
(212) 475-9557
Reviews say it has a real "Italian cafe" kind of feel, but the chairs aren't very comfy.
Hungarian Pastry Shop
1030 Amsterdam Ave (Cross Street: 111th Street)
New York, NY 10025-1724
(212) 866-4230
"Old style campus coffee shop; delicious desserts"
Broken Cup Cafe LLC
342 E 22ND St
New York, NY 10010-5732
(212) 473-5002
Reviewers say it's a "diamond in the rough," but a bit cramped.
'sNice
45 8th Ave (Cross Street: W 4th Street)
New York, NY 10014-5117
(212) 645-0310
Laid back place with wifi, and vegan friendly
Housing Works Used Book Cafe
126 Crosby St (Cross Street: Houston Street)
New York, NY 10012-3326View Map
(212) 334-3324
Cozy, used book store with cafe, proceeds go to charity Housing Works.
Blind Tiger
281 Bleecker St (Cross Street: Between 7th Avenue & Jones)
New York, NY 10014
(212) 462-4682
"Once you walk into the place, you wouldn't want to leave. Luckly enough, they have FREE wi-fi and friendly staffs who don't mind you staying there forever."
71 Irving Place
71 Irving Pl (Cross Street: E 18th Street)
New York, NY 10003-2220View Map
(888) 710-3844
Cozy little neighborhood cafe.
Full City Coffee
409 Grand St (Cross Street: Clinton Street)
New York 10002
Phone: 212-260-2363
Cute little cafe, great coffee, has sofas, tables, music & books.
Gotham Coffee House
1298 2nd Ave, (At 68th St)
New York 10012
Phone: 212-717-0457
A cozy, indie feel, great for studying, reading the paper, or catching up with old friends.
Ceci-Cela
55 Spring St (Cross Street: Between Lafayette Street and Mulberry Street)
New York, NY 10012-5727View Map
(212) 274-9179
Oversized coffee mugs! But some complaints about service.
Caffe Reggio
119 Macdougal St
New York, NY 10012-1202
(212) 475-9557
Reviews say it has a real "Italian cafe" kind of feel, but the chairs aren't very comfy.
Hungarian Pastry Shop
1030 Amsterdam Ave (Cross Street: 111th Street)
New York, NY 10025-1724
(212) 866-4230
"Old style campus coffee shop; delicious desserts"
Broken Cup Cafe LLC
342 E 22ND St
New York, NY 10010-5732
(212) 473-5002
Reviewers say it's a "diamond in the rough," but a bit cramped.
'sNice
45 8th Ave (Cross Street: W 4th Street)
New York, NY 10014-5117
(212) 645-0310
Laid back place with wifi, and vegan friendly
Housing Works Used Book Cafe
126 Crosby St (Cross Street: Houston Street)
New York, NY 10012-3326View Map
(212) 334-3324
Cozy, used book store with cafe, proceeds go to charity Housing Works.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Black butterfly
little black butterfly
with a few white spots
flying, searching
for a flower to sit on
every one she sees
turns away from her
until finally she finds
a beautiful flower
smiling up
the stem strong
the petals inviting
the scent caressing
carefully she sits
the flower rocks gently
in the summer breeze
sounds of laughter
cheery voices
a shadow falls over
a hand approaches
the butterfly flutters
as the flower is picked
and taken away
the butterfly cries
and one more white spot
slowly turns black
by Eadwine Rose
with a few white spots
flying, searching
for a flower to sit on
every one she sees
turns away from her
until finally she finds
a beautiful flower
smiling up
the stem strong
the petals inviting
the scent caressing
carefully she sits
the flower rocks gently
in the summer breeze
sounds of laughter
cheery voices
a shadow falls over
a hand approaches
the butterfly flutters
as the flower is picked
and taken away
the butterfly cries
and one more white spot
slowly turns black
by Eadwine Rose
Saturday, November 11, 2006
My not-so-safe haven
I became aware of a very disturbing fact today--all that stands between my sanctuary and the big bad world is a very-easily-opened-from-outside window.
I was doing my errands as usual this morning, and decided to run out to the corner shop for some paper towels and cereal. As I walked back home, I reached into my bag--and realized I had left my keys in my apartment.
