The Search for WMDs Continue in Unlikely Places

I swear, I am NOT hiding them up my…. oh boy.

This is actually a sweet story.  The cat, also named Colin Powell, won some sort of “best cat in the country” contest.  Colin’s owner likes to name their black cats after prominent African-Americans.  Colin’s parents were named after Issac Hayes and Jamaica Kincaid. 

The Night and the Mirage

Sometimes, we are so thirsty we’ll crawl through the desert toward a mirage, and when we discover there’s no water, we’ll drink the sand.  There is nothing lonelier than a stranger’s bed.  You know that feeling.  You wake up naked, next to a person you hardly knew.  Both of you are pretending to be asleep as to avoid the inevitable awkward conversation.  There is something comical about exchanging bodily fluids with someone whose last name is still a minor mystery to you. 

Back in the college days these encounters were an affirmation of reckless youth, a joyous exploration that is, if not forgivable, then at least understandable.  Now, as I approach 30, these encounters seem dishonest, and painful, and sad.  That is why I try avoiding these encounters.  I have succeeded for quite a while, until tonight.

I woke up in her room. 

“Alicia,” I said softly, trying not to sound surprised that another human being is lying naked next to me.

Her response is critical here.  Will she say something witty and irreverent as to make light of the whole situation?  Will she say something practical, as to make this awkward situation feel more routine and bearable?  Will she say something profound and make me feel insignificant by comparison?

“Hey, where did you get that scar?”  she asked, playfully tracing the hint of a scar along my abdomen.

“Oh that,” I chuckled.  “Do you want the exciting version or the truth?”

“After all that I think the truth is in order,” she said in a mock official tone of voice.  We both laughed.

So I told her my scar story.  Then something amazing happened.  She pointed to a small scar above her right knee and told me a story about that scar.  We swapped scar stories for about an hour.  We started with visible scars and drifted towards the invisible kind. She told me about her fears of not making it in art school.  “What if they found out I’m no good!”  I confessed something equally important:  “I just found my first white hair yesterday, I’m turning 30 in two years!”

We laughed and sighed and laughed again.  When we went back to bed we were no longer strangers.  For tonight at least, my scars are healed.

*** ***

I haven’t followed this strip for a long time, but even a casual fan like myself can appreciate significance of this strip.    I always wanted to see the helmet off, but not like this.  Come home soon B.D. …

*** ***

Saw this over at the Rack and thought it was too funny to keep to myself:

“Wouldn’t that be a re-election campaign?” mused DocCoyote.  You can buy this bumper sticker here (where you can buy other treasures such as, “my killer robot skull fucked your honor student.”)  Who would the Democrats go for?  Probably Hermione.  She has the labor background (SPEW), minority credentials (mudblood), and a sense of ivory tower intellectualism we Democrats love so much (“Are you a witch or AREN’T you?”).    [Link credit: Icarus and Book.]

Humor Isn’t Required for Law School, but it Helps

“I’ve dwelled on my failures today because, as graduates of Harvard, your biggest liability is your need to succeed. Your need to always find yourself on the sweet side of the bell curve. Because success is a lot like a bright, white tuxedo. You feel terrific when you get it, but then you’re desperately afraid of getting it dirty, of spoiling it in any way.”

Someone asked me today what I thought was the key to law school success.  “Not attend” was the first answer that came to mind.  Hey, this is my friend, not a firm recruit. 

After entertaining him with lots with horror stories (sleep, what’s that?), I finally told him Conan’s tuxedo wisdom.  Don’t just brace for failure, expect it.  Seek for it.  Embrace it. 

Your inflated 3.8 from UCLA is worth crap.  168 on the LSAT?  That’s nice, that’s what your neighbor got on her first Princeton Review practice.  Every single law school student will taste a certain level of failure that they have not experienced before.  The true measure of your success is not your first grade, but rather your reaction to it.  Yes that first “B” can be shocking (why is my A all curvy and underlined  ), but if you cannot get over it and move on, law school will be a living hell for you.

Why listen to the ramblings of a man who work with people named Pimpbot and the masturbating bear?  Because that man knows a lot more than how to lick his eyebrows …

Conan O’Brien’s Commencement Speech to the Harvard Class of 2000

I’d like to thank the Class Marshals for inviting me here today. The last time I was invited to Harvard it cost me $110,000, so you’ll forgive me if I’m a bit suspicious. I’d like to announce up front that I have one goal this afternoon: to be half as funny as tomorrow’s Commencement Speaker, Moral Philosopher and Economist, Amartya Sen.

