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I spent last night in Ohio with one of the coolest groups of people on the planet. It is interesting how revivals never start in “important” places like NYC and LA, but in little “unimportant” towns. St. Francis De Sales Catholic Church in Newark is one of those unimportant places where important things are happening.

Three years ago there were 7 teens that went to the all the Masses combined. Now, 350 teens come to Life Teen Mass, and 150 to Life nights. Six nights every week something is happening at the church. Whenever kids go on dates, they swing by the church just to say hello and see what is going on.

Beneath the old cathedral in a musty and shadowy room, fifty teens gather to study by candlelight the lives of saints, philosophy, and theology. It was here that “Dead Theologians’ Society” began. I stood in the youth minister Eddie’s office, looking at a US map with pins scattered across it. “What do these pins mark?” He humbly replied, “Those are all the homes of the Dead Theologians’ Society.”

Mass was no less than awesome, and the crowd that I spoke to was solid, enthusiastic, and attentive. Eddie and I stayed up till 2:00 AM eagerly chatting about life, God, and adventure while we sipped on our fresh carrot and apple juice (thank you, Juiceman.)

When I am older, I want to be like Eddie. He still carries his youthful excitement, passion, optimism, and sense of responsibility in existing.

Now I am back behind this computer in Atlanta, just as I was 30 hours ago, but I am renewed and amped about life even more. It is such a gift to have these mini-retreats that put fire back in me.

Hah! I bet I got you into thinking that Meredith and I were getting married! Pssh…you all are so gullible.

That’s my second and last sister to get married in the past year. It is exciting to see our family begin its transition to the next life experience–marriage and new families. I very much like my new brother-in-laws, and am proud to call them my brothers.

It’s kind of weird that the names Katie Smith and Kristin Smith no longer exist. They were two awesome young girls that grew into exceptional women, with eyes wide open for a fine man. No longer will just “Katie” or “Kristin” be coming up for the weekend, but “Brian and Katie ” or; “Robbie and Kristin.”

It is somewhat ironic that Meredith’s first time back in Atlanta this year was to be my date to a wedding. As silly and random as catching of the garter and fight for the bouquet may be, there is still that uncanny ability for such random events to coincide and sew seeds of lifelong companionship. Who cares, neither of us caught them.

I cringed a few years ago to see they were re-releasing those cheesy love songs from the 80’s hair bands. Can’t we let bad music go? I can’t believe they’ve archived and now rekindled a time we need to let go.

Last Friday I was on my way to have dinner with my dad and sister. I was flipping through the radio station, and ended up listening to “Friday Night 80s” on Star94. They’ve been doing that stupid show for over a year now, which usually meant I couldn’t listen to that station on Friday nights. Some how I left the station on, and then it came–”Love is on the Way.” Oh that song by Saigon Kick.

For the first time, I didn’t think of the song as something hidden on an embarrassing mix tape on your shelf, or as a song that lame kids couldn’t let go. It some how sounded different; it sounded good (again.)

I suppose it is inevitable that I would end up slightly liking a decade that for so long haunted me. You know, as I type this, I think that my dislike for the 80’s is really just my disdain for anything that keeps me back.

But tonight I went all out and downloaded all those monster ballads:

Poison, “Talk Dirty to Me”
Damn Yankees, “Take Me Higher” (The band that I could never talk about)
Cinderella, “Don’t Know What You’ve Got”
White Snake, “Here I go Again”
Mr. Big, “To Be With You.”
Poison, “Something to Believe In.”
GNR, “November Rain.”

I have enjoyed those songs all night. I imagine the 1st grade Matthew sitting on bus 4 in the second seat on the right side. I am holding my blue Inspector Gadget lunchbox on my lap, trying not to get caught staring at my 11th grade bus driver. She had the prettiest dark eyes, the biggest 80’s hair held back by a bandana wrapped around her head. Her jeans were always ripped, giving me more skin than I was ready to look at.

In the back of the bus the rebellious young teens smoked cigarettes and listened to “Talk Dirty to Me” on their clunky metallic boom box. Their air guitars wailed as they puffed smoke rings from their potty mouths. They would write “GNR” on their pants with markers, wear guitar picks on their necklaces, and talk about how a machine called an “iroc” would free them from the school bus. They talked about a cool new toy called a VCR that they recorded the MTV Music Awards on, and how they could watch Poison’s performance anytime they wanted. I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. I was too afraid to ask, because I was afraid they would answer.

I can sit behind this computer and laugh at those kids that unknowingly shaped my music collection, and a good part of me. I can do this safely from my own house and in my own life. The last time I saw any of those kids was a few years ago, working at a gas station near our old high school.

Oh yeah…the school bus driver? When I was 16, I bussed tables at a restaurant and she was a waitress. I never mentioned that she was my bus driver; it was almost more fun letting the childhood crush be a secret. After about a month working there, she asked me on a date.

I wonder…do you think they tell stories about the kid with spiked blonde hair and funny glasses on MTV that used to ride their bus?

I’ve been into house shopping. For some reason, I have been hit with burning desire to get a place. I’m struggling with the whole thing, trying to figure out if it is selfishness, natural progression, or just a phase.

So this weekend I indulged in flipping through the paper, just to see what was out there. I kicked around my neighborhood, walking through houses and asking questions like I had a quarter of a million dollars. The air was so warm and was perfect for strolling through tree-lined streets playing grown up.

For the past couple months, every time I drive by 14th Street I look up at these condos. I lift my eyes to my rear-view mirror and see the skyline view that they relish in every time they look out their floor to ceiling windows. On my way back from my shopping adventures I saw a for sale sign by the sidewalk and…

So now I have a pad where I want to live, and I am seriously considering buying the place. I am doing everything I can to talk myself into and out of getting it. I want to make an educated, well thought-out decision. This is so exciting, but so much anxiety at the same time. We’ll see.

I spoke w/ my friend Eric from high school this evening. Eric and I became friends quickly after meeting my sophomore year. I’ll never forget his uncanny ability to let his pants fall down in public places, or his propensity for tripping and knocking over hick girls, flinging their notebooks and purses on the floor. Eric would do anything to make people laugh.

In the past few years I have only spoken to him a few times. That’s odd, considering that in high school friendship insisted we’d be homies forever. Now he is living in Hawaii, working for the local YMCA. We laughed about our stupid times together, and caught each other up on what’s happening in each other’s lives. It was rewarding to hear that he had watched several episodes of TRW and was proud of me.

Back when slim pants were synonymous with redneck britches, Eric and I made a pact that we wouldn’t ever wear tight pants. Each year we rejoiced in finding baggier and baggier pants in trendy shops in Atlanta. Then one day we looked around and everyone and their 13 year-old little brother are wearing big pants. Who would have thought? He and I confessed to putting our baggy drawls on the shelf, only to be pulled out for retro 90s parties.

I think I am more sentimental than I like to admit.