POINT OF ORDER. I wish to clarify remarks about idiot animal owners in a previous post (see Sunday 22 Feb). I do not think all animal owners are idiots. Some of my best friends are animal owners, and they are not idiots.

However, we seem to have a higher percentage of idiot animal owners here in the Mid-South, which is historically poor on animal control. There are some pretty bad stewards of dogs, cats, horses, etc. Remember where I said it's frequent front page news? A prime example is a story like this, in which a crazy lady gave Viagra to dogs in order to increase breeding.

Now, in order to deal with her stupidity, a lot of time, effort and expense is going into easing these dogs' suffering. That's what I meant about idiot animal owners.

CINEMA VERITE. It was really lovely here today, about 60 degrees and sunny. Think of any image from the first day of spring, and it was on display at Shelby Bottoms. There were rollerbladers, families riding bikes, Frisbee freaks, and many a dog walker.

One woman was even meditating alongside the trail. Did I explain that this particular greenway is in East Nashville? That might explain things a little more. (I saw a classic bumper sticker: "What America needs is God, Guts and Kristi Rose.")

The path, one of a series of greenways here, runs along the Cumberland River and is really well done. They took an old unused area of town - literally on the wrong side of the tracks - and have revived it. There was so much activity and energy there today. The whole time I was walking I felt like I was in a movie - it was so beautiful.

One of my favorite vistas is watching a train go across the elevated tracks, with the BellSouth tower in silhouette behind it. Made me think of my dad.

I am rather homesick today. The feeling is rare but comes at very unlikely times. I think if you read back over the past week you will see that things are falling together here in good ways. So it's puzzling to be blue and wistful tonight.

GRUMBLE. They're going to tear down a church built by the same guy who did the Ryman. It happens to be the building where my congregation worshipped before we built a more modern place outside the city (like most white churches did in the mid-1960s). So I asked my minister about it, and asked him if he read about it and was upset, and he said, "Why? I don't care about buildings."

He went on to say he cares about the environment and people, and he wishes we as a society put as much effort into saving the environment and people as we do into saving buildings. He also said he wishes there was as much attention on helping people as on helping animals.

I'm on board with that last point. Sorry, but the Nashville media is INSANE about animal cruelty or anything animal-related down here. Many a night I have changed the channel in disgust at yet another story about some idiot animal owner forcing shelter overcrowding, etc. I have even said out loud, "How about filming the Nashville Rescue Mission, where they really need volunteer help for PEOPLE?"

So, as a die-hard building lover, I will have to think about what my minister said. It irks me, but I know in my heart that he is right.

TWO GIRL DATES. A year after I moved here, I was still whining about the fact that I knew few people outside of work. I am pleased to report that this weekend I had plans with two new women friends who have no affiliation with my work and who actually contacted me. (See Feb. 8 entry and Feb. 13 entries.)

I generally meet people well, and could interview a stump, but I still have a few moments of social anxiety right before the event. We'll leave it to the psychiatrists to sort out why.

Thankfully my nervousness was completely unfounded. J. is extremely fun and cool. Friday night we went to Red Wagon at my suggestion and then to see "Big Fish." During the dinner I learned that she loves sushi and never has anyone to accompany her, so that should be our next outing. Meg, the chef at Red Wagon, came out to see if we liked our meals. We did, of course. I should have asked Meg about setting up a tab for frequent customers.

I would write more about J. but I often worry about divulging others' confidences or making them uncomfortable. I reserve that only for people really close to me!

Saturday night I met CC and some of her friends for her bday. She has a lot of very cool friends who are very welcoming, and that is so rare. Her pal Eric was there also, with a friend of his who works at the Lions Eye Center of Tennessee. The guy from the Lions Eye Center and I talked hockey.

CC's friends are very academic folks and work in a completely different environment than I do, which I truly enjoy. Eric's boss was there with his wife, who it turns out works with B. from my foursome! (See Nov. 23 entry.)

This town is way small.

