But before I move on, let’s talk about the privilege of having a job. I think it’s only fair that if you are employed right now, you should stop and be thankful for what you have. Be positive in your workplace and do good work. There are many people who would love to have your “worries” in exchange for a paycheck. As my barber told me yesterday: “I complained that I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet.”

I am NOT excited to restart classes in the MBA program. I’ve needed this winter break like Wall Street needed a bailout. The high expectations of both school and work totally wore me out in the last months of 2009, and I cannot say that I’ve regained my strength. But like it or not, I have an accounting class on Wednesday.

Sometimes I get confused about how to make priorities in this messy world. I mean, right now there are countless people buried alive in the rubble in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. The earthquake has left people with so much suffering…I cannot even imagine. I got home from work yesterday and turned on the news to get a more up close look at what people were going through. The news reporter told the story of a man who lost is wife beneath a collapsed building. The husband pressed his hand against a the rubble and held his ear to a concrete slab hoping to hear her tapping below. The tapping came and went. The husband and the rescue workers prayed and dug. The segment ended with the sad reality that they had not found his wife.

The thought of losing Candyce or Norah shreds my heart. I cannot imagine the pain this guy is experiencing. At this very moment, I am sure he is still digging for his wife. Me? I am at here at Starbucks at the airport typing on my laptop. What’s my biggest problem right now? I don’t want to go to class. What’s your problem?

How am I supposed to reconcile my life of privilege with the misfortune of others?

I don’t know if there is a clear way to keep my own life moving forward while still caring for the rest of the planet. I do what I can, even if it’s not enough. …I pray for those in need. I donate money to worthy causes…I volunteer my time…I try to be a caring friend and neighbor.

I try not to get enthralled in the dazzle of the material world. Because it’s hard to be a genuine person if you are easily impressed by fortune and fame. I do try to be successful in what I do–career, education, investments–but I constantly remind myself that this too shall pass.

Ultimately, I try to be the best husband and father that I can be. If every man made their family their top priority, much of our society’s ills would wash away.

::::

Honestly, I am still unsettled about this. About how to make daily priorities in such a messy world. I need to pray more about this. And right now I need to finish this so I can get on my plane. Boston here I come.

My ride from Essex to Detroit was pleasant because of the company of my driver, a man named Rene who drove a brand new Chrysler 300—a retirement gift that Chrysler gave him. We talked about the complexity of Labor Unions, and the inability of American automakers to stay competitive with foreign carmakers.

One of the unexpected subplots of my life as an adult is recognizing trends that I willfully ignore. Maybe it’s that adulthood frees me from blindly following the crowd, that is, I am too busy to care. My list includes, but is not limited to, the following: American Idol, skinny jeans, Survivor + 95% of all other reality shows—including my own show—the Real World, and American Idol. The newest addition to this list is the book/movie Twilight. These are facets of modern day pop culture that I am completely comfortable knowing nothing about. I don’t beat people over the head with my gleeful ignorance. Again, who has the time?

The reason why I bring this up is because I’m sitting at the Detroit airport waiting for my connection to Chicago before I’m back in Phoenix. I spent 10 minutes at the magazine stand amusing my mind with words and pictures of pop culture. Twilight is the new thing and I expect that I’ll eventually have to figure why these teenage vampire movies have the attention of every high school girl so I won’t be considered out of touch. But I’m in no hurry.

I moved to the “grown up” magazine section. I read in Time Magazine that Detroit has a 29% unemployment rate. That is one out of every three people who want a job do not have a job. It makes the national unemployment rate of 9.5-10% look like good times. Part of our drive on the outskirts of Detroit was particularly dismal. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to live here. I don’t want pick on the city anymore, but it’s clear that the decay of Detroit is real and shows no sign of stopping.

It’s remarkable how much cities can change. Downtown Tempe, once a mecca for nightlife and shopping, is no longer a worthwhile option. People would much rather go to Phoenix or Scottsdale to spend money and be seen. I’ve read many articles about the evolution of Downtown Tempe, but it doesn’t seem like anyone knows why the trendy college town just kind of went away.

So I ate at Ruby Tuesday this afternoon here at the Detroit airport. I felt like I owed them a trip because they’ve worked so hard to entice 20 and 30somethings into their establishment with a new menu and a drastically upgrade to their restaurant ‘s image. In short, it seems like they ditched their whole concept and started over. I’m assuming everything is new because I have no personal encounter with the “before” version of Ruby Tuesday, only this afternoon’s “after”.

For my entire life, I’ve never been able to tell the difference between TGIFridays, Ruby Tuesday, and Chili’s, and where applicable, Benegins. My indifference towards these establishments has not always been rooted in snobbery. When I was young, we were too poor to eat there on the rare occasion we traveled out of our small country town. By the time I grew up and had enough of my own money to go out to eat, the last thing I wanted to do in my new big city was to patronize restaurants that became famous for serving predictable food within 100-yards of a suburban shopping mall. So for an entire decade now, I’ve ignored these restaurants.

On the drive from Arcadia to the airport on Friday, Candyce and I passed a new Ruby Tuesday next to an equally new Aloft Hotel (W Hotel’s new line) along Phoenix’s newly Light Rail. It was an impressively urban “Creative Class” snapshot. My vanity was tugged with curiosity. So 24 hours later I ate at Ruby Tuesday here at the Detroit Airport. It was a good meal inside an airport, but I don’t think I’ll make it my Saturday night destination any time soon.

Well, that’s it for me. It’s time to get on the airplane and start studying for my Statistics midterm.

1. I just got back from a two-night trip to Dover, Delaware. Although I was painfully unprepared for the cold weather, it was a great trip. One of the priests I met, Fr. Gabage, is a serious art collector. He gave me an hour-and-a-half tour of his collection. I felt like I stepped into the final scene of National Treasure. The collection made most of the stuff I saw last week at the Phoenix Art Museum look like garbage. I could write forever about my concern over modern art, but I’ll try to keep this quick… It is a grave problem when the finest art from a generation doesn’t show any talent. When you strip away the intellectual bullsh!t that artists and their collectors say about the work, you are left with something that is entirely unimpressive.
2. My new favorite thing to eat at the airport is oatmeal. It’s simple, wholesome, and comforting. Starbucks and Cereality serve it up just right.
3. I don’t know how much more news I can handle about the “Financial Crisis.” I’m an avid reader of the Wall Street Journal, especially over the last six months when every day held a new story. But it’s getting me discouraged and I think it’s time to find something else to do with my time…
4. …like saving money. Candyce and I worked together to cut costs–including a different cell phone plan, car insurance, canceling subscriptions–and came up with $96 a month.  That’s adds up to more than $1160 in savings over twelve months.
5. It’s worth noting that when the economy is red hot, it’s cool to be seen living “the good life.” You know, vacations, car accessories, home upgrades, piling up investments. But when the economy is ice cold, everyone decides it’s cool to be seen saving money. Most of the people I know like to keep one foot in poverty and another in wealth. They lean in either direction when they need to, but in the end we’re all in pretty good shape, doing our best to responsibly manage our money as the years of our life pass by.
6. Rumor has it that one of my favorite restaurants is now a victim of a sluggish economy. What will downtown be without Palatte? I am grieving.
7. My six month old daughter has two bottom teeth now. This brings the grand total of teeth up to two. But make no mistake–when she bites you, you are in for some pain.
8. Trends are trends–if you ignore them, you’ll look like you’re just a leftover scrub from a decade past. I’m too old and sensible to wear the super-tight jeans like the trendy boys do, but my jeans are more snug now than they’ve ever been. I’ve been on a lot of business trips in 2009, and I’ve counted myself as one of the more stylish dudes in the airplane. But I’m also one of the least comfortable. I got a flicker of hope at 20,000 feet when I read the January issue of Esquire Magazine. Richard Dorment hinted that 2009 is ready for relaxed clothes:

For the past few years, a man could be forgiven for thinking that some fashion designers really had to be joking. The rib-crushing fit of certain suits, the tourniquetlike taper of so many skinny jeans, all those wacky school-boy proportions: While many in the fashion world were embracing these extreme views of silhouette and fit — the shorter and tighter, the better — those of us who wore their clothes were left sucking in our guts and praying to God that our pants didn’t split. Fashion being fashion, though, the collective mood seems to be shifting — think of it as a market correction — as designers from Bottega Veneta’s Tomas Maier and Burberry’s Christopher Bailey to the duo at Dolce & Gabbana are embracing more sensible, relaxed fits in their spring collections. Not baggy or saggy or overly loose-fitting. No: relaxed, with clothes maintaining a close, easy, and, above all, comfortable relationship to the body.

My driver from Providence to Cape Cod told me about the time twenty years ago when picked up Franklin Delano Roosevelt III, the grandson of the U.S. president Franklin Dealano Roosevelt, at the port where the ferry arrives on the Massachusetts shore from island of Martha’s Vineyard. There wasn’t much to his story besides the fact that FDR the Third thought he was too good to speak to him on the two hour drive to the airport. My driver explained: “He was an asshole.”

Although I felt like I had to stick up for the grandson of a US President, I couldn’t argue on his behalf because I honestly didn’t know there was an FDR3. Instead, I changed the subject to talk about cars. That lasted for another hour until we arrived in Cape Cod.

Since I’ve been back, I did a little research and learned that FDR3 is a respected economics professor at Sarah Lawrence College in New York state–an honorable position within our society. You can see his faculty page on the university’s website.  When I reconsider my driver’s experience with the man, I imagine that both of the guys in that taxi on that random day in the 1980s were unsatisfied with where they were in life. What boy wants to grow up to be a cab driver? And how can even the most accomplished economist not feel like an underachiever when he was expected to grow up to be nothing less than the President of the United States?

I imagine this scene plays out every day in each corner of our society. The characters and circumstances are different, but the consistent theme is reconciling the dreams and aspirations from youth with the tough realities of life.

Several years ago I heard a great story on This American Life a man who played in a 1970s British punk rock band called The Automatics. They had little commercial success, so he moved on to other things in life, eventually became a successful mortgage broker in Beverly Hills. One afternoon while at his office, he went on eBay to find if any of his band’s old records were being sold online.

That moment of curiosity began a story that ended with the discovery that his band’s old records had garnered much attention in Japan, enough fans to warrant a reunion tour through Japan, although he would be the only original member of the band on the tour. So he took a break from his high-dollar job in Beverly Hills and traveled to Japan with his wife to play the songs he wrote in high school. Except this time, he was in his late 40s, and he would play in front of hordes of fans. One venue was so packed with fans that his only way out of the building after the show was to be passed over the crowd.

Host Ira Glass asked what it was like to experience a postponed fame:  “We don’t get what we deserve. We get what we get, and you have to be okay with that.”

Depending on who you ask, Barack Obama is more than a president, he is a celebrity, an icon, a super hero, a civil rights leader, or a savior. How can this type of adoration be anything but a speculative bubble, a big disappointment waiting to happen? One man cannot undo the adversity that our nation faces. One man cannot solve every man’s problems. These words may seem negative or even unpatriotic today, but I can guarantee that you will hear this same sentiment grow as each day passes in the Obama administration.

I sincerely hope I am wrong here. I recognize that each president has gifts, talents, and wisdom apart from his predecessors, but each president faces adversity more daunting than anything he encountered in his fight to win the White House.  To campaign as a solution to our problems is one thing, to solve those problems is another.

I will close with this. In all of the news coverage on Obama’s inauguration day, the most balanced perspective came from a twenty-second comment from Ted Koppel on NPR’s Talk of the Nation with Neil Connan:

He is not a foolish man, Barack Obama. He understand that the challenges that confront him now are going to make some of these high flown speeches seem almost quaint in a few months.  He still faces all of the same problems that George Bush faced. Will there be a difference in tone? You bet. They’re already is. Will there be a difference in terms of tactics? Very likely. Is the ultimate strategy going to change? I would be surprised.

Shortly after Candyce and I got back into Phoenix, my mom, dad, and grandmother arrived in town. They enjoyed meeting their new grand daughter. We had a great time hanging out over the long weekend. (As usual, Dad helped me finish some odd jobs around the house: repaired tiles on the step, finished wiring hallway light switch, and patched a drywall hole in the wall.)

Now I am in the White Mountains of eastern Arizona for my “official” 30th birthday celebration. I feel like joining a new decade of life warrants a reflection on the previous decade. It would take too long to write something profound and life-changing for a reader, but I have too much going on to do something that noble. So instead I’ll just record the random thoughts spinning in my head in the two weeks since I turned 30:

1. I refuse to complain about aging because it is in poor taste.
There’s nothing more pathetic than claiming that 30 is the new 20. It sounds absurd and foolish, because trying to live in someone else’s decade is just that—absurd and foolish. It smells of insecurity. Act your own age.

Don’t misunderstand me: if you are 50 and you feel as optimistic, energetic, and passionate as when you were 20, that’s fine. Good for you. I hope to be just like you some day! But I’m not going to assemble a lifestyle so that a stranger would assume I am younger than I actually am. I’m 30 and proud of it. Afterall, someone around here have to act like a grown up.

2. Humor is a gift.
Like most gifts, humor can be misused. Don’t use your humor to tear other people down. Negative humor like sarcasm causes distrust which will make you lose friends. If you can be funny and positive at the same time, you’ll be a happier person and you’ll make more friends.

3. Fame was very good to me.
I was able to travel the world and help people. If you find yourself famous some day, I encourage you to do the same. Fame, like most things in life, is temporary. (Very few people will live and die famous.) You will have every chance to use your fame to delight in the pleasures of the world, but you soon the spotlight will pass and you’ll be left to reconcile who you were when the world was watching.

4. Diversify your investment portfolio.
No really. Do it. If you are afraid to pull your money out of market because the returns are so dazzling, then you are probably in a bubble.

5. Everyone needs compassion.
Here’s the deal: we all have flaws. That’s right, all of us. And which one of us doesn’t need more compassion? Try not to judge others. It is impossible to judge someone one and love them at the same time. I’ve tried, and believe me, it doesn’t work that way. If someone is being aggressive or spiteful towards me, I learned to first greet them with compassion. Compassion has a unique ability to disarm hostility.