Must get more laughs than seminal wage/price theoretician.

Students of the Harvard Class of 2000, fifteen years ago I sat where you sit now and I thought exactly what you are now thinking: What’s going to happen to me? Will I find my place in the world? Am I really graduating a virgin? I still have 24 hours and my roommate’s Mom is hot. I swear she was checking me out. Being here today is very special for me. I miss this place. I especially miss Harvard Square – it’s so unique. No where else in the world will you find a man with a turban wearing a Red Sox jacket and working in a lesbian bookstore. Hey, I’m just glad my dad’s working.

It’s particularly sweet for me to be here today because when I graduated, I wanted very badly to be a Class Day Speaker. Unfortunately, my speech was rejected. So, if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to read a portion of that speech from fifteen years ago:

“Fellow students, as we sit here today listening to that classic Ah-ha tune which will definitely stand the test of time, I would like to make several predictions about what the future will hold: “I believe that one day a simple Governor from a small Southern state will rise to the highest office in the land. He will lack political skill, but will lead on the sheer strength of his moral authority.” “I believe that Justice will prevail and, one day, the Berlin Wall will crumble, uniting East and West Berlin forever under Communist rule.” “I believe that one day, a high speed network of interconnected computers will spring up world-wide, so enriching people that they will lose their interest in idle chit chat and pornography.” “And finally, I believe that one day I will have a television show on a major network, seen by millions of people a night, which I will use to re-enact crimes and help catch at-large criminals.” And then there’s some stuff about the death of Wall Street which I don’t think we need to get into….

The point is that, although you see me as a celebrity, a member of the cultural elite, a kind of demigod, I was actually a student here once much like you. I came here in the fall of 1981 and lived in Holworthy. I was, without exaggeration, the ugliest picture in the Freshman Face book. When Harvard asked me for a picture the previous summer, I thought it was just for their records, so I literally jogged in the August heat to a passport photo office and sat for a morgue photo. To make matters worse, when the Face Book came out they put my picture next to Catherine Oxenberg, a stunning blonde actress who was accepted to the class of ’85 but decided to defer admission so she could join the cast of “Dynasty.” My photo would have looked bad on any page, but next to Catherine Oxenberg, I looked like a mackerel that had been in a car accident.

You see, in those days I was six feet four inches tall and I weighed 150 pounds. Recently, I had some structural engineers run those numbers into a computer model and, according to the computer, I collapsed in 1987, killing hundreds in Taiwan.

After freshman year I moved to Mather House. Mather House, incidentally, was designed by the same firm that built Hitler’s bunker. In fact, if Hitler had conducted the war from Mather House, he’d have shot himself a year earlier. 1985 seems like a long time ago now. When I had my Class Day, you students would have been seven years old. Seven years old. Do you know what that means? Back then I could have beaten any of you in a fight. And I mean bad. It would be no contest. If any one here has a time machine, seriously, let’s get it on, I will whip your seven year old butt. When I was here, they sold diapers at the Coop that said “Harvard Class of 2000.” At the time, it was kind of a joke, but now I realize you wore those diapers. How embarrassing for you.

A lot has happened in fifteen years. When you think about it, we come from completely different worlds. When I graduated, we watched movies starring Tom Cruise and listened to music by Madonna. I come from a time when we huddled around our TV sets and watched “The Cosby Show” on NBC, never imagining that there would one day be a show called “Cosby” on CBS. In 1985 we drove cars with driver’s side airbags, but if you told us that one day there’d be passenger side airbags, we’d have burned you for witchcraft.

But of course, I think there is some common ground between us. I remember well the great uncertainty of this day. Many of you are justifiably nervous about leaving the safe, comfortable world of Harvard Yard and hurling yourself headlong into the cold, harsh world of Harvard Grad School, a plum job at your father’s firm, or a year abroad with a gold Amex card and then a plum job in your father’s firm. But let me assure you that the knowledge you’ve gained here at Harvard is a precious gift that will never leave you. Take it from me, your education is yours to keep forever.

