An interesting, bold, and in the end (I think), absolutely correct estimation of a common modern interpretation of the Song of Solomon that I ran across while trolling the Yahoo message boards for info on Habakkuk. In causing the Song to be written, the Holy Spirit "intends to instruct us of Christ's love for the Church on the basis of the OT hermeneutic laid down by Christ and the Apostles. To say that the Spirit intends to teach us about male/female relationships with the Song requires extrabiblical hermeneutical considerations." Oh how I wish more people (and especially pastors) believed that.

I revel in being overly gratuitous (is that redundant?) in my writing for work! As an example: the opening lines of my discussion of the death of Abraham's wife Sarah.

Now comes that grim inevitibility. Inevitible since the Fall. Now comes death! Sarah succumbs to that grimmest of reapers at the age of 127 years.

Yes! I even use forms of both inevitible and grim twice in the space of four sentences. Wasn't that unnecessarily cheesey?! And yet it could masquerade for quality at the same time! *grin* Kinda like the whole Left Behind series! Except for that series can't lay claim to the whole masquerade part.... ;-P

Momma and Poppa Dane arrive tomorrow night at 9:3o on the pm dial! They're visiting from Romania! Yay!

MCA has recently published their newest series of collections: The 20th Century Masters. It's kind of like the Best of "Best Ofs." Cool? Eh. Easy for new listeners to approach The Greats? Perhaps. But unfortunately the myth is already shattered. It the midst of such undisputable greats as Etta James, Les Paul, and Smokey Robison sits Whitesnake. Whitesnake? *sigh* That anyone would slide whitesnake (which I've decided doesn't even deserve the respect of a Capital W) into any group of the best musical performers of the century casts a pale shadow of doubt upon the whole project. I think I'll create a fwd pleading the masses to boycott MCA for their support of the glam lifestyle.

Coolest search request in some time:
if a fish was called a plish instead of a fish would anyone care
Alas. I'm only the 14th hit for it. The world ain't right until I'm Number One!

Okay. Well. So. Herein unfolds the tale the events preceding and succeeding the moment on Tuesday when The Dane's driver's license was stolen. Stolen by Johnny Law.

The day? Tuesday. The time? In approximation of 8:3o on the AM dial. Driving to work in the Big Black Kitty, I was looking forward to a healthy day of toiling amongst those individuals I have even now decided to call co-workers (though it seems more often than not of late that our various works are in opposition to each other rather than in cooperation). Oh. And I guess if you want me to be entirely truthful, I wasn't actually looking forward to it. But in that 20/20 retrospectral vision I now possess in abundance, I would far rather look forward to that regular toiling under the Curse I had planned than the vigorous calamity that was destined to take me into its maw.

In any case, my beautiful-though-not-pristine '77 LTD eased up on a four-way stop, allowing one of Laguna Beach's Finest to make a right-hand turn in front of me. I smiled and gave him the head bob and he returned the same - probably more out of habit than anything. In solemn caravan we slowly drive down the one-way street. The time of the universe is ours to spend. And spend it we will. We meander along the single-laned road when after some time, the officer curiously decides to park on the roadside.

O but foul is the treachery!! No sooner have I passed this serving and protecting harbinger of my doom, than he pulls up upon the hindparts of my Black Kitty! The game is afoot. I am poised at a one-way stop sign - ready to cross heavy morning traffic - and though his flashers have yet to spring, I know that I have become prey. I make my dash across traffic and leave him stranded behind. Safe. For the moment. I've come to a signal and there are two cars behind me. A temporary buffer. And had the portents of my doom been more fully realized in my own mind, I may have fulfilled my contemplation of escape - a simple right hand turn would have freed me, leaving my sheilded pariah behind a simple wall of two cars (as there was no right turn lane, the two cars would be as impassable as China's Great Wall to a baby elephant). Alas. My mind was dulled by other thoughts and so my capture was assured.

