Supafly.com

I am tired and confused. I’ve spent the past six weekends on the road. I come home and I rest. I watch American Chopper, Rides, and American Hot Rod. I’m too tired to work myself, so at least I can watch others make miracles.

So many of my life projects aren’t going anywhere. Some of them really don’t matter, like remodeling my kitchen. I see what is possible and I want to do it now, but the world won’t be any better after I get new counter tops. I want to redo all my landscaping, but there again–it doesn’t matter. But then other projects are important.

The next version of LifeTeen.com is taking forever. It’s out of my hands, and has been for months. I am beyond frustrated. Beyond angry. Beyond disappointed. I just take it one day at a time. It reminds me of when I used to backpack on the Appalachian Trail in the Georgia mountains. Some trails would go on forever. We’d hike for hours and miles. The only consolation I had was that with each step, I was one step closer to the destination. It could be fifteen miles away, but I was still closer. So with each day of work, I am getting closer to launching the new website.

I won’t add this journal to supafly.com because it’s not up. I’ve outgrown my servers, and have moved my site, but I don’t know how to use the server operating system. I have no supafly.com.

Then I have NoMoHo.com and PornDestroysWomen.org. I launched them in a hurry as my new show came on MTV. Here I am six months later, and I don’t know what to do with them. Make them bigger? Bolder? I just want to go to sleep.

I finally have a Sunday at home. Yesterday morning I strapped on my backpack and hiked through the neighborhood to St. Tim’s. I couldn’t wait to leave civilization and get into the mountains for the Life Teen retreat. Candyce pulled me into the fourth Greyhound bus and the caravan left for Prescott.

I spent most of the ride up talking about cars with the guys on the bus. One kid had a few Street Truck magazines, and I lusted after all the chrome. Man, I like hot rods so much. My heart vrooms.

The retreat was called “Monster Retreat,” themed after the reality show “Monster Garage.” On the show, a team of builders remake a car into something larger than life. So this retreat would make each teen’s faith larger than life. The main hall was loaded with car stuff. Some guys welded together car parts into sculptures. They found an old VW bug in a dry riverbed a few weeks before. They; chopped it in half and polished it into furniture. It was tough.

I was only able to spend the afternoon at the retreat, but it was still wonderful. I see these teenagers all over the church, but it’s only at retreats like this do I really get to know them. I tell you, these retreats are POWERFUL. It’s just so amazing to see God work.

I came down last night so I could do a talk at Blessed Sacrament in Scottsdale, Arizona. They’ve been trying to get a good youth program for over fifteen years. It felt good to give the program a kick-start, even if it was just one talk.

I’m all alone at home and I miss Candyce. She’s still up on retreat with the teens.; I know she’s needed there and will make room for miracles. She does that.

I’ve been sleeping in a tent in my backyard for the past couple weeks. It’s my sacrifice for Lent: forty days and forty nights in a tent. Yesterday at dawn I woke up to helicopters thundering over my backyard. They were so close I thought they were going to land in my driveway. I was in a war zone.

I crawled out of the tent and spotted a half dozen choppers hovering a half-mile away. I ran inside and turned on the news. I listened to the news anchors tell the story of a two and a half-year old boy wandered off and drowned in the community pool. I could still hear the helicopters through my walls. It was a terrible place to be.

That was yesterday morning. Tonight after Mass, a few of us went over to the pool and prayed for the little boy and his family. They have to be suffering so much. The news was still there, a day and a half later.

I know our prayers will be answered in some way. But that time of prayer was more for me than anyone. I feel so helpless. I had to do something.

03-13-04, Saturday
I found out this morning that the little boy was murdered. The drowning was not an accident. The mother’s boyfriend was angry and killed her baby.

03-18-04, Thursday
Tonight at dinner, Monsignor Dale told us he visited the young man in jail. His family has gone to our church for years, and MD knew he had to do his part to help them. A security guard led Monsignor Dale to his cell. The boy knelt down, pushed his hands through the narrow slot, and asked Monsignor Dale to hear his confession.

04-04-04, Sunday
Tonight at Mass, we prayed over the parents. How does it feel to know your son murdered another person’s son? What is it like to see your baby locked in a cage, tied to a bed? I prayed hard.

This afternoon I spoke at a junior high retreat for kids around Dallas. It’s a little scary to speak to kids that age because they are so afraid to express themselves. But we really did have a good time. It’s fun to walk into a room of 300 hundred strangers, and leave a few hours later with just as many friends.

Last night I stayed in this ultra-mod house built by an apprentice to Frank Lloyd Wright. I felt like I was in a rock video or something. Since I’ve been sleeping in a tent for the past couple weeks, it was comforting to have four walls and a roof.

I live in airports. Luckily, this is my third weekend in a row in Texas, and it’s fun to watch the cowboy culture clash with the jetset hipsters. I don’t know what I’d rather be.

I am listening to the David Crowder Band. I love that guy. I hope he stays alive a long time so he can keep writing music.;

I can’t wait to get home tonight and spend time with Candyce. She’s so cool.

This afternoon I went to a Phoenix Museum of Art fundraiser where you pay $75 to tour rich people’s houses. I’ve never done anything like this, but I saw an ad in a magazine yesterday on my flight from Texas. Why not?

The first house was bizarre. In the middle of the desert is a tidy stack of boulders, like God was planning on doing something but got distracted with the Grand Canyon. These are colossal boulders, each the size of a school bus. So this couple decided to seal up the stack with a few walls and call it a house. Once inside, felt like an Indian or Fred Flintstone. They wanted $6,000,000 for the place. I offered them a million in cash, but they didn’t take it.

The next home was wonderful, but only because of the owners. Of course, they weren’t there, opting not to witness hundreds of strangers snoop through there house. But, I got acquainted with them through a long hallway of family photos. This good-looking family of blondes blazed a trail through 80′s fashion and hairstyles. It was like a history of sitcom cool, rivaling the likes of “Family Ties” and “Full House”.; By the end of the hall, even the baby had grown up and gone off to college. They grow up so fast.

The third house had really nice bathrooms, and everyone knew it. It was odd, standing in a stranger’s bathroom with other strangers. To put things in order, we complimented the space so others could hear.; “What a clever, sculptural sink!” “Did you see the custom marble spa?” I wanted to comment that the toilet looked comfortable, and that when you fart, it’d echo.

We couldn’t go to the fourth house because their neighbor threatened to sue them. How dare they bring in an unruly mob of art patrons?

The last house was the kind that rock stars live in. It was modern and boxy but too orderly. So I dressed up the place with rock-star drama.

I was in the kitchen and imagined my girlfriend throwing a plate across the room, yelling about me always on tour and all those groupies. Baby, I’m not like that. You know I love you. I’d get mad and hop in my Ferrari. I’d wrap my tattooed knuckles around the steering wheel and rev the engine and yell back at her. Finally I tear out of the place and disappear into the dark of the night.

While I was gone, my drummer got in a fistfight with our manager and threw him in the pool. The whole thing was a drunken, drippy mess. Everyone laughed and they made up. They turned up the music and trashed the place.

I got back at dawn to find everyone slumped into the pool chairs. The guys strummed their unplugged guitars and we sang “No Woman No Cry” to the sunrise.