Why, many of you have read the Merchant of Florence, and that will inspire you when you travel to the island of Spain. Your knowledge of that problem they had with those people in Russia, or that guy in South America-you know, that guy-will enrich you for the rest of your life. There is also sadness today, a feeling of loss that you’re leaving Harvard forever. Well, let me assure you that you never really leave Harvard. The Harvard Fundraising Committee will be on your ass until the day you die. Right now, a member of the Alumni Association is at the Mt. Auburn Cemetery shaking down the corpse of Henry Adams. They heard he had a brass toe ring and they aims to get it. Imagine: These people just raised 2.5 billion dollars and they only got through the B’s in the alumni directory. Here’s how it works. Your phone rings, usually after a big meal when you’re tired and most vulnerable. A voice asks you for money. Knowing they just raised 2.5 billion dollars you ask, “What do you need it for?” Then there’s a long pause and the voice on the other end of the line says, “We don’t need it, we just want it.” It’s chilling. 

What else can you expect? Let me see, by your applause, who here wrote a thesis. (APPLAUSE) A lot of hard work, a lot of your blood went into that thesis… and no one is ever going to care. I wrote a thesis: Literary Progeria in the works of Flannery O’Connor and William Faulkner. Let’s just say that, during my discussions with Pauly Shore, it doesn’t come up much. For three years after graduation I kept my thesis in the glove compartment of my car so I could show it to a policeman in case I was pulled over. (ACT OUT) License, registration, cultural exploration of the Man Child in the Sound and the Fury…

So what can you expect out there in the real world? Let me tell you. As you leave these gates and re-enter society, one thing is certain: Everyone out there is going to hate you. Never tell anyone in a roadside diner that you went to Harvard. In most situations the correct response to where did you to school is, “School? Why, I never had much in the way of book larnin’ and such.” Then, get in your BMW and get the hell out of there.

You see, you’re in for a lifetime of “And you went to Harvard?” Accidentally give the wrong amount of change in a transaction and it’s, “And you went to Harvard?” Ask the guy at the hardware store how these jumper cables work and hear, “And you went to Harvard?” Forget just once that your underwear goes inside your pants and it’s “and you went to Harvard.” Get your head stuck in your niece’s dollhouse because you wanted to see what it was like to be a giant and it’s “Uncle Conan, you went to Harvard!?”

But to really know what’s in store for you after Harvard, I have to tell you what happened to me after graduation. I’m going to tell you my story because, first of all, my perspective may give many of you hope, and, secondly, it’s an amazing rush to stand in front of six thousand people and talk about yourself.  After graduating in May, I moved to Los Angeles and got a three week contract at a small cable show. I got a $380 a month apartment and bought a 1977 Isuzu Opel, a car Isuzu only manufactured for a year because they found out that, technically, it’s not a car. Here’s a quick tip, graduates: no four cylinder vehicle should have a racing stripe. I worked at that show for over a year, feeling pretty good about myself, when one day they told me they were letting me go. I was fired and, I hadn’t saved a lot of money. I tried to get another job in television but I couldn’t find one.

So, with nowhere else to turn, I went to a temp agency and filled out a questionnaire. I made damn sure they knew I had been to Harvard and that I expected the very best treatment. And so, the next day, I was sent to the Santa Monica branch of Wilson’s House of Suede and Leather. When you have a Harvard degree and you’re working at Wilson’s House of Suede and Leather, you are haunted by the ghostly images of your classmates who chose Graduate School. You see their faces everywhere: in coffee cups, in fish tanks, and they’re always laughing at you as you stack suede shirts no man, in good conscience, would ever wear. I tried a lot of things during this period: acting in corporate infomercials, serving drinks in a non-equity theatre, I even took a job entertaining at a seven year olds’ birthday party. In desperate need of work, I put together some sketches and scored a job at the fledgling Fox Network as a writer and performer for a new show called “The Wilton North Report.” I was finally on a network and really excited. The producer told me the show was going to revolutionize television. And, in a way, it did. The show was so hated and did so badly that when, four weeks later, news of its cancellation was announced to the Fox affiliates, they burst into applause.

Eventually, though, I got a huge break. I had submitted, along with my writing partner, a batch of sketches to Saturday Night Live and, after a year and a half, they read it and gave us a two week tryout. The two weeks turned into two seasons and I felt successful. Successful enough to write a TV pilot for an original sitcom and, when the network decided to make it, I left Saturday Night Live. This TV show was going to be groundbreaking. It was going to resurrect the career of TV’s Batman, Adam West. It was going to be a comedy without a laugh track or a studio audience. It was going to change all the rules. And here’s what happened: When the pilot aired it was the second lowest-rated television show of all time. It’s tied with a test pattern they show in Nova Scotia. So, I was 28 and, once again, I had no job. I had good writing credits in New York, but I was filled with disappointment and didn’t know what to do next. I started smelling suede on my fingertips.