Driving peacefully, I sped to catch the speed limit. And behold, within moments, my tail had resumed. And this time he bore lights ablaze with that hellish vermillion that heralds tragedy for many a rush-houred journey. I was caught in his snare. No slow speed chase could help me at this point. I had no hostage. My plates would be traceable. My assets frozen. And I had too little in cash to guarantee safe extrdition to foreign lands. And so? I pulled over.

"Good morning Sir!"

"License and registration. Do you know why I've pulled you over?"

Because you are evil incarnate? "No Sir. No idea?"

"Your wind shield is cracked."

So it was. There runs a crack low along the dash and then straight up to the rearview mirror. But in anyway so as to hamper the vision of the driver - in this case, Yours Truly. "Oh? Wow? You pull people over for that?"

"Yes we do. May I see your insurance?"

"Sure!" The ritual glovebox search begins. Cassettes begin to fly. Papers litter the seat. A look of befuddlery descends upon me as if the angel of death.

"You do have insurance, don't you?"

"Of course I do!" And I did too. "I... uh.. just can't find it."

That went over great. Officer Ramirez - as I assume he is referred to by those fortunate enough to call him family - took my driver's license back to his prowler and proceeded through his nefarious and archane means to discern every detail of my life, history, past, and probably even future. Returning ten minutes later, refreshed from after expending his voodoo energies, our friend Ramirez asks me to step out of The Cat. Upon leaving my sanctum sanctorum. My Cat. My crown. She who signifies my sound. Upon stepping out of my car, he offers me: "I've got some bad news."

Now he is my dearest friend, offering me condolences for what only he and his mania might conceive. "Yes? What is it?"

And it is here that the other shoe drops. "I'm afraid your license has been revoked. I'm not certain why, but we register a failure to appear."

The day? A year earlier. The time? In approximation of 8:3o on the AM dial. I haven't driven in months. My '67 Belvedere has been in terrible disrepair. I have been getting it fixed up in increments. But since it's been sitting in an auto cocoon upon my driveway for months, I saw no need to register a car I wasn't driving. Alas. To have a car repaired it can either be towed or driven. I should have had it towed. My tags were far from current. I stuck out like a sore thub (do those really stick out?). I was pulled over and ticketed operating an unregistered vehicle. A simple fixit ticket. No biggie.

And so began my trouble.

Realizing what a hassle the Belvedere had become, I decided to forget about it. And so it sat. In my carport. For a year. Unregistered and undriven. With my ticket in the glove box. Out of sight. Out of mind.

The day? Tuesday. The time? Immediately after having been told my license had been revoked. "You'll have to park your car over there and leave it. If I see you driving again, I'll have to arrest you. Any questions?"

"Uhm. Only about a million! Well, wha-- uhm, wh- ..er, how am I-- shoot, WHAT AM I S'POSED TO DO NOW?!?"

"I dunno. GO to the DMV."

And so my course was defined. After parking my car in the metered lot where Rascally Ramirez pointed me, I hoofed on down to the bus station, hopped on a bus, and rode to the Blockbuster where I was to drop off a video on my way to work. Yes dear reader, I was still to go to work. I had no coin for a pay phone and so I walked a mile over to the supermarket next to the Laguna Hills DMV where I could get cash, coin, and perhaps get my license back.

By the time I finally got fifty cents for the phone it was after 10:oo. After 10:oo is significant on Tuesday mornings where I work for the very inaccessible purpose of a two hour staffwide meeting. Knowing I couldn't call to let the office know what had occured, I decided to try to fix as much of my dilemma as possible. I moseyed over to the DMV and lo! behold! it's closed! 'Til February 6th?? What th--?

Hmm... suddenly my ADD has taken hold and I have no desire to finish telling my tale (like any of you are still reading). Suffice it to say: I finally arrived at work at 2:3o after taking many buses, going to the San Clemente DMV to no avail, getting lost, walking a lot (nine miles in work shoes on a breakfast consisting only of two Eggos with yoghurt and syrup - a lot yummier than it sounds, I guarantee), and arriving no nearer a solution to my problem than the moment I first began. Oh. And I couldn't walk the next day. And was on crutches this weekend. Because I hurt my foot so bad with all the walking that even standing on it made me feel vomitous. Oh joy.