Now, I don't live in a typical apartment building. There are two two-storey buildings, between which is an open walkway, onto which about five doors open from each building. In my unit, the outer door opens up to a flight of stairs, at the top of which are two apartments, and to the left of which is the door to the downstairs apartment--mine.
I buzzed and woke up my neighbours--whom I've never met--and managed to convince them that I actually did live in the apartment downstairs. I tried the doorknob to my apartment, hoping that I might have left it unlocked, and cursed my obsessive door-locking. I felt bad disturbing my neighbours again, so I went back outside, to see if I could find someone who knew where the building superintendent lived, hoping he might have a spare key. As was to be expected on a Saturday morning, the place was pretty sparsely populated, but I did manage to accost a couple of people--no one knew.
In between startling people I'd never spoken to before, I fiddled with my living room window, which looks onto the walkway. I removed the screen covering one side, trying to pry the window, prepared to sacrifice my fingernails. Nothing. I had no idea what to do--my phone, along with my spare keys, was inside, and I didn't know where the super lived.
I walked around for a bit, lost. Deciding to give the window one last shot, I leaned up against the glass while pushing it to the side, convinced that it wouldn't budge. To my shock, it slid open smoothly. I pushed the curtain aside, revealing a startled Weds and my keys sitting in plain site on the coffee table. "This is SOOO not good," I told myself. I reached in, grabbed my spare set of keys from the book shelf next to the window, and let myself in--all the while thinking, "OMG, OMG, this is not good. This is not good at all." Good thing I don't have much of value, but still.
I think I need to consider renters insurance. And a window lock.
I was doing my errands as usual this morning, and decided to run out to the corner shop for some paper towels and cereal. As I walked back home, I reached into my bag--and realized I had left my keys in my apartment.
Now, I don't live in a typical apartment building. There are two two-storey buildings, between which is an open walkway, onto which about five doors open from each building. In my unit, the outer door opens up to a flight of stairs, at the top of which are two apartments, and to the left of which is the door to the downstairs apartment--mine.
I buzzed and woke up my neighbours--whom I've never met--and managed to convince them that I actually did live in the apartment downstairs. I tried the doorknob to my apartment, hoping that I might have left it unlocked, and cursed my obsessive door-locking. I felt bad disturbing my neighbours again, so I went back outside, to see if I could find someone who knew where the building superintendent lived, hoping he might have a spare key. As was to be expected on a Saturday morning, the place was pretty sparsely populated, but I did manage to accost a couple of people--no one knew.
In between startling people I'd never spoken to before, I fiddled with my living room window, which looks onto the walkway. I removed the screen covering one side, trying to pry the window, prepared to sacrifice my fingernails. Nothing. I had no idea what to do--my phone, along with my spare keys, was inside, and I didn't know where the super lived.
I walked around for a bit, lost. Deciding to give the window one last shot, I leaned up against the glass while pushing it to the side, convinced that it wouldn't budge. To my shock, it slid open smoothly. I pushed the curtain aside, revealing a startled Weds and my keys sitting in plain site on the coffee table. "This is SOOO not good," I told myself. I reached in, grabbed my spare set of keys from the book shelf next to the window, and let myself in--all the while thinking, "OMG, OMG, this is not good. This is not good at all." Good thing I don't have much of value, but still.
I think I need to consider renters insurance. And a window lock.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Aaaargh!!!
To whoever or whatever you are/it is that enjoys banging away on whatever-it-is-you-bang-on every night above my bedroom: You need to STOP!!!! Because it is in your own best interest that I don't turn into a RAVING maniac and climb out of the window in the middle of my sleep-deprived night and come hunt you down. . . coz, I can assure you, that WON'T be a pretty picture!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Ugh!
Gah! I'm having a royal foot-in-mouth week, characterized by bouts of verbal diarrhoea and head-slapping gaffes at the most inopportune moments, punctuated by panic attacks about the meaning of life (well, my life mostly) and occasional bursts of worry that Weds might indeed be the one I'm meant to spend the rest of my life with (although Okia, my old roommate and his rightful owner, might have a slightly different take on that).
Sigh! I guess some things just have to run their course.
Sigh! I guess some things just have to run their course.
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