BON VOYAGE. Au revoir KSH, currently bound for Paris. I'm insanely jealous. I was looking on some maps earlier this week in order to point her toward Jean and his little crepe cart. Wonder if he remembers our visit back in October 2001. Anyway, I am about six weeks from Europe and counting the days. Wish I had more time to plan! After March 1 things should be less insane at work (please, please) and it's time to plan, plan, plan. Sometimes I think I enjoy the planning as much as, if not more than, the trip. What a freak!

FILM AT 11. You know I have a tattoo on my forehead that says, "Tell me everything?" Well, I do, and strangers oblige. Tonight I was at Target looking at funky tights (I was having a girly moment) and a fellow female shopper came up and said, "These are so fun!" They were. She said, "I'll buy some if you buy some." I laughed. I bought some. Not the fishnet ones though. I think she bought them.

I told my new friend that I had seen Channel 4's own Demetria Kalodimos in the store and that we should enlist her in our little compact. She agreed. Even if we were able to persuade Demetria, how would we ever know if she was wearing the tights? Her legs are always behind that anchor desk.

Why did this woman talk to me? I think it was my astounding hair.

GOOD HAIR DAY. I'm having an extraordinarily great one. I'm serious. I wish I had some big event to go to, or an important meeting. Instead I'm still at work. I hope the housekeeping and security staffs appreciate this coiffure. I hate to go to sleep tonight and mess it up because I know tomorrow it will not resemble today's appearance in any way.

Somebody get a camera.

FEEL THE ELECTRICITY. I promised to write more about romantic thoughts (for and against) around Valentine's Day. So here we go.

On a recent Saturday night our fousome went to see "Something's Gotta Give," and I was reminded of something I had forgotten: I hate Jack Nicholson. (My apologies to those readers, and I know there is at least one, who love Jack Nicholson, but I just think he's incredibly smarmy and creepy. Every time he was on screen, all I could think was, "I can't stand you! Eww! Step away from that young woman!" So that tended to lessen the film for me.)

The movie did resonate with me on one level, though, and that is when the main female character is in the throes of post-breakup-depression. She cries constantly. There's one shot in which she is sleeping, and the split-second after she opens her eyes, she starts bawling.

Been there, done that.

Most of the foursome are thinking about exploring romantic opportunities (clarification: not among ourselves), which provides some interesting conversations. Even I, a self-confessed quirkyalone (see Feb. 4 entry), have entertained a thought or two along these lines in recent weeks.

But I'm standing on the platform and telling the rest of the women, "Grabbing the third rail? You first."

Just as I've begun to think about interviewing an applicant for the new titleholder of Guy Who Broke My Heart, the movie kind of brought it all back home to me.

It's been four years since someone broke my heart but good, and that is about enough time to forget what it's like to lie in bed with hot tears rolling down into your ears. Four years also dull your memory about the things that start it in the first place: the thrill of finding out something about a person that puts them in your thoughts when you're standing at the grocery store, when you're putting on your makeup, or when you're supposed to be thinking about anything besides the amazing facts you are learning.

Everyone in the foursome is struggling with this do-I-or-don't-I question. To not try at all is to give up entirely, especially when you have a relatively healthy self-image and know you have a lot to offer, even if it is to an extremely narrow segment of the male population. However, to put yourself out there and endure the mental gymnastics is not only risky but incredibly exhausting. (Also, and I speak just for myself in this regard, I'm doing really well on my own, thanks very much. So why sign on for all the aggravation?)

That was the general tenor of our foursome's post-movie dinner conversation. We're not nearly the age of the characters in this movie, but our overall sentiment was, "Aren't we too old for this ----?"

GETTIN' LUCKY. A few snapshots from my Friday the 13th:

Two colleagues and I went out for lunch. As we walked through the lobby, we saw a young woman being serenaded by a barbershop quartet. They were singing "Lida Rose." She appeared acutely uncomfortable. We got on the elevator and I said, "Some guy is either getting a very big hug tonight or a very big punch."

Two women got on the elevator a few seconds later.
Woman A: "That is so sweet! What a great idea!"
Woman B: "If my husband ever did that to me, I would KILL HIM."