6. I have no tolerance for arrogant people.
Arrogance is a tool for an insecure person to become the center of attention, surrounded by other insecure people who need their approval. There is nothing fun or life-giving in those circles of friends. What is ironic about arrogance is that anyone can be arrogant. Anyone! There are no requirements for success, charm, intelligence, or life experience. You just have to wake up one day and decide that you are better than everyone else and start to treat others poorly. If you choose to be arrogant, we won’t be hanging out together.

7. It’s good to be a fan.
Following a sports team adds richness to you life. It connects you to your city and to other people. Becoming a fan of the Phoenix Suns has given me countless good parties with good people watching a good team. What more could you want? Just be sure to “diversify” your sports portfolio so you aren’t disheartened when your one-and-only team doesn’t win the championship. Cheer for several teams and you’re guaranteed an occasion to celebrate each year.

8. Tattoos last forever.
Your taste will change over the years, and you want to have a tattoo that you can be proud of in each decade of your life. I have found little evidence that your interests in high school and college are worth commemorating in a tattoo. There’s no shame in waiting till later in life to get a tattoo. If after much thought you’re positive that you want to get a tattoo, save up a lot of money so you can hire a talented tattoo artist. This is a piece of artwork that you will keep for a lifetime, so it’s worth getting the best.

9. Very few people today seek truth.
People are very proud of their opinions and they will share them often, even if they don’t know what they are talking about. You get a high when you share an opinion. You feel important, smart, and powerful all at once. I have not met many people who have enough fortitude to slow down and learn about an issue before they form an opinion.

What makes things worse is that people often adopt opinions for no other reason than because it’s a popular opinion. Now you’re not just one person who feels important, smart, and powerful, but a member of a crowd that is important, smart, and powerful. We are a gregarious species. I can’t imagine we’re going to progress as a society if our discourse is a popularity contest and not a means by which we uncover truth.

10. I love Candyce.
I didn’t think I would wait so long before I got married, but I am glad that I was patient and waiting for the right one. Candyce is beautiful friend that I am very happy to spend my life with. What could be better than going on a date everyday? I cannot understand why people complain about their spouses. I mean, aren’t you the one that chose to marry that person?

11. I love being a father.
A guy cannot understand himself fully until he becomes a father. Males have traits that are not appreciated in the life of a single 20-something. But as you hold your newborn baby, those traits rise to the surface, and you become twice the man you were the day before. It’s an exhilarating transition.

One week after Obama won the US Presidential Election, and the world anticipates great things. But is greatness possible?

First things first. This is a non-partisan blog entry. None of what you’ll read below is recycled fodder from political blogs. Nor is it an emotional response to the election results. This more of a personal reflection of an American citizen offering insight as our country as Obama prepares to back up his U-haul to the back door of the White House. If you need proof of how detached I was from this election, read on. If you take my word for it and want to read what I came here to write about, skip down to Reality Bites.

….

Friends will tell you that I am a man of conviction. So they’ve been surprised that I’ve been intellectually curious yet emotionally disconnected in the months leading up to the election. This is how I explain the contradiction:

1. Life Got Busy. When candidates made their first stops on the campaign trail two years ago, I was preparing to be married. Soon after I tied the knot, I began a massive 12-month house remodel that I completed one week before the birth of Norah. As Senators McCain and Obama were lapping the country over the past month and a half, Candyce I were making trips to the pediatrician with our newborn. Through the ordeals of life I tried to stayed educated on the presidential race, but there wasn’t enough energy at the end of the day to become emotionally engaged.
2. I’m tired of meaningless brawls about political issues. One of best things to hit TV this decade is Discover Channel’s epic documentary series Planet Earth. One thing I’ve found from watching the series is that male mammals have an instinctual desire for battling other males. This is not a death match, but a routine show of aggression that wins the attention of females. It’s an exercise that also prepares the male to eventually defend his offspring.

   When young men debate politics, all I hear the bucking of heads, the hollow clank of locking of horns. More often than not, young political debaters have no end goal other than to be admired as an academic athlete in a public debate. I was once one of these young bucks, but I don’t have time to lock horns with someone who isn’t interested in a serious and open-minded discussion about public policy.

The election is over and so are the debates. Now we are given a couple months where every citizen can take a deep breathe and figure out what our nation will look like under the leadership of a new man. Some are hopeful, others are skeptical. Let me explain why I am somewhere in between.

Reality Bites

When a newly elected politician arrives in office, voters should expect a symbolic action to mark that “change has arrived.”

Take for instance two years ago when Democrats grabbed the Senate and promised 100 bills in 100 days. Or was it 40 bills in 40 days? Does anyone remember? Seriously, when was the last time you heard someone talking about those glory days?

What I do know is that it’s been almost two years since that remarkable Democratic takeover in Washington, and the blue Senate has lower approval ratings than Republican President George W. Bush. How is this possible? Did the Democrats forget what their heroic debut on Washington and abandon their promises to voters?

Perhaps, but more likely they’re time is occupied with new and difficult problems they must solve on behalf of their constituency. The real work of a politician rarely wins applause from the public.

Barack Obama will arrive in office as in icon/celebrity/hero, and will quickly be needed to manage the epic banking crisis that’s rocked the planet over the past two months.This financial meltdown and subsequent government bailout happened so fast that none of us have had time to step back and see what this colossus actually looks like.

Emotions will run high as voters see its split personality: friendly giant and reckless monster. It doesn’t matter if the source of the problem is complex and many are to blame, it will always be the current leaders who are held accountable. As our chief executive, Obama will have a lot of explaining to do.

Let’s not forget that the War on Terror must continue. In the months after 9/11, a political commenter on NPR explained that President Bush would probably be an unpopular president because of the fickle nature of the American people. If the United States were attacked a second time by terrorists, then Bush would go down as a coward who was unable to muster the aggression and certitude needed to defeat the enemy.

However, if President Bush were successful and prevented acts of terror on our soil during his administration, the voters would become comfortable and indifferent towards terror in the same way we were back in the 1990s. Any act of the president in the name of the War on Terror would seem overzealous and uncalled for.

How’s that for prophecy?

President Obama will assume his role as the commander-in-chief. Like it or not, he will inherit complex foreign policy problems that can not be easily remedied. If you withdraw from Iraq too early, then you will leave the nation in chaos and vulnerable to the aggression of terrorists or neighboring Iran. Although keeping troops in Iraq may be unpopular with voters who bleed blue, it may be President Obama’s only option.

Tag, You’re It

During the Clinton administration during the 1990s, Republican voters blamed problems on Democratic Party. For the last eight years under the Bush administration, Democrats blamed our nation’s problems on the Republican party. Now that the Democrats have control of Washington, it’s the Republican voters’ turn to blame problems on Democrats.

Do you see how this game works? For the young Democrats who’ve graduated college during the Bush administration, you better get tough real fast because blame is coming your way.

The hope and exhilaration that precedes Obama’s administration will soon be deflated by the messy game of politics.

On a side note, the blame game can make some men into powerful icons of reason. When your party is out of office, complaining and playing know-it-all through the media can be a very good for your career.

This is why conservative pundit Rush Limbaugh thrived in during the Clinton administration, and characters like Michael Moore and Jon Stewart thrived during the Bush administration.

Good for times for ideological foes:
President Bill Clinton and right-wing pundit Rush Limbaugh

Good for times for ideological foes:
President George W. Bush and left-wing film maker Michael Moore

Good for times for ideological foes:
President George W. Bush and comedian critic Jon Stewart

If I were a betting man, I’d bet that Jon Stewart’s Daily Show will lose viewers steadily until Republicans gain control of the House or the Senate.

Summary: Wait and See

Some people will argue that this game of tag is over because Obama is a revolutionary figure that can re-invent Washington.

Unfortunately, precedent won’t give much reason for optimism. In my lifetime, every new president has arrived in office under the banner of “it’s time for a change”, and soon they’re just another president slowed by the inefficiencies of our trademark checks and balances system. More often than not, the once-heroic candidate becomes synonymous with bureaucratic Washington.

Time will tell.

President Obama will have my prayers and support.

The Masters of the Universe who called the shots  at Lehman Brothers, Merrill Lynch, and Bear Stearns are not as divine as they had people believe.

We’ll see how this plays out.

1. I love being married. Candyce is the most wonderful person I’ve ever met. It’s a privilege to spend every day with her.

2. I wake up early. Since Candyce graduated college twelve months ago, her daily routine involves working at the coffee shop in the mornings and freelance graphic design in the afternoon. In late December we found out we were going to have a baby, which meant that a lot would change (for the better, of course.) One of the first changes was that Candyce can’t lift heavy things like the patio furniture and umbrellas in front of the coffee shop. So every morning since January 1st, I’ve gotten up at 5:30 AM and I am out the door by 5:45 AM. I enjoy the cool mornings and like the idea of getting a head start on the day.

3. Life takes management. An ambitious person like myself will continue to seize opportunities and pile on new projects. At the moment, my ongoing projects are remodeling my home, refreshing my landscape, preparing for a baby, and charting a financial course for my family’s future. None of this will get done unless I work hard and consistently. However, you cannot have progress on multiple projects unless you stop working and assess progress.

I take one day every two weeks to sit at my dining room table and grade myself on my progress. If I am failing on any project, then I need to recognize that and change the way I am doing things. For example…

• In March I realized that the project was taking too long, devouring time and money. To get things on track, I opted not to build a computer docking station / office in a recess in the living room. Instead, I spruced up the wet bar that is already there with new paint and drawer pulls.
• In April I realized that I the remodel had slowed because I was intimidated by the electrical work that needed to be done in the kitchen. I decided to call in the help of Jason Myer–handyman extraordinaire–to coach me through the first day of wiring.
• In May, I realized that my landscape was crumbling because I was spending all of my time inside. So invited over eight friends for six hours of hard work on a Saturday morning. I called this event a “Baby Daddy Work Day.” Honestly, I hope this becomes a tradition for expectant fathers. Every guy needs a little help to get his fortress in order.

4. I don’t watch remodeling shows. Do doctors come home and watch ER? Do police officers and district attorneys unwind with an episode of Law & Order? I’ve been remodeling my house for eleven months now, and the last thing I want to do is watch someone else remodel their house. I don’t mind getting updates on real life remodeling projects from my friends, but home remodeling shows tend to be far detached from reality. (In other words, these shows make me feel bad.) Plus, the “remodeling for profit” shows stand in utter contrast to the common knowledge that the Real Estate market sucks. I wrote about this earlier in Flip This House Viewer’s Guide.

5. Breaking up with NPR. I’ve listened to National Public Radio consistently since 1998 when I was a sophomore in college. Since then, NPR has been my source for news that is not dumbed down. However, there is one consistent weak spot that frustrates me: hosts rarely challenge their guests. I’m not asking for a shouting match, but a host needs to have the confidence to challenge a guest’s research and opinions on behalf of the listeners.

The least challenged guest is the career academic who just wrote a book and is therefore ready to deliver his well-rehearsed opinions. If left unchallenged, he can (and always will) run his mouth about contentious social and cultural issues for ten minutes straight.

On a side note, I am always amused how the non-fiction books featured on NPR have the same rhythm to their titles. These are not the mysterious and succinct titles of fiction novels. No. The modern non-fiction titles are so wordy that they often warrant multiple punctuation marks. The length seems to be critical to the success of the book, because they leave no doubt as to what they’re writing about or who they are writing for. Nine times out of ten, the books featured on NPR appeal to someone’s intellectual vanity as well as their insecurity as a citizen in a world superpower. After a few minutes of searching online, I found some examples:

1. Why We Hate Us: American Discontent in the New Millennium by Dick Meyer
2. Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do (and What It Says about Us) by Tom Vanderbilt
3. Beyond Tolerance: Searching for Interfaith Understanding in America by Gustav Niebuhr

I am not well-read enough to give an informed opinion about the evolution of book titling, but it’s clear that you don’t have to look far to know that trends are trends, and no segment of pop culture can escape the desire to be cool. Trends are as rampant on NPR (my preset station #1) as they are on Power 98.3 (the hip hop station, preset #2.)

Right now on Power 98.3 everyone is little: Lil John, Lil Scrappy, Lil Wayne, Lil Mamma, Lil Flip. I searched for entertainers with the word “lil” in their name, and I found 513. If you were a rapper in the early 1990s, it was good to be the master of ceremonies: MC Hammer, Young MC, MC Lyte.

Personally, I’m rooting for the rappers and R&B singers who buck the trend and keep their birth names: Chris Brown, Jim Jones, Mike Jones. Why? My name is Matt Smith.

6. We do not drive far. In my thirteen years of driving, I’ve never witnessed such a drastic increase in gasoline prices. Over the course of four weeks at the beginning of the summer, gas prices increase from somewhere in the $2.90 per gallon to $4.25 per gallon.

As of this morning in mid August, gas prices of fallen about fifty cents per gallon to $3.75 since from the high a couple months ago. I snapped this photo on my phone on a particularly painful day at the pump:

Gas prices suck.

Candyce and I decided to change our lifestyles to cope with the higher prices at the pump.

1. We combine errands. We make lists of places that we each need to go to, and then we plan our trips around town together. It’s actually a lot of fun. Errands aren’t as cumbersome when you’re cruising around town with your girlfriend listening to music.
2. We don’t drive far away from home. This is fine with me, because I moved to leafy green South Tempe because it is so pretty and close to fun stuff.
   
3. We carpool with friends. I’ve always been an advocate for carpooling, but it doesn’t work unless you find someone who shares your conviction. Since everyone is feeling the pain, it’s easy to plan a night out with your friends using a single car

Every barista at the coffee shop has given up their cars altogether and now ride their bikes to work. Keep in mind…it’s summer in Phoenix, and it’s not comfortable to ride a bike under the sun. It’s cool though…the streets are more friendly when people are zipping around on bicycles.