The amazing thing? My happy mood was ne'er diminished throughout the whole ordeal. I'm too dang cheery for my own good sometimes :-D

To answer your question John, I don't think it's up to a nation's citizenry to determine whether its government is legal or no. I think believers ought to submit to their governing authority no matter its legitimacy. At least that's how Scripture seems to represent it. Did Paul or Christ offer stipulations allowing the redeemed to disobey Caesar if he wasn't doing as he ought? Not in my Bible they don't. Maybe it's in The Message somewhere, but, well, there you are. In my book, believers who partook of illegal alcohol during Prohibition ought to have been subject to church discipline.

Additionally, as much as it'll hurt some of you to hear. The Constitution is not our government. The ruling power of the United States of America is only loosely based upon the Constitution. We stick up for the Constitution until it gets in our way and then we reinterpret it. I'm sure we'll do away with it altogether someday. In any case, nobody disagrees that Prohibition was a law outside the reach of the Constitutional Rights of the Federal Government - it was an Ammendment (which means that very thing).

Strange. I got a hit for baby names meaning phallus. Not strange that I got hit for it of course, but strange that anyone would be searching for it.

The joy in which I take such pleasure is the joy of Christ in the joy of my salvation! How wonderful is my position in Christ! Having been hidden in him, I find myself baptised into his life of obedience, his death of atonement, and his resurrection to glory! I am even now seated at the right hand of the Father, ruling in the heavenlies! I am even now come unto Mount Zion, the city, nation, and holy mountain of the redeemed! I am no longer a stranger or foreigner as I have the bounty of full heavenly citizenship and am even now in residence where the streets are gold and there is no need for a temple. I take joy for being much more than a conqueror. I take joy I am daily conformed to the image of the Son in whom I find my identity. I take joy that I need not work for unity with my Christian brethren, but that we are unified already in Christ - if only we'd have the faith to see it. I take joy in the great supremacy of God in His entire plan of redemption and that not a single one of His sheep will be lost - and that in spite of myself, I cannot either be lost. I take joy in my joy. And I pray that I would continue to be given the faith to apprehend all these things and take joy in them. And last, I take joy that I know that such will be the case.

Joy!

I'm not a big fan of the Friday Five (wherever it originated from is beyond me), but one of the recent questions piqued my interest and I thought it might give others a slice of sunlight. The question is: How old were you when you had your first kiss? The answer? Twenty-three years old. Pretty fun stuff, eh?

It's coming!!

Connie called and left me a nice message which she abruptly concluded with "Thanks snacker!" I'm so proud. John is a lucky, lucky man!

By the by, I must have been on crack not to have linked to the simple Gospel beauty of Blake's 20 December 2001 post: A Vale of Tears.

But it is to be prepared to "let goods and kindred go, this mortal life also," for the sake of the kingdom whose treasures far outweigh and outlast anything we can know in this fading age. [excerpted]

Beautiful. Simply beautiful. Too little do I read of the Christian rejoicing in, nay! even expecting the honor of earthly suffering. Modern Christianity seems too often and too strongly to assert itself as the earthly solution to earthly woes. In some manner it is, but not in the way I'm seeing it presented. Rather than emphasize in the strongest terms and examples that the Christian's hope is not to be lain upon any earthly satisfaction but met only in heavenly consummation, today's Christian society emphasizes taking hold of earthly culture, of earthly politics, of earthly education, of earthly institutions in order to subdue the earth and so recreate Eden (so to speak) in these, the last days. Striking to me is the similarity between this endeavor and the plight of the children of Cain in Genesis - striving so hard to counteract the power of the Curse. Useless was their toil. And useless is the toil of believers who strive to establish the kingdom of heaven in the worldly realm.

No. The kingdom of heaven is truly a kingdom OF heaven. Better the believer should set his sight upon the kingdom already established than to toil to erect an impoverished facsimile on earth. Take on the suffering of Christ. Expect nothing better - for there is nothing better. Rejoice that this world is not our home. Rejoice that we have been made citizens of a nation not of this broken world, but of a better. And rejoice that the nations of this world shall always war against us - for in this, we are alike to our Master. If they hated him, how should we expect they not hate us whom extol him? Baptism into his life and death is baptism into his resurrection and glory. And therein lies victory.