And that’s when The Simpsons saved me. I got a job there and started writing episodes about Springfield getting a Monorail and Homer going to College. I was finally putting my Harvard education to good use, writing dialogue for a man who’s so stupid that in one episode he forgot to make his own heart beat. Life was good.

And then, an insane, inexplicable opportunity came my way . A chance to audition for host of the new Late Night Show. I took the opportunity seriously but, at the same time, I had the relaxed confidence of someone who knew he had no real shot. I couldn’t fear losing a great job I had never had. And, I think that attitude made the difference. I’ll never forget being in the Simpson’s recording basement that morning when the phone rang. It was for me. My car was blocking a fire lane. But a week later I got another call: I got the job.

So, this was undeniably the it: the truly life-altering break I had always dreamed of. And, I went to work. I gathered all my funny friends and poured all my years of comedy experience into building that show over the summer, gathering the talent and figuring out the sensibility. We debuted on September 13, 1993 and I was happy with our effort. I felt like I had seized the moment and put my very best foot forward. And this is what the most respected and widely read television critic, Tom Shales, wrote in the Washington Post: “O’Brien is a living collage of annoying nervous habits. He giggles and titters, jiggles about and fiddles with his cuffs. He had dark, beady little eyes like a rabbit. He’s one of the whitest white men ever. O’Brien is a switch on the guest who won’t leave: he’s the host who should never have come. Let the Late show with Conan O’Brien become the late, Late Show and may the host return to Conan O’Blivion whence he came.” There’s more but it gets kind of mean.

Needless to say, I took a lot of criticism, some of it deserved, some of it excessive. And it hurt like you wouldn’t believe. But I’m telling you all this for a reason. I’ve had a lot of success and I’ve had a lot of failure. I’ve looked good and I’ve looked bad. I’ve been praised and I’ve been criticized. But my mistakes have been necessary. Except for Wilson’s House of Suede and Leather. That was just stupid.

I’ve dwelled on my failures today because, as graduates of Harvard, your biggest liability is your need to succeed. Your need to always find yourself on the sweet side of the bell curve. Because success is a lot like a bright, white tuxedo. You feel terrific when you get it, but then you’re desperately afraid of getting it dirty, of spoiling it in any way.

I left the cocoon of Harvard, I left the cocoon of Saturday Night Live, I left the cocoon of The Simpsons. And each time it was bruising and tumultuous. And yet, every failure was freeing, and today I’m as nostalgic for the bad as I am for the good.

So, that’s what I wish for all of you: the bad as well as the good. Fall down, make a mess, break something occasionally. And remember that the story is never over. If it’s all right, I’d like to read a little something from just this year: “Somehow, Conan O’Brien has transformed himself into the brightest star in the Late Night firmament. His comedy is the gold standard and Conan himself is not only the quickest and most inventive wit of his generation, but quite possible the greatest host ever.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, Class of 2000, I wrote that this morning, as proof that, when all else fails, there’s always delusion.  

I’ll go now, to make bigger mistakes and to embarrass this fine institution even more. But let me leave you with one last thought: If you can laugh at yourself loud and hard every time you fall, people will think you’re drunk.

Thank you.

Compare:  Will Ferrell’s Speech to another Harvard Class.  (RealOne Video Clip -jump to 1:30 mark) (“2002 is a palindrome”…not quite Conan funny, but pretty darn good too. )

Quizzlet:  What is Conan’s mother’s profession?  (bonus: which school did she graduate from?)

New Hobby

We’re told that for less than the price of a cup of coffee you can sponsor a hungry child in Africa.  But don’t forget if you also forgo the vanilla almond biscotti, you can nurture a  starving soul.  My new hobbie:  Ebay Gallery.  (Thank you CT!).

Painting by J. Williams.  I like to call this piece “Hitchcock Country.”  These sunflowers feel evil (think “Little Shop of Horrors”).  The hand of darkness reaches across the eastern sky, casting  an irresistable shadow upon the barn, which, as you can plainly see, is guarded by the evil sunflowers.   

Painting by P. Hardy.