Note to future boyfriend: My favorite song from "The Music Man" is "Til There Was You," and I would prefer the Beatles come back and sing it to me, not a barbershop quartet. Please make a note of it.

Our lunch was at Ru San's, a very cool, happenin' sushi place that has an all-you-cat-eat lunch buffet. I took that as a personal challenge. The sushi was amazing. The decor was unbelievable. The people were incredibly swanky. It was NOON and they looked like they love the nightlife, they love to boogie. I don't think I could handle it at night, and not just because of the hip factor. Even at mid-day it featured pulsating electronica and the review in the Scene was very accurate but rather offputting when it came to the noise factor and performance aspects.

It was a very fun lunch. We agreed we must partake of Ru San's on a frequent basis, if for no other reason than to see and be seen. And to eat a LOT of sushi and calamari.

VGG and I went to the hockey game tonight and had incredible seats. It's her wedding anniversary; she got married at the hockey game three years ago today. Yes, she rode a Zamboni in her wedding gown and the nuptials made "SportsCenter." I never tire of hearing about it, because it seems so unlike her. Anyway, her husband (who works for the hockey team and gave us the seats) came down and watched part of the game with us. We won, 5-1. That means a free taco for all ticketholders at our local Taco Bell. Unfortunately, I have given up Taco Bell along with an ever-growing list of other foodstuffs, so there's a 59-cent freebie that will go unclaimed.

Tomorrow night will end a long streak of going out. Check this itinerary:
Monday - Bluebird Cafe with D. and R. from work
Tuesday - Tootsie's with M. from work (should have skipped this one)
Wednesday - St. Olaf Choir
Thursday - Frist and dinner at Red Wagon with SRE, whose daughter looked at the university that will take the family finances for the next four years
Friday - Preds Win!
Saturday - Valentine's extravaganza with CC, my friend from Vandy; we're going to see "Win a Date with Tad Hamilton" and have dinner at the least romantic restaurant we can think of: The Cooker.

Note to future boyfriend: Red Wagon yes, Cooker no, Tin Angel always.

RACE DAY. It's noon. I'm lying on my back at the YMCA, holding a barbell over my head. "Focus on your form," the instructor says. "Think of your range of motion. Elbows the width of your shoulders. Narrow your grip. Now lower your bar behind your head. Down, and up. Keep breathing. Think of nothing but your muscle. Imagine your muscle contracting and expanding. Think of your muscle. There is nothing else."

Nothing else but my inbox and voice mail filling up while I'm here over lunch, sweating in a room full of strangers. There is always something else, and my mind races: Spanish verb conjugations, laundry to be done, unanswered letters, how much weight I have to lose, Springsteen lyrics, stray lines of poetry, how to explain the flow of insurance claims, the launch of our new Web site delayed, the to-do list growing by the second.

Now down, and up. Think of the muscle, and nothing else.

I race everywhere these days. Perpetually late. Tired and aching. Frustrated one moment, content and happy the next, then completely overwhelmed.

I have bought a ticket to see the St. Olaf Choir, billed as the premiere a cappella ensemble in the U.S. It is not a cheap ticket, and I bought it because I heard and enjoyed the group on "Prairie Home Companion." Largely I bought it because they are singing at War Memorial Auditorium, which is tucked off a beautiful plaza that is perhaps my favorite spot in Nashville. There are so many favorite spots, I lose track of them all.

I race up the hill to make the 8 p.m. curtain. War Memorial Auditorium is literally a block from my front door, but I'm going to be late. Again. I make it into my third-row seat just as the last chorister is stepping into place.

This is a rarified venue, a one-time home to the Symphony and to the Opry. It's architecturally beautiful and sonically wonderful. The risers are filled with young, striking people. They live and breathe music. Their faces change when they sing, and they are not inhibited. They move through a difficult program with precision and joy. I watch them and my mind fills with questions: How old are they? What brought them to St. Olaf, and to the choir? What will the next five years bring to each of them? The next 10?

The choir director speaks to the audience late in the show. He wants to explain the next piece, "Gospel Mass." It's a contemporary piece, written 26 years ago when the Catholic Church sought a way to bring a modern bent to the ancient text of the Mass. It was also written for the 10th anniversary of the black choir at the University of Illinois, and while a graduate student there, he sang this piece at its debut.