Leg #1: Phoenix >> Chicago >> Pittsburgh >> Steubenville
Leg #2: Steubenville >> Pittsburgh >> Charlotte >> Phoenix >> San Diego
Leg #3: San Diego >> almost Huntsville then Knoxville >> Atlanta >> Tiger
Leg #4: Tiger >> Atlanta >> Fort Meyers >> Ave Maria
Leg #5: Ave Maria >> Fort Meyers >> Atlanta, Atlanta, Atlanta >> Phoenix

People watching at Chicago O’Hare Airport

Getting up at 4am is not fun. The body is confused by three competing sensations: exhaustion, adrenaline, and anxiety. But somehow it’s a beautiful moment when you realize somebody loves you enough to wake up with you and drive you to the airport. I kissed Candyce goodbye at the curb. Two hours later, I was asleep on the plane to Chicago.

What do you do with four hours to kill in Chicago? People watch. Unlike like your local mall, you can gaze upon the hordes at the airport without feeling like a creep. While observing the foot-traffic patterns for a couple hours, I’ve developed two rules worth making into laws:

1. Walk fast or get out of the way. You may have some time to kill waiting for your flight, but most people do not. Nine out of ten people in an airport are zooming through the airport so they can catch a close flight. And that flight means a lot: there are loved ones and big business deals waiting at their final destinations. So save your leisurely stroll for your neighborhood sidewalks! If you are a chaperon of a group on a summer trip and you have to stop and regather, do it away from the lanes of hurried travelers. This common sense understanding of the reality of airport will save you from getting yelled at or punched in the face.
2. Do not walk and eat at the same time. This is not as civic-minded as the first rule; I just don’t like watching people who do this. Let’s break this down. If you are in a hurry and you are walking, you have an air of importance because you are alert and on a mission. I’m okay with this. Eating is an occasion for romance and friendship, and an opportunity to delight in a chef’s handiwork. I’m okay with this too. But when you try to walk and eat at the same time, you look unsophisticated and confused by surroundings. This can all be avoided if you get it to go and eat it on the airplane. (Exception to this rule: walking and eating Mentos.)

Buy Upright Roller Luggage with Caution

I think we all have to do our part to add dignity and finesse to the thoroughfares of the modern world. What would we do without young people with scarves zipping around our city streets on Vespa scooters? You all make me smile! My wife likes seeing guys carry bouquets of flowers up staircases because she knows love is in the air. Think about it, every neighborhood coffee shop needs at least one old guy wearing a barrette, and everyone feels safe and happy when cute young moms push baby strollers through neighborhood sidewalks.

This brings me to a modern atrocity known as “upright roller luggage.” But first, let’s review where we’ve been:

1. Grab life buy the handle. You can watch old black and white movies and admire men with hats and suit jackets carrying their luggage by the handle, the same way you’d carry a toolbox or a briefcase. You looked ambitious and ready for new opportunities. The film Catch Me if You Can would not have been the same without several scenes accessorized by handled suitcases.

Leo never looked so good.

As an added bonus, a handled suitcase can be used as a weapon.

2. Luggage on a leash. Using forensic evidence I’ve found at thrift stores from my childhood, somewhere in the 1960s, people’s arms got tired and they invented the first wheeled suitcase. These were hard-shell vinyl suitcases in dazzling colors like harvest gold, avocado green, orange, and occasionally turquoise.

If you are 25 or younger, you’ve probably never seen one of these. Here’s kinda how it worked…imagine lowering your hand-held suitcase onto four wheels and then fastening a short leash to the top front corner. Now drag it behind you like a stiff, reluctant dog. This invention was hardly an accomplishment: it was top heavy and prone to flipping and knocking over children when you made tight turns. Not even lusty retro lovers will buy one of these monstrosities at a yard sale. These are all decaying in American landfills next to first-run lava lamps.

3. Modern pull-behind luggage. This is the most functional type of travel bag you can find. It’s agile and rarely tips over. As an added bonus, you can stuff the bottom of a Starbucks coffee cup in the spot where the collapsed handle fits. And if you are trying to look cool, you will be happy to know that pull behind luggage adds to your swagger in the same way as carrying an umbrella ads to your peppiness. As an added bonus, the durable wheels inherited from Rollerblades glide across the floor with a rhythmic pulse. Humanity wins!

4. Upright rollers. It’s basically a looks just like the modern pull-behind luggage, except it rolls beside you on four wheels. The telescoping handle is used to steer the thing as you go. (Stay tuned for a diagram.)

The problem here is that you just can’t look cool with one of these things. You are as cartoonish as a sprinter running with his hands in his pockets. Or like you are dragging a really heavy purse on the ground next to you. I haven’t seen one tip over yet, but it looks built-to-spill like a waitress who balances a coffee pot on her head. I’m getting mad just writing about it, so I’ll stop here.

Franciscan University of Steubenville Welcomes Matt Smith

I haven’t been on the campus of Franciscan since the summer of 2003. I was happy to see that the dorms have been re-built to look more residential and less institutional (peaked roofs vs. brick boxes.) I enjoyed speaking at the conference and visiting with the students. The coffee shop at the center of campus made for a fun common grounds while the thunderstorms swirled through Ohio.

At the end of the day, I decompressed at the hotel watching jazz ensembles from the 1960s on PBS and Hip Hop v. America: Where Did the Love Go? on BET.

Are you ready for some pop culture irony? All I need you to do is actually click on the links and listen to the music, otherwise, reading this is a waste of time.

Listen to Usher’s “Love in this Club” (2008)

Actually, it’s probably not necessary that you click that link because the song is already playing as you these letters on my website. Statistically, you’ve already heard this song three times before lunch. Every radio station is playing the song every seven minutes without any hesitation. This is notable because the lyrics leave no room for misinterpretation: “I wanna make love in this club…on the couch, on the table, on the bar, or on the floor…I wanna make love in this club.”

How can radio stations play a song this explicit without making people mad? For listeners, even the most vigilant parents are hypnotized by the prettiness. Even cautious radio program directors who live in fear of the FCC put the song in heavy rotation because it subconsciously reminds them of going to prom in the 1980s when life was simple and innocent, when they were forever young.

Listen to Alphaville’s “Forever Young” (1984)

- or for some more fun, watch their video on YouTube -

Watch Alphaville’s “Forever Young” (1984)

If you weren’t around in 1984, “Forever Young” is the song that first played at the school dance in the movie Napoleon Dynamite. The dreamy layers of synthesizers added the atmosphere that made that scene so memorable.

“I like your sleeves.”

I’m not arguing that Usher is doing a cover of Alphaville. There are notable differences in the two songs, the most obvious being that Usher’s song is better. Less subjective differences are as follows:

1. Usher is cool and Alphaville is not
2. Usher lays on a heavy hip hop beat where there was none
3. Alphaville used odd trumpets in the bridge, Usher selected the wheezy Young Jeezy to articulate what Usher really means to “make love in this club” (Probably to keep the song from sounding too pretty.)

In the end, the greatest similarity between the two songs is that these song will continue to play at school dances for the next few decades.

Here’s some more fun with decades:

Listen to Lil Wayne’s “I’m Me” (2008)

Listen to Moby’s “God Moving Over the Face of Waters” (1995) (The similarities start 45 seconds into the song.)

Like Usher, Lil Wayne grabbed the vibe of his song from someone else. Unlike Usher, Lil Wayne thought it’d be cool to make bird sounds in the first 10 seconds of his song.

Historically, these similarities won’t be worth recording in the story of hip hop. But it’s clear that the authentic hip hop formula of MC + DJ = Hip Hop is long gone. This is a music business, and the natural selection of the biz defines that biggest hip hop hits are made from notorious MCs that narrate a hip hop beat driving over a diverse collage of pop music, whether its 1980s New Wave or 1990s techno.

Yes. Hip hop is pop music.

As the title of this blog suggests, I’d like to talk about The Hills. Here’s my introduction:

“My wife’s sister goes to ASU. She’s busy studying and doesn’t have Tivo, so she records The Hills at my house. On Saturdays I’ll be in the kitchen remodeling while she’s in the living room watching The Hills…”

You get the idea.

Now I would like to offer some tips to all the young ladies how to be cute like Lauren, Audrina, and and Whitney. These 6 simple techniques will add a splash of cuteness to everyday life.

1. Dancing

When you are dancing, it’s critical that you dance with your arms above your head. Dancing with arms below the head can not pass as cute. Dancing is not limited to night clubs. If you want to communicate that you are having fun and you only have a few seconds to work with, lift your arms above your head. Smile. Rock and spin your hips.

Diagram 1a: Above head= cute

2. Conversing

At no point in your day are you allowed to speak to another with out touching your hair, face, earring, or necklace. Although there are many options for fiddling with your hair, it is best to adjust your bangs away from your face. Avoid tucking hair behind your ear. Although this will prevent your hair from flopping in front of your face, you’ll also rob yourself of the next chance to look cute by adjusting your hair.

Diagram 02a: In this rare scene, all three people adjust their hair. Lauren (top), JustinBobby (bottom left) and Audrina (bottom right)

Diagram 2b: Audrina knows how to be cute, especially when she’s on a date with a moron on a motorcycle. Clockwise from the top: Adjusting an ear ring, lifting her bangs, listening (see number 04), and twiddling of hair.

Diagram 2c: Below, Heidi and Audrina, adjusting their hair while taking turns talking…

Notice the subtitle read: “To hang out. Kind of stuff like that.”

3. Vocabulary

It is not necessary to use a variety of words to describe anything. (See above.)

4. Listening

If you are waiting for your turn to talk, continue adjusting your hair (see diagram 2c). But if it i clear that you will not be speaking anytime soon (herein defined as listening), it is best to adjust your hands accordingly: place your hand beneath your chin away from your hair.

Diagram 4a: Lauren’s trademark listening gesture…

The most glamorous way to listen is to make the shape of an “L” with your thumb and forefinger (think “Loser”). Now prop your chin on the thumb and press your finger against the side of your face. Occasionally nod your head and smile. This will give the perception that you are fascinated.

04. Not Listening

“Not listening” is a bold gesture used to signal to be used sparingly. Prop your elbow on the table and relax your fingers; they will naturally curl into a loose fist. Now rotate your fist back to expose the inside of your wrist. Avoid eye contact with the talker, and look around the room in search of something more interesting. This position is best used to communicate that you are uninterested in the conversation about Spencer.

05. Pronunciation

Words like “to” and “you” and “cute” should not be pronounced too and yoo and cyoot. That was so last millennium. Instead, aim for “yow” and “tow” and “cyowt.” Give it a lift as you are finishing the word, almost as if you were running out of breath. You might think this sounds odd, and it will, but it is cute. Cyowt.

06. Flirting.

Like any other conversation, it is important play with your hair. But flirting requires more attention to the details. First, position your body away from the boy that you like. Next, tilt your head to the side. Now rotate your eyes towards your boy and flick your eyes wider. Repeat if necessary.

While flirting with Steven from High School, she played with her necklace (left), then continued with her hair (center, right). Cyowt!

Summary:

So girls, there you have it! Tune into The Hills on MTV for how-to videos.

For all of you guys out there, I don’t have much advice for you. To grab the attention of the girls from The Hills, I’ve found no evidence that you must do anything right (see Brody, Spencer, and JustinBobby.) But I will warn you that adopting the persona of any male from that show will not increase your probability of impressing females. That stuff only works on TV. In real life, you need to be intelligent, charming, and responsible.

I am discouraged by last night’s loss against the Spurs. It’s going to be difficult for the Suns to get out of the first round of the playoffs when we’re down two games to none.

But I will say this, in the past few years, there’ve been two teams that have climbed out of a hole this deep. The Miami Heat was down 2-0 in the 2006 NBA Championship series against the Dallas Mavericks, and the Heat went on to win the next four. The Phoenix Suns were down 3-1 against the LA Lakers a few years ago in the 1st round of the play offs. The Suns went on to win the next three and move onto the next round.

Why does this matter? Both of those come-from-behind teams were lead by two future Hall of Famers: Shaq (Heat) and Nash (Suns.) Now here we are in 2008, and the MVPs are both Phoenix Suns. If anyone can do it, it’s the Suns.

Having said that, lets talk about…

My Trouble with the Police

Last fall, Candyce and I were on our way to see The Darjeeling Limited in the theaters when I decided to swing by her brother’s house to pick up her jacket. (Lesson from first year of marriage: females get cold more quickly than males, especially in air conditioned movie theaters.) While she was inside digging for her jacket, I noticed two cop cars pulled in front of a house down the street. Candyce hopped back in the car and I opted to exit out of the neighborhood through the far gate just to see what the commotion was all about. I know this is messed up, to snoop in on neighbors like that, but curiosity is a powerful thing.

I rolled by the cop cars slow enough to see what was going on, but not so slow that I looked suspicious. Both cop cars gunned onto the street and followed me through the neighborhood. Great. As I sat at the exit to the neighborhood waiting for the gates to swing open, I told Candyce that I was going to get pulled over. “But first they’re going to follow me down the street and into the intersection so they can put on a big show with their flashing lights.” She started to panic, and I told her not to worry because we hadn’t broken any laws.

Twenty seconds later, they lit me up with the swinging blue lights. The whole intersection froze. The only cars that moved was my own, followed by two cops.

A young police officer walked up to the car and put his flashlight in my face. “Do you know why we pulled you over?” I was friendly but honest. “No officer, I don’t.” With the light still in my face, he told me that my license plates expired six months ago.

I did not know this.

He asked for some paperwork and we couldn’t find any of it in the glove compartment. As I handed him my driver’s license and an expired insurance card, I offered an explanation, “We got married earlier this year, and it’s been really hectic. I lost track of time.”

He came back to my car a few minutes later. He leaned into my door and held my driver’s license two feet in front of his face, skipping his eyes from my face to the photo on my license. As I am prepared to defend the authenticity of my ID, he tells me this: “You look really familiar.”

I have heard those four words assembled in that order more time than I can remember…those words have become a part of my life. Without hesitation, I casually told the officer that I was involved in local churches…that I live in the area…that I write for the Phoenix Suns…and that I was on The Real World… (This is my verbal resume for PHX Citizen of the Year, punctuated by a claim to fame.) His stern look of disapproval melted into a smile. “No way! I thought that was you!”

