beyond the pale

There’s a motorcycle cop hiding out under a tree on our street. Somehow, I don’t believe he’s blessing people.

Um, that’s all.

I really just wanted to say “habemus copum.”

All right. Everybody warm up yer voices:

(Ahem)

mi mi mi mi mi ….

Hmm. Bored? Okay. Here’s something my beloved voice coach Waddad Saba would make me do:

louie-ahh, louie-ahh, louie-ahh, louie-ahh, louie-ahh, louie-ahh, louie-ahh, lou—eee–ahhhh

(Oh. Sorry. Start at the top of the scale — each “louie-ahh” is sung on one note — work your way down the scale with each one. Try it again. I’ll wait ….)

Okay. Now we’re ready to join hands and hearts and voices as we sing the most loathsome song ever written — BUT all for a good cause. Ready?

Tomorrow, tomorrow

You’re always a daaaay awaaaay!

Why am I subjecting you to this horror, you ask? You come by my blog quite innocent and unsuspecting, you say? You assume you won’t be musically assaulted, you protest? Well, I’m sorry if I’ve violated some sacred, bloggy trust, but you just may be verrry happy and burst into that damnable song all over again when I tell you that:

Tomorrow is *FREEEE* ICE CREAM CONE DAY AT BEN AND JERRY’S!!!!!

I’m not kidding wich’you. I would never kid about ice cream.

But …… any of you Captain Skeptismos can go over to Ben and Jerry’s for the blessed, creamy truth.

(Uh, that’s April 19th, noon to 8 p.m.)

UPDATE: Just got my freebie! Scoops are small, but yummy nevertheless. Here’s the trick: Ask for a cup — slightly bigger scoop — then ask for the cone on top of the scoop, like a jack-in-the-box. Ta- dah! One must strategize, you know. Also, the impudent young fellow in front of me was slurping his ice cream cone while going back for seconds — which, apparently, is not frowned upon. They are offering a choice of about half a dozen flavors, not the whole menu, which, thankfully, makes the indecisive less so. Line goes fast since ain’t nobody payin’!

So my review? Cool, creamy goodness worth the short wait.

Cream on.

Because I don’t want you getting all depressed that you’re not gonna be the next Pope, here’s something far more attainable for you: What Christian Theologian Are You?

Of course, they’re all dead, but let’s not quibble over details.

(And you know that part of the movie “Castaway” where Tom Hanks cries out to nobody, “I ….. HAVE MADE …. FIRE!!” while dancing his little jig of joy? Well, that was me you heard just now, crying out, “I …… HAVE FINALLY FIGURED OUT …. HOW TO PASTE THESE BLASTED THINGIES TO MY BLOG!!!” And no, you don’t get to see the dance I did, but you can witness said beautiful, blasted thingy below):

You are Augustine!
You love to study tough issues and don’t mind it if you lose sleep over them. Everyone loves you and wants to talk to you and hear your views, you even get things like “nice debating with you.” Yep, you are super smart, even if you are still trying to figure it all out. You’re also very honest, something people admire, even when you do stupid things.

“Everyone loves you”

hahahahahahahahaaaaaaaaaa …….

(cough *gulp* gasp*)

hahahahahahahaaaaaaa ……….

UPDATE: Well, I was spot on in my bottom 3 prediction: Nadia, Bo, and Scott. However, how-evah, in a truly sucky turn of events, Nadia the Nubian Princess went home — I’m sure because of that wonky song choice of hers. And I never even got to ask her how she gets her hair to do that thing it does. Drat.

And Scott, Mr. “I-Think-I-Rock”-Domestic-Abuser? He survived to beat again.

(Oops. Of course I meant “to bless us with his song” again. Yes, I’m sure that’s it ….)

Fingers crossed for “Muskrat Love” as his song next week.

(C’mon, Scotty, sing it reeeal sweeet for me: “Nibblin’ on bacon, Chewin’ on cheeeese ….”)

Hey, peeps. Be sure to check out my friend Adam’s blog, Itsara, for his great story on the Thai New Year celebration Songkran — or as Adam puts it: “The world’s biggest water fight.” He’s got some really wonderful photos of all the goings-on.

After our missions trip to Chiang Mai last year working with some orphanages, he and wife Cindy answered the definitive call of God on their lives to move to Thailand and, ultimately, build and run a Christian orphanage of their own. They just took the plunge, moving to lovely, quirky Chiang Mai on March 31st. They’re definitely in the adjustment phase, but seem to be doing well.

Go check out all his posts about this move and keep them in your prayers, will you?

A well-known blogger blogs “American Idol” every week. So why the heck can’t I get back on the bandwagon? I’ve done this once before — and I’m daring to do it again. And if you’re a regular reader, you know I have a little bit of a past with singing, auditioning, theatre, etc., for whatever the heck that’s worth to you ….

All right. Blogging live here. Don’t expect too much coherence, mmm’kay?

(Oh, and the theme tonight is “Songs From The Year You Were Born” — Whooppee. We all get to feel ancient and creaky by comparison.)