He asks us to refrain from applauding until all of the piece is complete. They will perform it with humbleness, he says, "in the Negro spiritual idiom."

"You will want to clap and to move. Just listen," he implores. "Just listen." "Gospel Mass" is a step out of the box for the audience and for most of the choir, he admits. He is one of the few black faces on the Nordic stage.

They begin with Kyrie Eleison and onto the Gloria. It is reverent and exuberant at the same time. It's not wild and funky -- it's deep and, well, spiritual. The words are familiar and new all at the same time, and the Agnus Dei is incredibly powerful. "Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us."

As his benediction he thanks us for coming, says he knows it's "church night" in these parts, and he is glad we came to church with them. "This was not a performance, it was a worship service," he says, which is exactly what I'm thinking.

It's time for the last song, a kind of signature piece for the group, "Beautiful Savior." You may know it, as I do, as "Fairest Lord Jesus." The choir hums the first verse, then one alto voice rises up to sing the second:

"Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands, clothed in the blooming garb of spring.

"Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer, he makes our sorrowing spirit sing."

Technically speaking, it is probably the easiest piece of the night, but to me it is the most profound.

In my chest, a muscle contracts and expands. It expands to the point where it is overflowing out of my eyes, down my cheeks, off my chin. The choir comes to the last note and fades away. For a few seconds there is a perfect silence, then applause. The man next to me says, "What a blessing." It is. I am not the only one whose face is damp.

I walk out across the plaza, past the buses rumbling on Church Street, waiting to take the choir to Memphis for tomorrow's show. A soft wind is blowing off the Cumberland River, pointing the flags on the state capitol toward the west. The Hermitage Hotel glows with white light. The valets from Morton's scurry up the hill as I walk down it.

I feel my muscle contract and expand. There is nothing else.

(Most of this post was written on the road and published once I got back home.)

HEAVENLY. I doubt that I could live in Chicago, but I sure love to visit. I have been here countless times in my life but one of the great things about the Windy City - or any city, really - is that each time you come back, you're with someone different or you're in a different place in your life, so the experience seems different.

This time I'm here with DMJ and JFA, my two closest friends from Nashville, one of whom now lives in Peoria.

We flew in Friday night (JFA drove up) and stayed on the Magnificent Mile. The Westin bills its bath and its beds as Heavenly, and we concur. This has reinforced my need to have more nice pillows and fine linens.

We have had a series of architectural nightmares since our arrival. First off, the new Soldier Field is completely hideous. Adaptive reuse was not accomplished. Second, the Medinah Temple (where EIB and I enjoyed "Prairie Home Companion" many years ago) is now a Bloomingale's. At least they kept the exterior fairly intact. Finally, the Rookery lobby is no longer open on the weekend, for national security reasons. I’m serious - something about 9/11 precipitated its closure. The woman at Brooks Brothers (located on the first floor of the Rookery) said there may be some offices in the building that would be an attractive target for terrorists. Then she looked at us with contempt because she could immediately sense we were not going to be purchasing $48 socks or anything else in the store.

We moved on. We had a wonderful walk in light, non-sticking snow. There is so much incredible architecture here, so many great sculptures and bridges and plaques. I never tire of them. Visibility was zero at the Sears Tower, which explained why there was no waiting, so we wandered on, to the Reliance Building (Burnham Hotel), the House of Blues Hotel, Marina Towers and so on. We had lunch at Heaven on 7th and had a wonderful discussion, which I will not recount here. It was so good to be with them and removed from most everything else.

Sometimes in your adult life you are with people whom you've known a relatively short amount of time but who know you very well, and I am so grateful for that. It’s great to have friends to accept your strangeness and offer up their own. And who let you set the itinerary for the weekend.

I'm not sure if it is the force of my personality, my compulsive listmaking, or just my familiarity with the city, but we pretty much did what I wanted to do this weekend. That involved a lot of architectural walking (probably 6 miles all told), having a big fancy drink atop the John Hancock Building, eating at the Flat Top Grill and seeing an art film. (Warning: do NOT go see "House of Sand & Fog" if you're looking for light-hearted, frothy subject matter.) DMJ and JFA were good sports through it all.