He turned away from the window and looked back to the second police officer sitting in his car. He waved his hand forward with enthusiasm. The second officer was too lazy to get out of his car, or maybe he thought I was a tool and didn’t want to waste his time. No problem.

The cop, Candyce, and I spent the next 20 minutes talking about reality television and the Phoenix Suns. He finished the conversation with a gentle reprimand for having an expired tag, but then told me what I needed to do to fix the problem. I told him I would send his wife an autographed photo. We shook hands and went on with our lives.

(Officer, if you are reading this, I apologize for not sending that photo. I lost your address and I feel really bad about it. If you email me, I’ll make things right.)

Welcome to the Department of Motor Vehicles

I’ve driven around town for the past four months understanding that I could get pulled over at anytime because of my expired plates. As illogical as it sounds, dodging cops all winter seemed like a better option going to the DMV.

You see, standing in line at the DMV is a humbling rite of passage into adulthood. It’s a memorable encounter with lifeless world of tax-funded bureaucracy. At risk of sounding melodramatic, it’s a two-hour experience that makes you feel like you’ve lost all momentum in life. Smart people will experience the DMV once, and then vow to avoid that place again.

Last week my friends made fun of me for my expired plates, and I defended myself be explaining the DMV is a leper colony. Jason told me to renew my plates online and avoid the DMV. It was a dream come true. I walked back inside and renewed my tags on the Internet in less than ten minutes. Just for fun, I played Chamillionaire’s anthem “Ridin’ Dirty” while I clicked through the site.

But what do you do when the stickers don’t come in the mail? You call them and ask what’s up. And what did the person on the phone tell me to do? Go to the DMV.

Sucker Free DMV

Since my last trip to the building, they’ve added a Time-Square like news ticker. In theory, this is a clever addition. The news lights up the screen brightens our spirits by connecting us to the hyper reality outside the walls of the DMV. But since all the news was bad that day, I just got more sad. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried to get some spiritual perspective when I was jolted back to reality when they called my number.

I sat in a chair and spoke to the 20-something girl across the counter from me. I explained that I needed to renew my license plate… She nodded her head, and then spent two minutes in silence clicking around her computer. There wasn’t much for me to do in those awkward moments except to size up the gravity of the moment.

I pity the young people who work at the DMV. If you are in your 30s or 40s and you work at the DMV, somehow it doesn’t seem that bad. But if you’re in your 20s and therefore young enough to still want to be a rock star, then working at the DMV is a public admission of defeat. I know this because our entire generation was raised on The Simpsons. Marge Simpson’s repulsive twin sisters, Patty and Selma, work at the DMV by day, and chainsmoke and the lust over McGyver by night. They are the epitome of uncool.

The Springfield DMV Employees of the Year

She got angry at her computer, sighed, and then I got two more minutes of silence. I was searching for something to make the moment more exciting for both of us. So I just blurted it out: “Have you ever seen The Real World?” She nodded her head slowly, only mildly interested in my question. I bounced back, “Well, I was on that show a long time ago.” She instantly came to life.

She explained that she watched the entire season of RW New Orleans, and that she liked me then. She stopped with that statement–I liked you then. She looked at me, I suppose to figure out whether she liked me now.

I still don’t know if she likes me now, because she switched lanes. “You know, famous people come in here all the time…Mike Tyson is in here every other day. I saw Ice-T when I first started.”

Left: Mike Tyson, the boxing ear-biting psychopath.
Right: Ice-T, the aging gangster rapper/ misogynist and now tenured Law & Order star.

Here I was prepared to fill her up with stories from my own life, and she cut me off with stuff far more interesting. Why was Mike Tyson in the DMV all the time? She said it in the same way a waitress would claim to serve up drinks to Eddie Van Halen and his buddies every Tuesday night–trying to play it cool, but barely disguising the fact that she’s excited to host a celebrity.

She continued typing and I sat in silence trying to imagine these two pop culture characters from my teen years sitting in that same chair waiting for a renewed license plate. I was in scene of the Surreal Life at the DMV in Mesa, Arizona.

She slid my precious stickers across the counter with a smile. “It looks like you’re all done here. It’s been fun. You should come back and see us!”

I walked to my car utterly confused. Was she suggesting I renew my license plate more than often than required? Or was that an open invitation to swing by on my lunch break with a Subway sandwich so I could pull up next to her on the employee side of the counter? We could gossip about Mike Tyson’s dumb tattoo and his propensity for traffic violations.

Then I drove to Home Depot and returned a door threshold I purchased 18 months ago, a random object that has resided in the back of my car for just as many months. (Think about how uncool that is.) But married life has made my life hectic and things like this just don’t seem important. I’ve driven my Home Depot many times in the past 18 months, but never with enough time to wait in line. But today was that day. Who knows, I might run into Ice-T.

1. Drunk driving kills people. This is why our society has made it very clear that driving while intoxicated is socially unacceptable. A lot of people will tell you that celebrities always get off easy, which may be true when it comes time to sentencing.

What people don’t realize is that celebrities have a bigger judge outside the courtroom: the public. Millions of opinionated people spit venom on reckless celebrities. And this isn’t just from haters who are happy to drag someone down. There are many people who’ve had a loved one killed by a drunk driver, and they have no compassion for anyone who will swerve through life mowing down innocent lives. That means you, Carmelo.

2. You ignored your civic responsibility. Very few people on this planet are privileged enough to have fans. If you are one of these special people, it is critical that you understand that it’s not about fame and fortune–because these all pass–but more importantly, your role in this society at this point in history.

Professional athletes are the most accessible role models for children, especially young boys. No doubt, there were a lot of little boys who woke up yesterday totally confused by their hero’s behavior. But it’s not just a child’s fleeting disappointment that is really at stake here. These little boys will be the fathers of the next generation (we’ve all scene The Lion King right?) Each of these boys is looking for someone that they want to grow up to be like. If you are lucky enough to be a professional athlete, then it is your civic duty to be a good role model.

3. It’s playoff time, jackass. Let’s say you are so absorbed in basketball to really consider my first two points. Let’s suspend reality for a moment and just consider only how Carmelo’s DWI impacts the game.

Carmelo’s Denver Nuggets barely made the playoffs, and they need every break they can get to make it out of the first round in the highly competitive Western Conference. The entire team is built around Carmelo and depends on his leadership. These men have worked hard to get a chance at an NBA championship. How are Carmelo’s team mates supposed to trust him as a leader on the court when he’s a fool off the court?

Summary: Carmelo, I hope you do some hard thinking in the off-season. If you don’t get your act together, people will only remember you as irresponsible fool.

Plus, it’s hard to write about something that could potentially be so juicy. If chose to write about my day-to-day dramas over the past 5 years, it would read like a transcript of This Old House. Here I have a rare chance to write about something like a Hollywood insider, but there’s nothing more exhausting than writing a play-by-play of the night’s drama. Plus, these people are my friends, and it’s not right to exploit them so I can get a few thousand more visits on my website.

Now I’m just going to type and see what I can come up with…

Real World Reunion vs. High School Class Reunion

A Real World reunion is essentially a high school class reunion except a little more complicated. My theory is that there are 4 Stages you go through on your path to your first class reunion.

–Actually, before I write any more, I should say that nobody likes to admit this stuff, much less write about this one their website. We were all fragile in our passage through high school, and it’s hard to feel cool by stepping back and analyzing that part of your life. It’s much easier to be confident as an adult and act like high school wasn’t that big of a deal.–

But I’m in Stage 4, so I don’t mind writing about the subject…

• Stage 1: Get me out of here! This begins in your last years of high school or shortly after you graduate. This stage is entirely a reaction to the self-absorbed kids who act like the social ordeals of high school are the biggest thing in the world. You cannot handle the ugliness of cliques and the silly games of popularity. You believe that you belong somewhere else where you will thrive. I would never come back here for a reunion! Why would I want to relive this at a reunion?
• Stage 2: This is why I’m hot.* This stage begins a couple years after you graduate when you have accomplished things as your own person. You’ve got new, cooler friends who understand you more.** You still replay those social games of high school in your head, except insert your new self into those same situations because you now have the upper hand. Although there’s a big desire to go back and show “them” what who you’ve become at a class reunion, it’s a greater temptation to ditch the whole event because your too cool. The hope is that your absence will add to your mystique.
• Stage 3: What’s going on here? After you graduate college you promptly get hammered by grown-up realities of jobs, dating, bills, traveling, etc. You are too busy to mull over high school. Years pass.
• Stage 4: Let’s get along. You realize that you have more in common with your high school classmates than you ever would’ve imagined: you grew up together. A reunion is something you don’t want to miss. You’ve been through enough real-life trial to understand that the spats you had in high school were trivial. A reunion gives people a chance to reconcile with others and make peace with their past. In a bizarre twist, these old classmates become your new best friends.

*Stage 2 is when 90% of rap songs are written and recorded. These guys in their early 20s have a microphone that allows them itemize their success (in no vague terms) for all their peers to hear. For more information, listen to all rap released since Puffy recorded “Mo Money Mo Problems.”

** By default, everyone upgrades to “new cooler friends” after high school because your age group is growing up and maturing. The irony here is that your new cool friends might be the “them” that someone else loathes from high school.

My So Called Life***

I know these stages because I passed through all four stages for three times. I went to my first high school as a freshman, and then spent my sophomore and junior years my second high school. I left that school my senior year to be a full-time student at a local college. So my “high school memories” were spread over three campuses with three unique groups of peers.

Everyone is different. Some people will be in Stage 1 and never come to a reunion. Some people may sit in Stage 2 way too long. These are the girls who get plastic surgery in time for their 20th reunion, or the guy who leases a Porsche three weeks before his 10th reunion. You have to wonder if some people hit Stage 3 and become so overwhelmed by the trials of life that you’ll never see them again.

Me? I arrived at Stage 4 when I turned 22. By then I had been through the big dramas of being on a reality show, and I looked back at my teenager years with friends as a blissfully simple time. In part 2 I’ll write about the new drama.

*** “My So Called Life” is a reference to the short-lived teen drama in the 1990s starring the young Claire Danes. Her crush on the show was a hunky Jared Catalano played by the actor Jared Leto, who is now the lead singer of 30 Seconds to Mars, a reasonably successful rock band. If they handed out awards for 1990s people who’ve done pretty well doing something new, Jared Leto would get 2nd place. Billy Ray Cyrus wins 1st by a landslide.

News broke a couple days ago that the FBI busted New York governor Eliot Spitzer for using prostitutes. After reading the headlines this morning, I wouldn’t be surprised if he will resign before I am finished writing.

The moral of the story is obvious. I doubt anyone respectable blogger or political columnist will warn readers of of the wrath that awaits hypocrites.

At this very moment Spitzer’s opponents are popping the cork of champaign bottles to toast to his self-inflicted political death. On the other side of the street, supporters mourn beneath confusion and betrayal. As for me, I don’t know much about his voting record or state initiatives, so I have to take this story in it’s simplest form. My only response is to be sad with him.

I am sad for Spitzer because his fall from grace is nothing but sad. It’s sad for his family. Sad for the state of New York. Sad for opponents of the sex trade. Sad for the Democratic party.

On this day last week, his future was bright with a fighting chance at becoming a future president of the United States. Now he’ll spend the next decade of his life tangled in regret and anger.

1. Prelude, from Holberg Suite, Opus 40 by Edvard Grieg
2. Largo, from Concerto in D major for Two Violins, BWV1043 by Johann Sebastian Bach
3. Allegretto, from Palladio by Karl Jenkins
4. Adagietto, from Symphony No. 5 by Gustav Mahler
5. Canon by Johann Pachelbel
6. Serenade for Strings, Opus 1 by Samuel Barber
7. Serenade for Strings in C major, Opus 48 by Tchaikovsky

I don’t think you find anything more inspiring and enriching than tickets for two to the symphony. Which affirms my belief that….

Your City is Not Boring. You are boring.

I am tired of meeting young adults who complain about their city. I can understand why teenagers whine that there’s “nothing to do here” because a lot of them don’t have a car or enough money to explore their city. But once you’ve graduated from the dramas of high school, there’s nothing keeping your from enjoying your city but your own laziness. There are a thousand things to do today, you just have to get off your ass and get out there.

I am beginning to see that these “young adult whiners” do not age very well. Soon they’ll be just an “adult whiner” sliding to the Middle. Tomorrow, they’ll be the adults that the new young people come to ignore.

Thoughts on Popular Music

Let’s talk about pop music. This is a difficult subject to bring up, because it’s hard to say only a few words and be done with it. That’s why there are dozens of music magazines that have something new to write about every month of every year. In the interest of time, I will write two paragraphs:

The problem we have today is that the overwhelming majority of new music is created for and marketed exclusively to young people. That’s why the most successful bands, rappers, and entertainers come pre-packaged with an image–or even better–a lifestyle. Teens grab onto these lifestyles because gives them an identity in a time in their life where they don’t know how to be cool.

Can anything so shallow be of any lasting worth? Last night we enjoyed music that was written over the course of the last three centuries. Will any music be written in my generation that is worth passing onto the next generation?

1. Nobody will challenge your claim. Think back…has anyone ever challenged someone’s declaration that he or she is a competitive person? No! You are permitted to announce this fact to a group and quickly move on to your example of competitiveness. This bothers me.

You could never introduce a story by saying, “I am a really good looking person…” or “I am a really smart person…” because people would stop you right there. Apparently being competitive is abstract and not instantly verifiable. After the tale of competitiveness, the self-proclaimed competitor treks back to his cubicle believing that people actually agreed with them, when in reality, the listeners were bored out of their mind and too uninterested to evaluate the evidence. Again, this bothers me because it dilutes authentic competition.

You never declare that you are a competitive person when you are actually in a competition. Everyone with two eyes to see understands that Steve Nash is a competitive person. This leads me to believe that the people who yak about being competitive are sitting the bench in the game of life.

2. “Competitive” is an award we only give ourselves. It’s as if Steve Jobs built a Technology Hall of Fame and then inducted the iPod. Isn’t it someone else’s job to notice your greatness? That is the essence of greatness: friends and enemies are left in awe of your worth.