I Dream In Cats. 
Of this little world
curved by the horizon of my graceful ego
I am the master; 
I wonder but do not stray
for you are my heart
and I yearn for you from my side of the door
while time skips unevenly by us; 
I am wise beyond your years
but I will always pounce on your reveries
like a kitten.
–me

Painting by A. Berkman.  This is actually not one of her better paintings.  I think she tries to create the impression of light with too much yellow hues.  The cat’s position is not very natural.  She is hovering above the gound.  Weird.  But my mother will love this painting, because she has a kitty that looks just like this hovering napster.  If you are a cat lover definitely check out more of Berkman’s work.  Her other stuff is tons better, but I will not link them because, hey, I’m still bidding on them.    (but if you think you know which Berkman is my favorite, let me know… she has this one painting that captures the way light skiddles off a cat’s fur that is just simply brilliant!) 

Wanna trade in your biscotti?

Patina Girl

She looked older with make up.  Almost, but not quite reaching her merlot, her right hand made a deft detour, preemptively caressing her Blackberry a nanosecond before it vibrated.  All this in one graceful gesture, as if she had meant to grab the Blackberry all along.  A true pro, she continued the conversation and checked her emails at the same time, smile unchanging, tone unwavering.  Is this the same girl who once dribbled hot sauce on my second-favorite sweat shirt at Tommy’s?  I guess we’re not in school anymore.  But then, I’m always the hopeful type who believe people never change.  Heck, I even left my Blackberry at home.

I walked out of Patina, stomach full, heart empty.  A flurry of well wishes, card exchanges, and we’ll do lunches take place.  After walking her to the parking lot, I doubled back to the concert hall to clear my head.  I snuck into the small garden nestled in the back.  I jog through this garden every morning, and found it pleasant.  Yet at night, it is transformed into something, if not magical, then at least fertile with possibilities.

As the night flowed over me, I was relaxed and would not have noticed her had she not dropped her book three feet in front of my shoes. 

“The Cat in the Hat,” she said embarrassingly, as I politely picked up the book for her. 

The normal thing is to nod, smile, and move on.  But there was something about her that inspired me.  Maybe it was the whimsical combination of a woman in a slinky black dress carrying a Dr. Seuss book.  Maybe it was the way she bit her lower lip, supressing a smile.

“Well, all the important things can be said in one syllable words,” I ventured.

Slightly surprised at that little comment, she recovered, and (thank god) smiled.  She blurted out, “it is my birthday present… tomorrow is my birthday, but my friends took me out early to celebrate, because, you know, their schedules…”

We went into a whole conversation about the nature of friendship, growing up, and growing apart.  We exchanged phone numbers.  Except this time, she might actually call. 

***

Quizlet:  I stole the syllable line from what movie/book?

“All the important things can be said in one syllable words…. and as there is only one page left to write on in this journal, I will fill it with words of only one syllable.  I love. I have loved. I will love. “

<Two points to Daff for capturing the castle.> 

Father Hess, a priest who once cursed God for killing his wife, now tries to comfort his family about the errie alien lights appearing all over the world:

“People break down into two groups when they experience something lucky. Group number one sees it as more than luck, more than coincidence. They see it as a sign, evidence, that there is someone up there, watching out for them.

Group number two sees it as just pure luck. Just a happy turn of chance. I’m sure the people in Group number two are looking at those fourteen lights in a very suspicious way. For them, the situation is fifty-fifty. Could be bad, could be good. But deep down, they feel that whatever happens, they’re on their own. And that fills them with fear.

Yeah, there are those people. But there’s a whole lot of people in Group number one. When they see those fourteen lights, they’re looking at a miracle. And deep down, they feel that whatever’s going to happen, there will be someone there to help them. And that fills them with hope.

See what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky? Or, look at the question this way: Is it possible that there are no coincidences…?”

Family:  “Wait, do you believe in what you just said, I thought you no longer believe in God?” 

Hess:  “Are you comforted?”

Family:  “Yes.”

Hess:  “Then be comforted.  It doesn’t matter.”

Except that it did.  For later in the movie Night gave us a chain of events that deeply challenge his viewers to decide which group they are in.  Night did not cheat and did not tip the scales–my faith/agnosticism was tested, and I left the theater reborn.

Signs is my favorite essay on faith, and it affected me spiritually far more than “Passions.”  I am reminded of this movie by a fellow Xangian, who queried whether religion was merely a rationalization to provide comfort.  If so, are such comforts satisfying?

This was not a “look at me, I’m growing up and questioning all establishments to be cool” type of question.  She meant it as a question applicable to her personally, and it was a hard (heck probably the hardest) one to answer.  I’m a born skeptic, and yet I envy the faithful and at times yearn to be counted among them.  However, no matter how hard I try, I cannot cast off my skepticism, and yes, sometimes that means I feel scared and lonely and isolated.  Like when I found out my mother was sick.  I burried myself in medical research and filling up forms, but I felt alone, and tired.