And we are already talking about the next time we are going to get together.

HEAVENLY II. On Sunday morning, I got up early (shock) and went to church (I hope that is not too much of a shock). It was a wonderful service at Fourth Presbyterian, right across the street from our hotel.

The church was gorgeous, the service very moving, the preaching insightful. Most of all, the congregational singing was divine. I had checked out their bulletin online on Saturday and that pretty much sealed the deal. The offertory was a soprano singing an aria from Handel's "Sampson." Incredible.

For me, going to church is like writing or exercising or really just about anything worthwhile: getting started is the hardest part. Once I am church, it is extremely rare that I regret it. There is almost always some insight or moment or encounter that lifts me and sustains me through the week. It's not always a thunderbolt. Sometimes it's very quiet and understated. There were many in this particular service that I will carry with me for a while.

I am probably one of the few people under the age of 50 who prefers a traditional service, but it moves me. I haven't written much about my own church here but I will do that in the future, because there are a lot of things I like about the order of the service, the people, the preaching and the overall experience of being part of that community.

NEIGHBORLY. Here's something cool to report: J., my neighbor from the workout room (see Jan. 19 entry) had an extra ticket to a concert and invited me. Unfortunately I was in Chicago at the time and could not attend. We agreed to have dinner soon. She is was really the first person in my building who has tried to befriend me. I am delighted.

I WANT TO BUY THIS WOMAN A CAR. As we approach Valentine's Day, here's a helpful reminder that some of us won't be pining away, wishing our one true love would show up to buy us artery-clogging chocolates and whisk us down the aisle only to live happily never after in suburban ennui. I am grateful that I have few (if any) regrets about my single status. I should have found a way to market my contentment, as this savvy young lady did by writing a book called "quirkyalone." Don't you just love NPR?

I wouldn't mind somebody sending me fresh flowers once in a while, though.

A lot more thoughts on this topic, as we approach Valentine's Day.

HOUSTON, WE HAVE A WARDROBE MALFUNCTION. Yes, that is how Justin Timberlake described The Incident. Call me a prude, but I completely agree with Tom Shales that it was a "Super Bowl of Sleaze." I sat there in absolute shock at what I was seeing, even during the commercials. Ask the people who were at our Super Bowl party, I actually said these things:
"Wasn't that movie ad too scary for kids?"
"I hope my mom isn't watching this."
"So really, the commercial is suggesting she and the chimpanzee might sleep together."

You know it's sleazy when Beyonce is the classiest thing about the entertainment portion of the program. At least both her girls were covered all the time.

I am officially old: I hated ALL the music. Kid Rock made me want to leave the country.

Seriously. Hey, C+C didn't dub me "Movie Mom" for nothing.

But I'm not sure I want the government involved in all this. Just write CBS a letter and don't watch next year! Yeah, I'm sure a lot of people are going to do that ...

The game was fun during the second half, at least. During the first half, our room full of adults amused ourselves mightily by narrating the game and making our own stupid remarks. A guy from our workgroup held the Super Bowl soiree in his TV Palace, complete with HDTV, grilled meats and wisecracking friends and neighbors. A good time was had by all, since we were all over the age of 25.

JUST SO IT'S CLEAR ... regarding the link to this log from Biz Stone's site: It was a link to the Wal-Mars picture, and I want you to know I didn't create that picture. I don't know who did. At least six people e-mailed it to me due to my well-publicized dislike of Wal-Mart. I'm afraid that visitors will now think I was the brilliant humorist behind that photo, and worse, that they will think I'm trying to take credit for that intellectual property.

To the rightful creator: I would acknowledge you, but I don't know who you are. I didn't write "source unknown" in the original entry not only because I didn't think about it, but also because I never expected anyone other than my regular 3 readers to see it. (This log is very under the radar and I was very surprised to see that traffic has spiked!) Regardless of all of the above, I want to share the lesson learned: when in doubt, always credit whomever.