I could be wrong here. Maybe moms describe their kids as “competitive” to explain away their child’s rib-cracking aggression on the soccer field to the other moms sitting in the bleachers. But in the world of adults, you never announce a peer’s competitiveness. It’s a blue ribbon we fix to our own chests.

3. People only declare they are competitive when it involves conquering someone else. It’s always a tale of proving superiority over a defined opponent, in a win-lose situation. I’ve never heard someone tell a competitive story that ended with win-win. Nor have I heard anyone illustrate their competitiveness and when the end result is losing to someone else. But true competitors step into the ring knowing they can step out defeated.

4. Why don’t people ever compete with themselves? The most competitive people that I know understood long ago that their greatest opponent is yourself. Why don’t you tell stories about when you were your only opponent and you triumphed over weakness? Maybe I’ll do it. I’ll practice here:

“I became bored with work by 2 in the afternoon. But I’m a competitive person, so I overcame indifference by taking 10 minutes to remind myself why I do what I do. I listed all the good things about what would come of my afternoon’s effort. Then I made to-do list and stuck to it. By five o’clock when it was time to go home, I had so much momentum that I stayed at work until six.”

I know that if I said that during story time, it’d sound awkward and the audience would get uncomfortable. It is so different than things we would normally say, people would think I was trying out a new type of bragging. Or a subtle way to indite someone on their own laziness at the job.

Summary:

I don’t know, maybe adults go around reminding people they’re competitive because we’re all working in this Information Age, and we don’t have a scoreboard and statisticians recording our ability to conquer opponents. Who knows?

Regardless of why people won’t shut up, I have come to understand that the declaration of “I am competitive” has no correlation to whether that person is in fact competitive. It’s something that adults say to boost their appeal to others. It takes the place of more desperate pleas: I’m not a pathetic example of humanity, Don’t count me out, and ultimately, I’m worth mating with.

The problem with the universal desire to be competitive is that it leads humans–mostly males–to spare with one another on a variety of useless activities: drinking games, lawn darts, and jumping from high platforms into a backyard pool. One-up-manship is a fool’s game. You can spend your entire life proving your superiority to random people in insignificant competitions without committing yourself to anything of meaning.

Maybe it’s not all or nothing, but you have to wonder if the world would be a more harmonious if the shuffle-board champion at your corner bar spent his time helping out at homeless shelter instead.

Tom Brady’s name is already chiseled in the NFL record books, with or without an undefeated season credited to his arm. The Hall of Fame will reveal he’s already directed three Super Bowl victories before he turned 30. But if Brady wants to become a real NFL war hero, he needs a enemy. Nothing could add more drama than a pair of gun slinging brothers: Eli Manning and Payton Manning. Sports writers and historians are going to have a lot of fun writing this story over and over again.

Payton looks to Eli in the stands and chuckles at his chance to fulfill their childhood fantasy of clubbing Terry Bradshaw in the head with a trophy.

Second, the world should know that the NFL played tricks with the cameras last night. As the game was beginning, they showed an aerial shot of the setting sun igniting the sky behind the distant mountains west of Phoenix. My pride in our city’s natural beauty was interrupted by reality: I looked out the window and saw the sun low in the sky peaking through the clouds, but it was no where near the horizon. We had another hour or so before the sun would set. If anything, the sun would set first in our part of town, even if by just a few seconds.

I pointed out this inconsistency to the crowd in the room. Neil explained that it was cloudy, and maybe it messed with the cameras on the blimp or something. Soon it was time to watch the game, and we all forgot about it. We continued eating nachos.

Then later in the 2nd quarter we had a second aerial shot of the stadium, except this time the stadium was a beacon of light in the dark of the night. I looked out the window, and the street lights hadn’t even flickered on yet. What’s the deal? The consensus in the room was that the NFL grabbed the sunset and city light shots on Saturday night. My guess was that the NFL sped-up the setting sun to make the fans in New York and Boston feel less disoriented by spinning earth. They needed to know that their boys were close to home.

I know that people will act like they already knew that camera crews mess with the space-time-continuum all the time, but who really knows that? The facts of Fox’s “creative editing” of the Super Bowl footage is as new to me as it is to everyone else.

On a final note, this game will complicate the politics at the ESPN office. Their headquarters in Bristol, Connecticut, is 2 hours and 10 minutes from both New York City and Boston. I expect that it’ll be an intense day at the office.

Let’s try to figure out what they’re going for here. The red looks like “Sedona red” that dominates the Diamond Backs new uniforms that came out last season. Before they upgraded their uniforms, the Diamondbacks’ were covered with turquoise, copper, black and purple since the team started in 1995.

Teal and purple were vaguely fashionable in 1995, but I suspect that the primary reason they were chosen is because they’re Arizona colors. Really, when you think of it, it’s rare that a state in the US has loyalty to colors that doesn’t already stem from their big universities. It’s because Arizona is a geological freak show that makes for good postcards.

Exhibit A: The Arizona Dbacks Debuted Sedona Red last season.

Here’s a summary of our indigenous colors:

1. Earth Tones because there’s a lot of earth here.
2. Copper because you’ll find it in the earth.
3. Turquoise because you’ll find it in the earth.
4. Purple because it pairs well with turquoise and teal since the early 1990s. It’s an adopted color that the state loves like it’s own.
5. Red because of the rock formations through the state, especially in Sedona and the Grand Canyon.
6. Oranges because we grow a lot of citrus, and the sun is pretty bright here.

So I’m guessing that the designer of the Super Bowl logo picked from this list (#3 and #5) and then threw in the spots of blue to make merchandise easier to sell to NFL fans.

1. It’s a light conversation about a sensitive subject. Pregnancy is a very complicated subject in society today. For the first two-and-a-half decades of my life, the discussion about pregnancy with my peers has always been laced with qualifiers: teenage pregnancy, unplanned pregnancy, or baby momma drama. Every adult passed through this chapter of life, so there’s some residual anxiety that creeps in when the topic of pregnancy comes up. For people who are all grown up, there’s a whole new angle that’s even more emotionally charged: fertility. If you want to avoid the cloud of complication that surrounds the birds and the bees, just make a pick: boy or girl. And why not…

2. You have a 1 in 2 chance of being correct. These are pretty good odds. You don’t need to do research, there’s no spread to decipher, no overbearing predictions from sports writers or political analysts to influence your opinion.

3. You get a lot of credit for your hunches without having to explain them. I’ve had a dozen people tell me that they “just know” that the baby is going to be a girl or a boy. And none of these all-knowing people have any explanation for why they know what they know. You’ll lose your credibility if you place a bet on a sports game if you can’t explain why you believe your team will win. But in the baby game, not having an explanation adds to your mystique, as if your prediction is divine wisdom that is beyond explanation.

4. If you guess right, you can quit gambling and brag for the next five years. You can’t do this with a sporting event. Nobody cares if you guessed the winner of the 2003 Super Bowl. For you winners out there, know that you really only have five years to boast of your supreme prediction. Because by then the baby is off to Kindergarten and has a personality. If the kid’s a brat, nobody cares if you knew the brat would be a boy or a girl.

I don’t know if I believe what I’ve just written. Honestly, you only have about a year to brag about your pick, because if you gloat any longer people will just think you’re a moron.

5. If you guess wrong, nobody’s going to make fun of you. A new mom is too excited about the new life in her home to point out that you were wrong about the big prediction. Not even the most callous dad is going to give you a hard time. Again, if you bet on the Dallas Mavericks* going into the playoffs last year, people are still making fun of you. Guess a baby wrong, and you’re immediately forgiven.

So I’ve audited dozens of these guessing games over the past month, and I always get hooked in at the end: What do you think? I pause and then sincerely explain what’s on my heart: “I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. As long as it’s a ninja, that’s all that really matters.”

* The Dallas Mavericks were the most winning team in the NBA last season, yet they were knocked out of the playoffs by the Golden State Warriors, a team that barely made the playoffs.

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Down the street from my house is Changing Hands Bookstore, which was voted “Best Bookstore in America” by Publisher’s Weekly. It’s not uncommon to see the BookTV truck parked out front, broadcasting authors talking about their book to the world. Big-name authors come and sign books there. Hillary Clinton swung through town last week to sign books and campaign. Changing Hands has a polished image as being a thinking person’s book store. If they sold cars, they’d probably sell Volvos.

Of course this is one of the reasons I like to go there. Nobody will admit it, but we all go because you feel smart just by being there. If you are at Hollywood Video across the street, you have to work too hard to let people know that you are not a dimwit. You have to stand next to shelves of foreign films or try to be overheard talking about Oscar nominations. Not at Changing Hands. You can look smart even if you are stupid and lazy. It’s phenomenal.

The people who work at Changing Hands are kind of cultish, but in a cute way. They are young and cool, but they don’t want to be too cool because then they’d gain approval and somehow appear to be a conformist. That’s a messy dilemma, so they all agree to conform to a non-conformist standard of cool: geek-sheik eye glasses, vintage T-shirts, and symmetrical postmodern tattoos on their arms (whatever the hell that means.) Still, I like these people because they smile at everyone and they walk like vegans. (All non-violent vegans walk the same. If you ever get a chance, stop me and I’ll show you.)

As their name suggests, Changing Hands Bookstore will buy your old books and give you cash or store credit towards your next purchase. Since turning my house upside down last month with the remodel, I’ve realized that many of my books are not useful to me anymore. This was a bizarre realization because I’ve deliberately gotten rid of books over the past several years. But I like the simple life, so it was time to get rid of 20 more books, good books by well-known authors. Bright minds. Heck, three of the books were written by liberals. That means fat ca$h at Changing Hands. I might be able to afford that gold tooth I’ve been wanting.

I dropped that loaded cardboard box on the counter knowing that it was payday. Ten minutes later, I visited the counter again and received a brief but respectful explanation from Mr. Glasses: “I can only take three of your books, I can’t do anything with the others.” Actually, I didn’t think he was being respectful at all when he said it, but I tried to think of an alternative line he should’ve used, and I couldn’t come up with anything. He gave me $7.50.

I walked back to my car defeated, my shoulders slumped down by the weight of a 20 pounds of books that contained ideas that were no longer marketable or interesting. I thought about thinking about what that tells us about society, but I realized it was too narcissistic of a debate to have with myself in the car. (Whenever I’m bored in the car, I pretend I’m a witty guest on Talk of the Nation with Neil Conan or I give soundbytes as a celebrity CEO being profiled on MarketPlace with Kai Ryssdal. I’m okay with this because people talk to themselves all the time on speaker phone in the car.) Instead of talking to myself, I turned on Power 98.3 and caught the last half of “Crank That Soulja Boy” as I pulled out of the parking lot.

Later in the week I took my stash of books to Bookmans in Mesa, which is a more badass store than Changing Hands. They took all my books, and with my store credit I got old issues of Esquire, This Old House Magazine, and some hip graffiti magazines. Score!

Now I have to figure out how to get rid of my CDs…

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The Golden Girls

On one random night earlier this summer, I was at Mac’s next door to Changing Hands Bookstore watching a game. I asked the waitress why the parking lot was so full. She giggled and said, “Blanche from the Golden Girls is signing her book next door.” I couldn’t resist the opportunity to do something new, so I left Candyce at the table and went next door.

Blanche is the hottie on the left.

Sure enough, actress Rue McClanahan was signing 100s of copies of her new book: My First Five Husbands…And the Ones Who Got Away. I was entirely confused by the people who showed up for this party. Half of them were retired baby boomer women, the other half were clusters of youngish males. Pairs of males. And they were all hyped to meet Blanche Devereaux. I made it back to the rowdy sports bar in twenty seconds and reported my findings to Candyce.

The celebrity autobiography has to be the last chapter in the career of an entertainer. The phone quits ringing and you’re left to yourself with a lot of free time. You have all day and night to make sense of life in and out of the spotlight, and you figure it’s time to write a book. So you turn up Sinatra’s “I Did it My Way” and start pecking your keyboard. Writing a book, after all, is a life goal for most Americans, even famous Americans. It’s noble and exciting. And for yesterday’s celebrities, it gives them the last word. If the book sells well, they might get on Opra and feel adored again. If not, you’ll see their book at somebody’s yard sale next to a stack of nappy Beanie Babies.

What sucks is that hard-working writers get bumped out of the best seller list by celebrity autobiographies. And there’s no justice for these writers! It’s not like they can cross over and star in a sitcom when the whole writing thing stops working out.

1. Assault with a Deadly Frisbee. After the clock ran out and the Sun Devils were victorious, dozens of people in the crowd launched large Frisbees from their high-altitude seats over our heads and towards the field. Of course everyone in the stands watched the flight because we all knew it has to land somewhere, and it could end up hitting someone and cause drama.This one Frisbee could not have found a better victim. A pair of 40-year-old guys working with the media had just been let onto the field to record the celebration. They had cameras and equipment and they had to hurry to get onto the field amongst the football players. All they had left to clear was an open stretch of 30 yards before they would ram into the brute insanity of victorious football players.

The Frisbee hit the first of the pair (the fatter of the two) right in the forehead and startled the life out of him. He dropped his camera and reached his arms wildly up to his head. He packed 10 seconds worth of motion into a half second, and the crowd loved it. He had to have known that those 10,000 fans left in the stadium were cheering for him. He shook it off, picked up his camera, and went running down the field, more determined than he was 5 seconds before. The crowd kept cheering.

2. Angry security guards. I know these guys are just doing their job when they prevent students from charging the field, but I also understand they aren’t law enforcement. Their job is to intimidate students, rather than to prevent them from coming onto the field. They have no authority to arrest you or write you a ticket. Regardless of how intimidating they pretend to be, it always comes down to a game of numbers: 100 guards vs. 70,000 fans. Just kick down the fence and run and bring all your friends with you. Let them be angry, that’s their job. You go celebrate, that’s your job.