Interesting side-note. I saw four midgets today. And the last of them I saw in the Laguna Hills Mall. Wlaking with her husband and two children. And her husband had to be at least a full foot taller than me. And at 5'13", I assure you, I am no shorty. I just thought the visual juxtaposition twixt the two was intriguing and thought I'd share this with you, my faithful audience.

Possible Omen Alert!!
We had nearly finished our escapades at Disneyland today and then decided we would honor the dearly departed by enjoying the Peter Pan ride. Alas. It was closed for maintenance. We weren't certain if this was simply a matter of a strictly material amusement in need of repair or if this was something far more foreboding. Only time will tell at this point.

Slow Day for Posting VI
And for my Top Movie of the Year: Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Amelie. Audrey Tautou is sublime in the title character. Wonderful. Curious. Sweet. And dismantling. Wow.

The other of the Top 5 (in no order beyond alphabetical):

2. A Beautiful Mind (both Crowe and Connelly shine and the film is better upon a second viewing)
3. LOTR: The Fellowship of the Rings ('nuff said!)
4. Memento (dizzying, simply dizzying)
5. Snatch (Guy Ritchie's the only one out there making really good capers these days)

Slow Day for Posting V
Strange. Ever since Brandon's been talking with Wendy, he's also been visiting this site more and more often. It worries me slightly.

Slow Day for Posting IV
Not only do I not think it's scary, I think it's one of the most amazingly good ideas I've heard since Mike said he wanted to weigh poop! Of course, their rates are a touch pricey at 80 Grand. Tell you what? I'll get results half as good for four times as cheap! Oh what a bargainer I can be!!
[link courtesy of Madam Shortcake]

Slow Day for Posting III
I'm a Visionary Philosopher according to eMode's IQ test. And if I had a higher IQ, I would know what visionary philospher means.

Slow Day for Posting II
I'm the number Nine "Most Popular Site" on MSN for legalized prostitution. Oh Joy. That's the kind of publicity that's bound to attract Miss Right.

Slow Day for Posting
I was on the way home from seeing Kate and Leopold last night, which, by the way, was a poorly-conceived-though-tolerably-funny movie. It was late, and I was about to get to the bridge above the lake. Suddenly, I looked up and saw a cyclist patching a tire in the middle of the right lane - where I would soon be. The nutcake did not seem to want to move, so I slid into the left lane to avoid him, while slamming on brakes in case he lept in front of me and ended up going through my windshield. Suddenly (again!), the car screeched to a halt. There was smoke from the tires skidding on the pavement. I looked to the right. There he was. An enormous, grinning beast with fangs and 6 pinstripes on his plastic helmet. In an instant, he charged into my car (pinstriped helmet first), taking off the side mirror and making numerous dents on the front right side. Then, he ran away. I sat there, shocked, and started my car again (I have an automatic) and shakily tried to dial my phone. Of course, I didn't have one.

Now that I've been thinking about it a while, I'm not against hunting cyclists anymore. No, in fact, I think I just may. I have the perfect opportunity to on Wednesday. I once thought that sort of thing was for rednecks. Yes, not so long ago I thought it was cruel to kill cyclists and say "I'm doing it for food" when you could buy beef at the local grocery store. Now I think it's perfectly fine to kill that particular animal any time. :)

Well, they may not be cool enough for me, but if one peruses their archives he can find a number of worthwhile gems - not the least of which are "My ovaries are retarded!" (20 October 2001) and "In my experience, its tough to be the six-foot plus balding asian girl" (6 December 2001) and even "J'espere que vous avez une vacances joyeux et que vous ne tombez pas dans la mer" (20 December 2001). Since occasionally I've laughed hard enough to make snot come out my nose I've decided to add their nonOriental adventures to the Agents to Contact list. Bon apetite!

Woah...not "Rusty"? I think it's time to cut her loose man.

Noir Shades of The Dane
(9 more self-portraits)