Nadia’s up first — sings some thing called “When I Dream.” Looking sultry, but her hair is rather taking over the world. Upside: her red, drapey short dress showing off those gams. Looks betta than she sounds, IMO. I just thought the song was monotonous. Randy says, “I don’t even know what song that is.” (No kidding.) Simon says, “That was the equivalent of musical wall paper. You notice the wall paper but you don’t remember it. I think you could go home after that.” (I’m more likely to remember nice wall paper than that song. Better hike up that skirt as you leave the stage, honey. I’m just here to help.)

Bo — Singing Skynyrd’s “Free Bird.” (I assume a shortened version.) He’s definitely got that forceful-grabby-mic thing down pat. Okay. I’m worried. He’d better start going somewhere here, ’cause it’s getting a little boring. Strong finish, but too little too late on this song, I think. And I like this guy. Randy: “You could have a hit wi’dat, dude.” Paula: “See you at the finals.” Simon: “I’m gonna disagree. I think people are gonna say, ‘What the hell was that?’ You can’t take a sacred rock song like that and sing it worse.” (Hey — I said it was boring. And I like this guy.)

Anwar — Dionne Warwick, “I Know I’ll Never Love This Way Again.” I’m already dry heaving because I hate this song. (Well, okaaaay. Let’s not be hasty. I wouldn’t be opposed, say, if my husband hired a wiry little old lady to warble it at my funeral when I crump it. But then he’s only allowed to laugh. Quietly. I mean, it is my funeral.) All right. Here’s the thing: Anwar needs to learn to sing with his eyes. He always looks petrified, like he’s Shelly Duvall in “The Shining” or something. I just never quite believe him emotionally. Oh, here we go: “I KNO-O-O-OW …I’ll NE-E-E-VVERR … LOOOVVE this way A-GAAAIIN. H-O-O-OOO-LD ON . H-O-O-OLD O-ONNNN!!!” Well, he’s really a lovely singer and he’s never off pitch. I’m just prejudiced against this song. That vocal roller coaster of the chorus is tedious. Anwar just needs to work on showmanship — maybe watch his tapes and pay more attention to really selling it to the audience. Randy gives him “props.” Paula: “Consistently great.” Simon: “One of your better performances. But you’re like a blanket, comforting and safe.” Well, good for you, Shelly D.

Up next, Anthony (Ugh) The Blonde Harry Potter: With “Every Time You Go Away.” (I like this song, actually. But Paul Young’s version.) We’ll see. Starts off with the fakey, grossy seductive gaze into the cam. Maybe if I were 13. He doesn’t give enough breath support to his low notes, so they fade and go flat. If he’s ice cream, he’s vanilla, but, again, that’s kind of an insult to vanilla ice cream. Okay. He’s Tofutti. Ohh … just did the emphatic finger point. Ugh. Hold that last note, Tofutti. Randy: “I was wondering how you’d do, you did your thang.” (That’s Randy being middle of the road, as we all know by now.) Paula’s gooey and proud of him. Simon: “You did well this week.”

Vonzell: “Let’s Hear It For The Boy.” Gonna be hard to sing. Let’s see. A fast song killed Tamyra a few years ago. She’s very cute, but for me, she never seems 100% committed to her songs. There’s a kind of distance she has. She’s off pitch a bit. The audience is getting into it, though. I think she’s doing well-ish. She doesn’t really dance, just kinda walks around and poses. Randy: “You know what? Another great performance from you.” Paula: “Your energy … you’re just adorable.” Simon: “Very good choice of song. I think you’re the one who’s going to stay and Nadia’s the one who’s going to go.”

Scott, the domestic abuser: Let’s face it. He’s creepy. “She’s Gone” by Hall and Oates, who are in attendance tonight. Opening note is waaay off. Blech. He’s not working those low notes. Come on, dude. Your diaphragm is certainly big enough! (Hmmm … “She’s gone ’cause I beat the crap outta her,” maybe?) Randy: “Scotty, what’s up, baby? You started off rough. The low notes were pitchy.” (Uh-huh.) “You brought it home at the end.” (What does that really mean? You sang it without dropping dead?) Paula: “You did awesome.” Simon: “You’re a nice guy, however, there were more bum notes than good notes.” (Yep.) “On the whole it wasn’t very good.” Then … Scott stupidly retorts, “On the other hand, there are millions of people sittin’ at home who didn’t have the nerve to do this, so I think I rock.” (Hmmm, Scott. How ’bout this: On the other hand, there are millions of people sitting at home with better sense than to make asses of themselves on national TV.) Sorry. I truly dislike this guy. Go home go home go home go home ….. To quote what Farmer Hoggett said to “Babe”: “That’ll do, pig.”

Carrie: “Love is a Battlefield,” Pat Benatar. I LOVE Pat Benatar. Ambitious, but this kid can SAAHNG, even if she doesn’t always inspire. She looks good. First time I’ve ever seen her look remotely sexy. She doesn’t really move well, though. But who cares? She sounds (mostly) amazing. Benatar is tough, so there are a few off parts. A singer with a 4 1/2 octave range is hard to cover. But good for you, girl. You did bring the house down. Randy: “Pitchy a bit. Messed up the words. It was aiight.” Audience disagrees. Paula thought she rocked. Simon: “I think you needed to do this after last week, but a little bit like watching a kitten who wants to be a tiger.” Don’t worry, kid. I think you’re in no danger.