3. Characters on the field. This week is Halloween, so many students came to the game in costumes. One of the first kids to break the barrier and charge the field was a dude wearing a the head of a Woody costume from the movie Toy Story. This a large mask, maybe 2 feet tall, had a permanent smirk of confidence. So when he made it up and over the fence and through the security guards, he turned to the crowd and opened up his arms expecting an applause. How can you not cheer for Woody?Another student busted through the fence and was quickly wrangled but a short and stocky security guard with a lot to prove. The student pulled him from the end zone all the way 30-yard-line like Rudolph pulls Santa’s sled. It was there that his shirt started to rip. By the 40-yard-line, the tenacious guard had only a ripped T-shirt in his hand as the bare-chested student sprinted to the other end of the field, arms in the air victorious as the winner of the Boston Marathon. The thousands in the crowd cheered for him.

4. Why not? After seeing 100s more charge the field, I decided I was tired of being a spectator. Four security guards had forced the gate closed by the time I was ready to make my move. I tried to coerce some drunk fans to help me knock the gate open again, but they were too inebriated to cooperate with anyone. So I hopped the low fence near the goal post and sprinted through the guards.

As I ran across the 50-yard line, I remembered the last time I rushed the field was in 1999 when I was a student at Georgia Tech. Several photographers were taking pictures of me because I was putting on quite a scene dancing in the middle of the field. A few months later I ended up getting cast for The Real World, and apparently me dancing with that awful look on my face was the only photo the campus newspaper had of me. They published it several times that year, twice on the cover.That was eight years ago, and I am all the wiser. I crossed crossed the 40-yard-line with a pleasant smile and a dutiful trot, much like a victorious coach heading into the locker room.

5. Multitasking at the goal post. How things have changed since 1999. Back in the day at Georgia Tech, the students were concerned with one thing and one thing only: bringing down the field goal post. It was a thrill for soon-to-be engineers to unleash their inner lumberjack for one night. Freaks, geeks, and jocks all worked together until the giant came down. Nothing else mattered.This is just not how they do it anymore.

The students spent half of their time celebrating, and the other half recording and reporting through the cell phones. The mob chanted and cheered with reckless abandon, but they stopped in a second and arranged themselves for a big group photo. You need these types of photos to show what a party animal you are on Facebook.There was a lot of Facebooking* going on during the celebration. Guys were hooking their female friends with one arm, and with the other arm they lifted their phones up high and snapped a photo of the moment. I wonder how many dating relationships begin with this ritual. You have to admit, for something so spontaneous, it’s an intimate moment. There’s no room for anyone else in the picture–just the two of you–and you have to smash your faces close together to even fit in the shot. It’s a modern-day version of holding hands or carrying a girl’s books. At any given moment, 1 out of every 5 people on the field were in one of these just-me-and-you photo shoots.

I witnessed the most heroic of multitasking at the trunk of the goal post. I was in the sweaty mosh pit of students ramming the base try that tried to rock it back and forth with hope that it would give.

One kid had one hand rocking the post and the other hand texting his friend on his iPhone. His thumb attacked that iPhone and the buttons bubbled and bubbled again. It was such a contrast from one hand to the other. One hand did the blunt work of the primal man wanting dominance over the post, the other hand pecked out victory to his friends who weren’t cool enough to be there. I guess it really is the same thing.

Sweet.

We went to the lake to ski, but I spent most of my time admiring the scenary. Here are a few photos from the afternoon.

That’s Four Peaks in the distance, made infamous by our license plates and a brewery.

Candyce enjoying the sun.

Danny (striking a pose), Lauryn (confused), and Candyce (confident)

Grillin’ and Chillin’

Most of the day on the lake was serene, but the final hours was nothing but surreal. We finished skiing and pulled up to a sandy beach to grill some dinner. There were a half-dozen other boats there, each the main stage of a their own little spring break in September. Big speakers on their boats echoed “Party Like a Rokkstar” around the canyon walls. Males were drinking, yelling, and insulting each other. Females were strutting around in their bikinis showing off their new tattoos. It was a bizarre scene in the middle of the desert. I lit the grill and started cooking. One by one, they backed off the beach and cruised out of the cove. The last boat left leaving a trail of music bouncing through the canyon: Will.i.iam’s “I Got it from my Mama.” Then all we heard were birds and bugs at dusk. Humans really are an unruly species.

Rock the Boat

Before I move on, I should explain that Saguaro lake is the fourth and lowest lake in a series of four. Roosevelt feeds into Apache, Apache into Canyon, and Canyon into Saguaro.

I was flipping the chicken when our placid lake began to ripple with a strong current. This is bizarre, because lakes don’t “ripple with a srong current.” We were all staring into the distance trying to make sense of this, when I looked down and saw a pair of flip flops (left by a party girl) float off the sand and into the water. Within minutes our sandy beach had become smaller than my kitchen.

We hopped up onto the boat and ate dinner and listened to Jason describe his plan for sailing from Los Angeles to Sydney, Australia. Before we knew it, it was dark and it was time to go. Unfortunately, the water level had lowered, and our boat was a beached whale. The guys got out and rocked the boat for ten minutes until we were finally floating again. It was a funny scene because the girls were in the boat and it looked like we were harrassing them I read in the paper earlier this week that they were lowered the water level in Canyon Lake by 20 feet to repair the dam. They opened up their dam upstream and flooded our picnic.

The cruise out of the lake was magical. It was dark and we were the only boat still on the lake. You couldn’t see the canyon walls, so we had to drive slowly. The sky was illuminated by a full dome of stars. It’s been so long since I’ve seen so many stars like that.

We stopped for twenty minutes and just floated in darkness, staring up the the sky. In the distance a camper was staying warm by a fire of mesquite wood, filling the air with the smell of autumn. It was such a calm moment at the end of such a severe three weeks of remodeling.

Escalade School Bus. When I was a kid, I saw a customized, hot rod school bus on the cover of a magazine at the Ingles grocery store in western North Carolina. It was so cool and so outrageous that it made my young mind spin for weeks. This summer, I found this image online, and I got that same rush. I can’t explain it.

I’d buy it.

Kayaking in La Jolla. Candyce, Lauryn, Danny, and I went to La Jolla to rent some two-person kayaks to explore the caves in the cliffs of La Jolla. We were paddling along where the waves wash against the foot of the cliff when stumbled across a huge rock covered with seals. You would think that you would see something like that coming, but I was so caught up in the colorful fish that were swimming around the rocks beneath us.

We backed off the seal rock and watched it like a live performance of Discovery’s Planet Earth. Although I couldn’t figure out why, a male seal was really mad, and he barked and moaned like he was insane. He was just not happy with what was going down. I would think that it was us causing all the ruckus, but he was cool for the first 10 minutes. I couldn’t believe how loud that bull was. It echoed around the cliffs and bounced back on top of us. Maybe he’s just proud of his voice.

Invitation to Write for Suns.com. Near the end of July, I got a phone call from the VP of Interactive Services for the Phoenix Suns. He invited me to join their team of writers by keeping a blog on their website. I already write about the Suns here on supafly.com, but I like the professional challenge of writing for a wider audience.

Boris Diaw in Ratatouille? Speaking of the Suns, I swear they modeled the French chef after French basketball player, Boris Diaw. You decide:

Boris Diaw the basketball player, the animated chef.

Watching Transformers, Twice. I loved Transformers as a kid, even though we were only able to afford a couple of the toys. I got my fix from watching the Transformers cartoon after school. I can honestly say, there was nothing that got me more excited as a child than catching a full episode of Transformers with a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. It was sensory overload.

The problem with my childhood experience of Transformers was that they never stepped into reality. The toys were always more simple than the cartoon characters they were modeled after. They always took forever to transform, so it was hard to play with them with the same action and intensity as the cartoon. I always wondered if in the future my car would ever transform into a robot and by my friend and soldier. I doubt this will ever happen.

But watching real cars and trucks transform into robots in a movie was exhilarating for me. It was a childhood fantasy that was alone in my head, now exploded onto the movie screen. I enjoyed it so much that I went back and watched it again. I’ll definitely add it to my DVD collection (Napoleon Dynamite, The Passion, The Shawshank Redemption, and Almost Famous.)

I also enjoyed seeing new American muscle cars battle it out.

Bumble Bee the Camaro and Barricade the Mustang.

Kanye West’s new song: Stronger. I can’t stop listening to this track!

Getting off Work, Going to the Beach. Nothing beats getting off work and then going to the beach for two hours. One notable accomplishment for me is simplifying my walks across the street and onto the sand. I now just go in my swimming trunks. I leave behind the chair, books, magazines, sketch pad, towel, umbrella, chair, and bottles of water. I just bring my keys to the house. It’s like having a pool in your backyard, except it’s 200 yards away.

Married at the Beach. Spending a summer out here with Candyce was cool when we were dating, but being married adds intensity and romance to the summer that is unique to newly weds. We make dinner together and eat it outside by candlelight. We go out every other day for a jog (Candyce) and for a bike ride (me) and explore the beach towns north and south of us.

Escondido Car Show. We went to a Saturday night car show in Escondido on Grande Avenue. I caught a glimpse of this custom Chrysler 300 rolling down the street.

The first thing you notice is the suicide doors up front. There are no doors in the rear because they were welded and filled.

Although the imagery is goolish and not my style, I love that it’s outrageous and unlike anything else I’ve seen.

Illustrating a Video Game. I’ve designed a lot of things, but this summer was my first time illustrating a Flash video game for lifeteen.com: Vatican Ninja vs. Pirates. There’s something magical about making a video game because you can take an outrageous concept and make it a reality. The idea behind the video game becomes more legitimate and matter-of-fact once it culminates into a fun, interactive experience. I don’t believe video games can teach morality, because in the end, people will only play it if it’s fun. Once they’re finished having fun, they’ll be done with it. Playing a game is a shallow experience and you can’t take them too serious. But games on our site could be fun to raise awareness for our summer camps and teach a little bit about the regional geography that tells the story. That’s the next game.

Not Remodeling My House. I know that as soon as I get back in Phoenix, I’m going to dive into a quick and intense remodel of the main level of my home. I’ve spent a lot of the summer planning, sketching, and finding materials for the project. Jeff and I have sat down a couple times to re-think the floor plan. The anticipation is boiling inside of me. It’ll be good to be back.

Maybe it’s because other people don’t care to listen about the reality of a day at the beach, so giving the edited version of the story is not for bragging rights, but out of consideration for your listener. Regardless of why we don’t tell the whole story about the day at the beach, the reality is that none of us tell about reality.

Here’s a random list of what gets edited out of everyone’s story:

1. Parking sucks. You can spend an hour just getting in and out of the beach.

2. The morning after the party. When you are leveling out the sand to make way for your beach towel, you end up unearthing a fossil of last night’s ocean-side party: cigarette butts, bottles, random trash, and unmentionables. You feel dirty.

3. Bugs. Dry seaweed attracts fleas, and they hop all over you. It’s hard to look relaxed and beautiful when you’re swatting at invisible bugs on your legs.

4. The ocean is salty. If you are frolicking in the water and open you mouth for a 1/2 second, you swallow a quart of salt. If you spend an hour at the beach, you’ll see three people hunkered over and gagging. Gagging is not sexy.

5. There were other people there. Everybody loves the beach, so you’re likely to see quite a variety of locals trying to enjoy a perfect day as well. Everyone is invited to the party regardless of how good they look in a bathing suit. Whenever you hear the story, “…man there were these hot girls there that we were talking to…” know that they’re omitting the part about seeing women twice their age trying to be hot. Which is not hot.

6. This is not Bay Watch. We all know that Bay Watch wasn’t real, but you want to believe it draws from some reality. It does not. Lifeguards are not always sexy, and even if they’re good looking, there’s no chance of them flirting back. There are 100s of tourists bobbing in the water, only inches away from a rip tide or menacing creature beneath. Nobody gets saved from death if the tan folks on the tower are taking down your phone number.

7. Creatures Beneath. Okay, maybe you do have a chance of making a connection with a lifeguard. Jellyfish or stingrays can ruin an entire day at the beach because they hurt you. When I walk into the water, I don’t take steps anymore, I slide and shuffle my feet along the bottom. I’m told that I will only “bump” a stingray this way, and they’ll scoot out of my path. But if you take big monster steps and put your heal on their head, then you’ll get whipped with a razor blade. You’ll come limping out of the water with a leash of blood behind you. Women will scream and the lifeguard will drop out of the tower and sprint to your side. This is your only chance to become a player on the stage of Bay Watch and it’s not a pretty scene.

8. Surfers who can’t surf. I’m convinced that guys who “surf” are not much different than guys who “play golf.” Both groups like to dress and talk the part–it’s the lifestyle they are quick to adopt. Because they play the part so well, these guys can convince you at the bar that they are the best surfer or golfer in Southern California. But once they’re in the element and expected to catch a wave or drive the ball 300 yards into the fairway, very few come close. You’ll see a salty, tan surf dude skip down the stairs with a surfboard under his arm, but once he’s in the water, he’s as loosy goosy and clumsy as a Great Dane.There’s something else people don’t tell you about surfing: you have to share the waves. Because there are no secret waves in California anymore, a dozen other guys are eying the same wave.; Half of all surfers are very new to the sport, and they have no idea what they are doing. That’s okay, because we all have to start somewhere, but the collision of a rookie surfer and a salty pro is not a pretty scene. Everyday, somebody gets taken out by a stranger. It’s a zoo out there.

9. Jogging on the beach. This probably the most often told tale of the beach, “…it’s great. After work, I take a run and down the beach to clear my thoughts. I catch the sunset…” Let’s tell the full story of this magical jog on the beach. There are two types of sand at the beach: wet sand and dry sand. The dry sand is fluffy and usually claimed by people with beach towels, which is okay for the joggers, because it’s too unstable to run on. You might sprain an ankle.It’s wise to run on the water-packed sand closer to the water. Unfortunately, this is also where children make sand castles, complete with broken sticks forced into the sand to become gates and bridges. They dig big holes for miniature lakes and carve out trenches to serve as motes. You have to hop over these land mines or run around them. You never see this scene on television. You’ll also hop over clumps of seaweed, massive clumps that looked like dead animals. Another reality of the beach jog is the never-ending fear of getting T-boned by a crashing wave. It’s impossible to keep a respectable, athletic pace when you’re constantly two-stepping inland to avoid a rush of water.;Other clumsy realities of running on the beach is more sweat (from deeper humidity) and an occasional hit by a frisbee or football.