But alas, I think there is a third group of people.  They might be ambivalent about faith in God, but not about faith in each other.  A universe without God is not a lonely universe.  If anything, it should make you cling on to your fellow men even more tightly, for we are all each other have.  Before you protest that friendship and family is not enough to fill that cosmic void, ask yourself this:  Why do you post on Xanga when you could have easily kept a private journal on your own computer?  Some say God hears all prayers but answers none, at least not in this life.  I don’t know if HE is watching me.  I do know that when I read about your weirdly wonderful lives and share my own with you, I feel good, and I’m comforted.

P.S.  Speaking of cling ons, allow me to geek out for a moment.    After a long hiatus, Deep Space Nine is finally back on cable TV!  Starting today, there is a DS9 marathon on Spike TV from Noon to 9 p.m. for the entire week.  I will infect you with my appreciation for this show slowly, like Chinese water torture.  For now, suffice it to say that any show with episode titles like these deserves your attention:  Emissary | Babel | In Purgatory’s Shadow | Ties of Blood and Water | Wrongs Darker than Death or Night | Treachery, Faith, and the Great River.

Went on a listless date this weekend.  I see this girl around my building all the time and decided to ask her out because (a) she looks great when she is all sweaty, and (2) I saw her wearing a Futurama t-shirt once, which really sealed the deal for me.  As it turns out, she (a) hates the way she looks when she is all sweaty and does not consider physical exertion sexy, and (2) that was her roommate’s Futurama t-shirt.  So, I stole the joke from Sliding Doors and said that maybe I should’ve asked her roommate out instead.  Dead silence, she thought I was serious.  In the words of my good friend Kyle… ABORT, ABORT.

One of my chatmates analyzed the date with me and pointed out my mistake:  “You can’t ask people out randomly just based on their looks, that is positively unscientific.”  Then she directed me to a pretty neato “scientific” personality test sponsored by Match.com. 

Have we become so busy that we have to remove the mystery of dating and rely on a database to tell us whether our matches are “compatible” with us?  What’s next, exchanging eyelashes for DNA sampling?I’m a scientist at heart, so I took the test and the results (reproduced below) are amazingly accuratete:

Who I Am

You’re smart, insightful, and successful in your career. You have a talent for seeing beyond the details in life. So you have a vision for the future and always are searching to find love and a sense of “balance” in your life. Because you’re an independent guy and a little shy, making deep connections with other people can be a challenge. You’re not someone who “wears his heart on his sleeve” so even those closest to you don’t always know how you feel. Still, your masculine and dependable nature will draw people who’ll invest the time to get to know you. <Woo, I sound as sexy as T-bills!>

My Dating Philosophy

Finding a loving relationship is a mission for you. You have clear goals and even a timeline in mind. Falling in love is an especially magical experience. You’re suddenly free from the rules and thinking that guide your life. You usually keep your feelings and life under control. But remember, the bigger the dam, the bigger the flood when it breaks! <Great, now I’m a biblical disaster.>

My Quirks

You have a pretty even-tempered personality and may not have any especially annoying or quirky habits. Of course, seeming to be “perfect” could be seen as a flaw by some, in which case you may just want to pretend to have a bad habit! <Like Steve Martin in LA Story, where he invents the ridiculous sport of Museum skating just to set himself apart.>

Is this test just an advanced form of fortune cookies, where we only see what we want to see?  I don’t know.  If you take the test and feel like it nailed you pretty well, let me know.  One caveat though, taking the test automatically signs you up for Match.com.  It is free so I gave them my throwaway email address and activated it.  Who knows, maybe I will meet a person on match.com who thinks exercise sweat is sexy and actually owns her own Futurama t-shirt. 

The title “lost in translation” does not refer to the cultural barrier between Japanese and Americans. Rather, it is a reference to that abyss dividing every human being from other human beings. Maybe once in a lifetime, at the right place, with the right person, under the right circumstances, you can bridge that abyss. The fact that this movie can capture this perfect moment is a small miracle.

I don’t know what Bill Murray said to Scarlett Johansson at the end of Lost in Translation. I hope we never find out. The connection between the two is so personal, so intimate, that no words can truly express it anyway.

I can only speculate on what I would say if I were Bill:

“We will probably never see each other again. But that’s ok. Because I love you, and you know that.”

This is what life looks like to me.  A tranquil womb embraced by flowing curves gently weaving the finger print of god with light and shadows.