And last but not least … the musical equivalent of a tongue down your throat ….

Constantine: “Bohemian Rhapsody,” by Queen. Oh, are you kidding me, sweetie? Don’t even try Freddie Mercury. It’s makin’ me mad and he hasn’t even started yet. Here he goes. Well, he growls at the right time. Ohh … the tongue came out just now. (And what did I just say?) Ewwww …. Don’t start channeling Gene Simmons, hon. Well, I don’t know what the judges will say. Such an iconic song. He sold it better than he sang it, I think. Hmmm …. You just kinda hate yourself because you can’t help but like him. Randy: “Yo, man. All right, Showmanship 10, Singing 7.” (Agreed.) Paula: “The one to beat.” Simon: “That was astonishing.” (Wow, Simon. Even his whole musical porn schtick?)

Bottom 3: Nadia, Bo (and I like him!), and Scott (oh please please please ….) And I’m cheating and saying maybe Anthony because it’s my blog and, because, well, I can cheat if I want to …

Adios to: SCOTT.

(Alert: Serious ****’s used in this post. But, really, I’m “****”ing someone else’s words. Whaa? Huh? Oh, just skip it if you’re offended by ****’s. S’everyone clear?)

Okay, all you cupcakes. Say you’re minding your own business at the mall. You’re quietly basking in that rapacious radiance that comes only from shopping. Deep in glowy reverie, you surely decide: Yes. Mankind just might be worth it after all. Wandering, happy with yourself, happy with everyone, you fail to see that young fellow sidling up to you. You hear before you see, and what you hear sounds like some sort of sleazy gangsta ad for Campbell’s soup:

“Mm-mm-mmm! You are one bad mother****er!”

You whirl around and see Mr. Mm-mm-mmm-er. You stare at him because … well, because you’re sure you heard him wrong. And because if you heard him right, you certainly don’t know what to say to that.

Because … is this a hip-hopper’s compliment, requiring a bewildered “thank you”? An insult needing some snappy retort or, failing that, an old-fashioned, but perhaps woefully unwise, slap? Or is this an assault-about-to-become-a-battery, demanding a fleet-footed retreat?

But, you see. You are greedy. You are dumb. You don’t know.

So you do nothing.

Luckily, your pitiful little poet keeps moving, muttering. Away from you. You eye him warily until that last inch of baggy pants trips around the corner. You and your courage are alone at last.

And now you can set your li’l feet to shopping like the “bad mother****er” you are!

All right. Go check out Blue Eyed Infidel and her li’l picture of dog and chick together. Read on to see how she relates it to the Terri Schiavo case. As a matter of fact, keep reading all her posts on this. Consider yourselves warned: She is foul-mouthed, but she shoots straight.

And, well, since dogs are still precious to us, check out this quiz, What Dog Are You? (H/T: The Anchoress)

And don’t despair; if someday someone decides you’re not human enough to live anymore, you can always tell them you’re also a German Pinscher, as I am. Or maybe you’ll get to be a Golden Retriever. But no worries. Whatever your outcome, your canine self will live for sure — with food, water, and probably even a nice, fluffy, doggie bed. So go take this test now and print up the results. You never know when you may need it as handy-dandy proof of your right to life.

Apparently, says the test, I will “bite first and think later.” Well, that does describe my mood — and many others’ — today. I’m all over the map. And, yeah, yeah, the other day I was champion of the “calm, reasoned port in the storm,” blah, blah. But I don’t feel that way today.

As we snuff out one helpless, imperfect, fallen life, in the name of freedom, does it make us more free? Or does it simply and horribly remind us just how helpless, imperfect, and fallen we all are? Jesus died to set captives free, but today, on Good Friday, during these “hours of darkness,” I’ve never felt more bondage to the fallen.

Oh, please come, Lord Jesus ….

Go read Psalm 142 — and pray for Terri, her family, and everyone involved in this tragic situation.

All right. I wasn’t going to post this weekend, but I wanted to put this out there. Teflon over at Molten Thought is catching flak for his new Ten Commandments, written to parody what, he believes, is the dumbing down of the Word and the pandering to gender politics found in the newly released Today’s New International Version. Some commenters on his blog found his “commandments” racist.

Here they are:

1. I am the cool mack daddy of the dope hype flow. Give me props and mad respect.

2. Don’t be kneeling for some bling bling,

3. Don’t be throwing my name around, be it J. Hovah or Yah Diddy.

4. Yo, Sunday is “funday,” ya dig?

5. Respect your moms, your pops, or whoever it was raised you, unless they whack.

6. Thou shalt not bust a cap in someone’s ass.

7. Don’t be running around on people like they don’t know.

8. No five-finger discounts.

9. Don’t front.

10. If your neighbor’s got a fly crib or a pimped-out set of wheels, that’s they bidness, not yours.

Read the comment section over there, too. And, tell me, what do you think? Parody? Racism?