I’m okay with this unedited version of the beach. I’m amused by all the commotion, the collision of lifestyles and expectations. And somehow, nothing can deter the mob from traveling to the beach each day. Nothing can discourage a millionaire from buying a home next to this mob. Real or not, we love the story of being at the beach.

Why can’t we help but talk about our dreams? It could be that we understand that if you don’t articulate your dream, last night’s adventure will evaporate by the end of your first cup of coffee. This is an urgent matter. Plus, you may still have some emotion left over from the dream, and the only way you know to deal with it is to talk about it. Still, this doesn’t mean people want to hear about your dreams.

People tell others about their dreams because a rare moment where we can be outrageous without having to pay the consequences. Dreamland is a place where they can do and say things that don’t have to align with their daytime ideals. You can get in a fistfight with Michael Bolton in a dream, even if by day you are a big fan. But in reality, dreams are rarely interesting at all, and it’s all because of poor delivery.

Here’s some general rules I apply to my dream-telling:

1. Don’t expect a captive audience. You need to be okay with the fact that nobody will listen to your story from the beginning to the end.
2. It’s considerate to tell someone about your dream while they’re doing something else, like cleaning their kitchen. Never tell a “last night I had this dream…” story while out to lunch.
3. Never talk about your dream for more than 3 minutes. If you go on any longer than that, you have a good chance of being told to “shut up.” Or “shut the hell up.”
4. If you think your dream is entertaining, practice your story with a compassionate friend before you present it to a more discriminating crowd. A dream can’t be amusing to someone while you’re still trying to put together the pieces.

If you are telling your dream story because you hope to delight someone by giving them something interesting to think about, try to get to the facts. Here’s three examples:

This is Bad

If you are confused by the details, don’t expect someone to be able to follow your story. There’s no hope of a punchline. Try to suffer through reading this:

I had a dream I went back to Young Harris College to teach a class. Or was it a summer camp? I don’t know. All I remember was standing in front of the cafeteria, and there were all these people… They were wearing these dumb things and they were okay about it. I can’t remember what they were doing, but it was weird. Then I talked to my old professor. Have I ever told you about him? He was nice in the dream but didn’t look like who he is in real life… Somewhere in the dream I took a bus and ended up at a neighborhood that looked like that one in the magazine from yesterday, the boxy houses that look like they are made out of metal and glass. Accept it was in the mountains… I was playing basketball but I don’t remember actually shooting the ball. Then one of the guys from the Phoenix Suns came out…

(I’ll just stop there. I’m bored writing about it, and you are bored reading it.)

This is Good

You get to the point. You cut out a lot of the unnecessary pieces, although some still need to go.

I had a dream I was back at Young Harris college in the mountains of Georgia. I ran into the students I went to school with, except a lot of them had on silly hats. It was fun. I talked to old professors and eventually took a bus to a cool looking neighborhood. I toured a house and I really liked it. The next thing I can remember I was playing basketball and all the Suns players were on the court. I think they were playing the Dallas Mavericks, except none of the players on their team looked like they were supposed to.

This is Great

You only hit the most important points. Your matter-of-fact delivery makes the it seem like you are telling a real-life story, which makes the scenes in the dream more outrageous.

I had a dream I ended back up in Young Harris College in the mountains of Georgia. I found a beautiful neighborhood of modern homes in a hidden valley not far from campus. The community basketball court was the practice court for the Phoenix Suns. I sat down on a tree stump with my dad and watched the Suns play the Mavericks. Except Dirk Nowitzki was black.

Don’t say anymore. Leave it that and move onto a new subject.

Summary: I’m Serious

I didn’t write this because I have too much time on my hands. On the contrary, I have very little time, and I have to publish this and get the word out to people. I’m tired of hearing bad dream stories. I’m a friendly person, but I have my limits. If I hear one more bad dream story, I’m going to start hitting people.

(I understand it is unlikely that the word will get out fast enough. So I have tip for listeners out there. If you’re stuck listening to someone’s dream story and you are utterly bored, one way I keep myself entertained by losing track of the story and then react to their story like they are telling a real life story. This is funny only if you are subtle and act truly confused.)

I was devastated this morning to read this story about murders over the weekend in Newark, New Jersey:

“Three college-bound kids were killed after being forced to kneel against a wall and then shot in the head at close range Saturday night, police said.” Read the full story

It’s hard to be sincere and compassionate about every murder story that on the news, mostly because murders have become so common. The media exploits murders as cheap content; rarely do they take responsibility and try to reveal the social climate that allows for these crimes. They just tell you it happened, and then go on to the day on Wall Street.

But this story hit me hard, because I have great hopes for the city of Newark because of their ambitious new mayor, Cory Booker. He seems like a good man who is truly trying to undo the misery of the people of his city.

I first learned about Cory Booker through a documentary on HBO called Street Fight late one night at a hotel somewhere in the Midwest. (I forget which state I was in, but I was cold the whole night in the hotel, and the next morning I flew out of the Minneapolis / St. Paul airport.)

This documentary was about the 2002 mayoral race in the city of Newark. The young Cory Booker was trying to replace Sharpe James, the incumbent mayor of Newark, New Jersey. The documentary was fascinating and compelling. It portrayed Booker as an idealist with hope, and his opponent James as a dead-beat politician who exploited his office and ignored his people. This was the stuff of a real Hollywood story.

Unfortunately, the documentary closed with Booker losing the 2002 election. Life got busy and I forgot about the story. That was until late last year when I saw Cory Booker’s face in the the papers after he was finally elected the mayor of Newark. It looks like the previous mayor’s corruption revealed in the documentary could be true. A few weeks ago this headline:
Former Newark mayor Sharpe James indicted on federal charges

Cory Booker’s Lecture at the New School

When I was back in Georgia last month, it was difficult for me to fall asleep because I was on Pacific time. For every night of my visit, I had three or four hours to myself after Mom and Dad had gone to sleep. I spent a most of that time praying and preparing the sessions I had to give at summer camp for the following week, and the keynote I would give at the end of the trip in Tucson, Arizona.It can be discouraging to write sessions for teenagers because I’m never clear who I am talking to. Each person has a different story, a different family, a different world waiting for them after they leave the camp or conference. After an hour of staring at my monitor and coming up with nothing useful, I turned off the computer and walked across the creaky wood floor to the living room to watch TV.

I flipped through the channels and then stopped on C-SPAN, the one channel I’ve never watched for more than two minutes. I was thrilled because I caught the beginning of a speech that Cory Booker was giving to the New School in New York. Please watch the video on Fora.TV and you’ll see why I was impressed.

Mayor Booker spoke with so much clarity and resolution. I was so inspired to see an idealist like me actually out there fighting tooth and nail to bring about change. There are so many political agitators out there that do no good for our society. Under the banner of “idealism,” they complain about circumstances and blame them on an unpopular president. They incite division and hatred. But Cory Booker is a person who who finds a problems and pragmatically fights for a solution.I was so enthralled by his lecture and was so eager to start my next day that I didn’t fall asleep until after four in the morning. I just laid there in my bed, eyes wide open, staring into the stillness of the night. This was a rare moment for me, because I’ve become more and more discouraged the older I get. I get tired of “trying to make a difference” and I want to retreat to some other path in life. There are so many critics out there, and so many obstacles. I really start to wonder: what am I fighting for? Is this worth it?

Why Newark Matters

I don’t just admire Cory Booker because he’s trying to make a difference. I spend time with these types of people all day, everyday. But what is unique about Booker is that he’s chosen to turn around the city of Newark.Newark is ignored by the country because it is in utter contrast to the glowing city 11 miles west, the unofficial capital of American pride: New York. New York is the center of the worlds of finance, music, publishing, fashion, and (for what it’s worth) modeling. It’s a city marked with glamour and power.

Newark is plagued with poverty, crime, drugs and a terrible education system. It had such a bad reputation that nobody I have ever known actually went into the city of Newark, except to fly in and out of the airport. If I could summarize Newark in one word: hopeless. It epitomizes the American inner city.

I lived in am apartment in Washington Heights, a ghetto of Harlem. Throughout the days and nights, I hung out with rich, influential people in the media. But I always came back to my humble apartment in a rough part of town. As the summer progressed, I spent more time with the neighborhood kids and their moms. It was easy to meet and talk with the community because our street was a “play street” for most of the summer. Both ends of 151st Street were blocked off at Amsterdam and and Broadway to keep cars away, making room for the kids to play with their friends.

I ignored the difference in our races and talked to everyone like we all came with matching skin. I made some good friends and met some fascinating people. I also saw some terrible things: broken families, drugs, violence, generations of poverty. Although I’ll never know what it’s like to be born and raised in a ghetto, I lived there long enough to see the sharp contrast between ghetto life and the world I was raised in. Everyone faces challenges in their youth, but the children of the ghetto have a whole different reality to wake up to every morning.

Everyone 50 streets south of us had all the wealth and opportunity the world had to give. Up there in Harlem, I didn’t see any answers. I left Harlem that September wondering if there was anyone inside or outside of the ghetto cared enough to help the people suffering on its streets.

Most of what I’ve done with my life sense that summer has been with white, suburban kids. These young people have their own problems and they definitely need help. I wake up each day and do what I do, but I can’t help but feel like I’ve abandoned a whole part of our society because the obstacles were too big.

This is why I am so excited about Mayor Cory Booker. He’s someone who deeply cares about the people of Newark and is doing all that he can to help him. If his policies and community-building efforts work, then this will bring hope to inner cities across our country. I’m especially interested in the pragmatic changes he’s making to the schools, especially his work with KIPP.

Here is a summary from the KIPP website:

KIPP, the Knowledge Is Power Program, is a national network of free, open-enrollment, college-preparatory public schools in under-resourced communities throughout the United States. There are currently 57 locally-run KIPP schools in 17 states and Washington, DC, which are serving over 14,000 students. KIPP schools have been widely recognized for putting underserved students on the path to college. More than 80 percent of KIPP students are low-income and more than 90 percent are African American or Hispanic/Latino. Nationally, nearly 80 percent of KIPP alumni have matriculated to college.

Before the show, we went to the world’s first Rubios in Mission Beach to grab dinner. I know that Rubios could be dismissed as unoriginal, another version of the strip mall mainstays Chipotle and Baja Fresh. But their first restaurant was a kitchen on a busy road with only outdoor seating. It’s as “local” as you get. And since I like their authentic Mexican food, I’m okay with saying I’m a fan of Rubios and that eating at the OG Rubios was pretty cool.

Fun with Emo Kids

The opening band was The Honorary Title, a band I’ve never heard of. But I decided half way through their set that I liked their music. Since the concert, I’ve discovered that they are classified as “emo”, which is good to know.

My problem with the emo scene is that it’s so difficult to define what emo music actually sounds like. Half of the bands that I listen to are emo, and to date, the only thing that separates these guys from the other rock bands is they wear girls’ pants. And the lead singer usually has more swooping, emotional vocals as a opposed to the aggressive, fist-in-your face vocals of your standard rock band. That’s it.

Can you spot the emo kids? Learn how on yourscenesucks.com

We were thoroughly out of place because I wore mens’ pants and Candyce wore shorts that showed off her tan legs. I thought about being self-conscious, but I realized that it’s okay to become the older guy at a concert that doesn’t fit in. I give all the younger music fans something to worry about. What is he here for? What’s his deal? Plus, it’s mischievous to make their scene less cool because I interrupt the well appointed line up emo friends.

I know this is how they think;because I listened to alternative music back in the early 90s. I hated it when uncool people were at my cool alternative concerts. Because alternative was a new kind of rock that was unlike the hair bands that almost killed music in the 80s. My bands were raw. They were real. (I really don’t believe this, but it’s fun to write it like I would’ve said it back when I was 14.)

So emo of today is like alternative of yesterday, a new flavor of rock music that eventually works it’s way into the main-stream and ceases to become unique or worth identifying with. One difference between our two scenes is that, none of us back then would’ve been so hard-up for an identity back then to assign the name “alternative” to our clothes, friends, and ourselves. You listened to alternative music, but that didn’t make you an alternative. It feels awkward just writing about it because we never used that word in that way.

In the grand story of life, the previous;5 paragraphs have no significance. The world keeps spinning.

Behavior at Concerts: Some Things Don’t Change

It doesn’t matter what rock concert you go to, there is always a trail of four or five kids snaking their way through the crowd pretending they’re looking for someone or returning to their spot before they left for the bathrooms. All they are are really doing is preventing themselves from being judged by the people who are standing still and listening to the band.

This is how it works. The strongest, most confident and well-manicured emo friend leads this conga line through the crowd. From there back, each emo kid becomes more weak and fragile, like descending stair steps of cool. The person on the rear is no more than an underweight kid from marching band with his newly-died hair.

This single-file parade will continue until the kids have decided that it is safe to stop and actually listen to the band without fear of being judged uncool. I’m not kidding you, if you had a live, overhead video footage of any rock concert, there would be a half-dozen of these parades passing in and out of the crowd.

Comedian Mike Berbiglia

Mike Berbiglia was a comedian that did a set in between the bands. He was hysterical for the first ten minutes, and then he stumbled down the hill of predictability when he decided to make political jokes for 20 minutes.

This is your standard Bush-bashing that might have been relevant four years ago, but now it just comes off as unimaginative. It’s just like when people made BJ jokes about Bill Clinton four years after-the-fact. Even the most staunch Clinton-hater got tired of clapping to show disgust and solidarity.

To be honest, it’s as lame as a Christian rock band who isn’t that good, but keeps the crowd hyped by constantly asking “Who here loves God?” Sorry dude, I paid to hear you play. I can tell people I love God for free. Your job is to pick up your guitar and make some magic.

The Format

Everyone was happy when The Format finally took the stage. Watching a band live is always so interesting. With each song, you see more clearly the people and personalities behind your favorite songs. I’m happy they didn’t waste my time by talking about stupid stuff in between songs.

I don’t know why bands do this. Maybe it’s a trick they’ve learned from comedians. You plan brief moments of awkwardness that make the crowd uncomfortable. So when the real zinger comes 10 seconds later, they laugh with more intensity because the sucky part of their day has passed. So I suppose (now this is a stretch) that a lead singer says stupid things before a song because it builds tension that is meant to be relieved by their biggest radio hit. Still, it’s a bad idea. Your “best song” might suck, and now you’ve got a problem on your hands.

Now, if you are a big band, it’s a good idea to talk to the other guys in your band in between songs. This is exciting to fans because it’s like their watching a live, 15-second reality show between their lead man and guitarist-with-mystique. Like Jeff Bebe and Russell Hammond from Stillwater, or Anthony Keatus and Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers. The rule is that you can only do this mid-concert banter if you’ve sold at least a million albums. For the rest of you, just play your songs.

I am delighted that people are concerned about getting the real deal–not some imposture food prepared by the kitchens of chain restaurants. Part of our insecurity comes from our fear that other countries judge American cuisine by our most famous ambassadors: Burger King and McDonalds. It’s natural that we would look across the street at Taco Bell and know that they’re not doing the Mexican thing right. To be clear, America is a better place because it’s citizens are concerned about authentic cuisine. Bravo.

Now the problem: we’re so damn obsessed with authentic cuisine that we can’t think straight. Consider our decades-long obsession with authentic Mexican food. This is of particular interest to me because I live in the Southwest, and everyone who comes into town wants to know where to get authentic Mexican food. Before I can even open my mouth, they usually go on to clarify what qualifies authentic Mexican food:

1. Avocados come from California, not Mexico.
2. Rice is an American addition to the burrito.
3. The burrito is an American addition to Mexican cuisine. (Well, which one is it? Did we add the rice or did we add the whole burrito?)
4. Mexicans don’t use tomatoes because they require too much water, which they don’t have a lot of.
5. Tex-Mex is not authentic Mexican food.

Each of these sounds like reasonable qualifiers for what constitutes authentic Mexican food. True or not, I’ve patched these together in an attempt to shore up my understanding of authentic Mexican food. Before we try to check Yes or No next to each sentence, let’s consider this whole conversation from the outside.

Mexico is a big country.

How naive do you have to be to assume that the entire country eats the same way? I mean in America, you have different cuisine in every region of the country. Isn’t it reasonable that that Mexico is the same way?

Mexico has thousands of miles of coastline, and I guarantee that the ocean-side cooks in Mexico have a different authentic food from the inlanders. There are more fisherman in Baja Mexico than there are cowboys, and you can’t try to convince me they eat the same thing. So this whole pursuit of authentic Mexican food is a waste of time. But let’s keep thinking about this.

Texas was part of Mexico.

When you consider the lands of Texas used to be a part of Mexico, Tex-Mex food should have as much of a stake in the claim to authentic Mexican food as anywhere south of the border. It’s arrogant to dismiss their 120 yr-old Tex-Mex food today as anything less than authentic.

Here’s another point to consider: what if authentic Mexican food sucks? Maybe the reason Tex-Mex food has stuck around for over a century because the authentic Mexican Indians were tired of the same old stuff. What if they were amped that the Spaniards brought in good stuff that made their blah dinner taste better? And there’s no convincing them to do it any other way. Those first Tex-Mexers fixed this new food for their kids. Those kids did it for their kids.

I know I’ve just lost people here. This sounds implausible to a lot of Americans because it’s fashionable nowadays to disown the ocean-hopping Europeans that settled/took over North America. It’s popular to think that everything they brought (religion, culture, gun powder) was nothing but trouble. I’ll let someone more knowledgeable than me pick up that debate–I’m here to talk about food. All I’m suggesting is that you have to respect Tex-Mex, the Spanish-Mexican fusion that they still love in South Texas today. It’s here for a reason, and it’s here to stay.

Who cares?

I guess I’ve gone off for the last 45 minutes about this whole issue because I’m tired of being caught in the crossfires of the Authenticity Debate. I’m tired of being judged by people who think they know more than me. As a white man, I always defer to my close Mexican friends, only to realize that they were confused too. The only differnce between us is that they just quit caring.

There are better things to do than to cause all of this needlessly complicated, racially-contentious drama over very simple food. There’s no use wasting time trying to decifer authentic ingredients. Shut up and eat your taco.

When my out-of-town friends ask me where to go for authentic Mexican, I spare them the debate and get right to it: you’re in Arizona and you want authentic Mexican food? Go to Filibertos. It might be a low-budget chain restaurant. Every Filibertos looks like it was built in a building that once sold burgers and fries. But their menu doesn’t explain their numbered “value meals.” They don’t have sales or specials, they don’t introduce new food. Their salsa bar is poorly lit and looks unappealing to me. But regardless of how formidable the restaurants may be, they are everywhere. Mexicans work there and Mexicans eat there. What can be more authentically Mexican than that?

For my money, I’d rather eat at the sanitized chains like Rubio’s or Baja Fresh, but I’ll never try to convince you it’s authentic Mexican. It just tastes better and that’s all I need.

Some people are genuinely trying to help you, but they just don’t have their facts straight. They get confused about how far it is between here and there. Trails bend, wind, go up and down. You pass by 100s of rocks, trees, and it all becomes a blur. They get caught in conversation and can tuned-out a mile of the trail during a debate over authentic Mexican food.

There are other hikers who aren’t as innocent. They are high on themselves for mastering their mountain, and they are glad to advise wide-eyed novices on their way down from the summit. Although they speak from recent experience, they are more confident than they are reasonable. If you are hiking with a hot wife (as I did), the males always like boasting of their superior knowledge.  “It’s not that hard” really means, “It’s so steep you might fall over backwards, but I’d prefer that you get worn out and think I’m a legend because it wasn’t hard for me.”

Males Being Males

It’s not always easy trying to separate the two groups: those who try to pass onto you solid, wise guidance, or is those who want to be admired for their knowledge. Let’s be real here: males love authority. It’s in our DNA to take control, survey an enemy, or explore the unknown. (Incidentally, these can also lead us to death.) So even the most discrimination male will help the most pitiful fool find his way from A to B.

It’s also in our DNA to be the hero. If a helpless group of tourists asks for help at a busy intersection, males love to stand apart from our group and put them on their way. It’s a bizarre satisfaction I felt many time in New York City. I won’t deny it. It’s a fantastic feeling to turn back to my group and continue on our way. I don’t have to tell them I saved the day. My guy friends know it, they just wish they could’ve saved the day first.

This complex doesn’t just exist on city streets and mountain trails. It happens in almost every realm where males can take authority. What’s the best bar in town? The best local beer? The coolest car? Males will always, always have an answer for those three questions. This complex isn’t reserved just for local jock straps. Seemingly well-traveled men have given some of the worst advice. Hipsters from New York have sent me to some lame night clubs.

Lessons from Eddie Van Halen

The most glaring examples was from two summers ago when Candyce and I were in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. We were on the sandy beach trying to figure out which direction to walk to get to our lunch spot. After turning up empty with folks who didn’t speak English, we found a rugged, roady-type American dude in his 40s. He pointed the way, but then told us we were making a mistake. (Dramatic!)

If we really wanted authentic Mexican food where the locals go, he knew of a sweet spot that was off the beaten path. He delivered his appraisal of the restaurant with confidence. How can you argue with that?

I should’ve doubted him because one, he was standing by himself on the beach. A lone wolf. Two, he was wearing iridescent wrap-around sunglasses, circa 1990. And three, he was also wearing a black golf shirt with Hard Rock Cancun embroidered on the chest pocket. This shirt brings up a lot of questions:

1. Why would you go to the Hard Rock Cafe while you were in Cancun?
2. Why would you buy a golf shirt to commemorate that experience?
3. Why wear said golf shirt on the beach of Cabo?
4. Did I mention it was a black shirt? …under the Mexican summer sun.

But I believed him because he had the deep but shaky voice who’d partied hard and knew a wild time. He looked like he could’ve been in a hair band that I loved when I was in elementary school. For all I know, I was actually talking to Eddie Van Halen. Eddie knows what the hell he’s talking about.

We went to that restaurant the next day, and it was the most outrageous tourist trap in all of Baja Mexico. To get in and out of the restaurant, you had to pass through a gift shop, shelves stocked like an airport gift shop. Before we even got a table, Candyce’s 10-year-old brother announced to the whole family: “This place is dumb.” But I figured there was something in the food that convinced this guy. Wrong! Not only was the food as predictable as a chain restaurant in suburban America, it was irrationally expensive. Prices that you would only expect misguided tourists to pay: $35 for an entree. I mean, they even charged for refills of tap water. Mexican tap water. The tap water that makes your butt explode.

Let There Be Peace on Earth, and Let it Begin with Me

I understand that in the end, these are minor problems we inflict upon one another. If the worst thing that happened to me that day was ending up at an over-priced tourist trap, then I am very fortunate. I am just amused about how unreliable the advice is that I receive from other adults. And I don’t want to add to the misinformation out there. So I’m making a habit out of questioning whether or not I have my facts straight. I don’t want to give bad guidance and end up as a case study of stupidity on some other guy’s blog. Yes, beware of he who wields the pen.

I know how bored I get when people talk about the weather, so I’ll just get to the point…

RVs Have No Sex Appeal

Having a cool house and a cool car is awesome (I have both), but putting a house and a car together just isn’t cool. Nothing can save an RV from it’s stigma of middle-American leisure, not even a sticker that reads “If the RV’s a rockin, don’t come knockin.”

But once you buy into the scene, your RV is absolutely cool. I walked around the private RV resort where we stayed, and every RV owner/driver was as confident as a baller who just stepped out of his Chrysler 300 with 24” rims. You could play “Party Like a Rokkstar” and somehow, it would match the collective mood. Sure, it’s more innocent, the partying is about the BBQ with the family by the mosquito zapper, but regardless, these people are having fun even if you don’t like it.

It’s unfair that I walked amongst the RV owners as a cultural chauvenist. Nobody likes an outsider pretending to be your friend just so they can run back to their friends and tell horror stories about your scene. So by noon on the second day, I decided to get over myself and join the fun. And I’m glad I did.

And now, the adventures…

Big Fish

Howard drove me, Candyce, Johnny, and Ali in his Jeep 17 miles into the woods so we could fish at Long Lake. Although my family owned a baitshop as a kid, I’ve only been fishing a half-dozen times. I used to pull those worms out of the ground during the summer to make money. I knew their fate, but I didn’t mind because I could buy Matchbox cars with my earnings.

I stood by the lakeside and saw the death of a worms not unlike those I plucked from the earth. I cringed as I stabbed, wrapped, and stabbed that poor worm until it was a dripping knot of death. Sorry dude, but we gotta catch some fish.

Candyce is a wuss, so she manipulated me to mutilate her worms. She’s crafty: “Does this worm look secure enough to you? Do you think I should add another worm?” Of course it wasn’t secure, you just draped the worm over the hook like you would a bath towel over the shower curtain rod. And yes you need to add another worm because all that’s left of the previous worm looked like a bead. I dug out a worm, lifted it to her hook, she turned her head. More stabbing.

After 6 hours of nothing, we decided to admit defeat and drive back to civilization. I was carrying the cooler and two chairs towards the Jeep when Candyce started screaming about catching a fish. Howard ran back down the hill and helped her pull out a 14 inch rainbow trout. We all celebrated and asked how she did it. We dutifully followed instructions and cast our hooks back into the water.

Two hours later, we packed up and went home. Eight hours, four fishing poles, one fish.

The dirty fish flops, scaring Candyce (looking like a dinosaur), scaring me (looking like a child), and making manly Johnny look manly.

That night we watched Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid and ate lemon pepper trout. This was a funny scene because I was actually sitting in a camp chair inside the RV. We were in the high mountains of Arizona watching a movie about the Wild West.

Once the trout was gone and the movie was finished, Candyce and I drove back to our site, turned off the engine and fell asleep. We didn’t even get out of the car.

Sleeping in the Element

Candyce and I slept in a campground not far from their RV in my Honda Element. Honda designed the Element so you could lay down all four of the seats to become one continuous soft bed from the dashboard back to the tailgate. (It’s actually kind of cool—the sun roof on the Element is in the back so you can recline and look up at the stars.)

Once we laid some blankets in some of the low parts of the flattened seats, the bed was actually pretty comfortable. It was so cold outside that we had two layers of sleeping bags on top of us.

As we were about to fall asleep a bright spotlight lit up the inside of the Element and freaked us out. I imagined some back-woods lumberjack had found us and was ready to steal away my hot wife. It ends up it was just the headlights of a car driving through the campground. I never experienced this before because I’d always slept in tents without glass windows. We laughed it off. But the thought of getting kidnapped in the middle of the night was enough to make me click the doors shut and engage the car alarm. Chirp chirp.

The alarm kept crazy lumberjacks out of the Element, but it also kept us in. Candyce tried to get out in the middle of the night and the car honked and screamed and blinked. It was the most frightening alarm clock I’d ever waken up to. I scrambled to find the clicker in the layers of blankets and sleeping bags. Once the panic was over, we laughed and fell back asleep.

When morning came, I slid forward and dropped my feet onto the brake pedal and the clutch. I popped my seat back upright and cranked the car. I drove over to G-parent’s RV and parked before Candyce had even waken up in the back. Her first seconds of the day were her grandparents standing on the steps to the RV with big smiles and good morning waves.

It was a bizarre but fun way to spend a night.

The two of us eating breakfast in the RV the next morning.

Boys Like Toys with Wheels

We sat in a cozy local restaurant to have lunch at the only intersection in Happy Jack, AZ. In the winter, this restaurant had to be a warm haven from the mountains of snow outside. In the corner was a wood stove. The walls were covered with fake wood-panel walls (probably back in the early 1980s). The simple menu with way too many “things” placed in “quotes.” As gaudy is it was, I loved every detail of the place. It reminded me of being back home in the mountains of Georgia.

While we waited for our food, I looked out the window at the 100s of dudes driving their toys to the gas station to fill up before they ventured out to set up camp. I’ve never seen more four-door trucks in my life. I’m not kidding you, at one point there were 8 quad-cab trucks hauling a boat or a fifth wheel, all lined up waiting to take a left into the gas station. The trailers were loaded with every wheeled-vehicle imaginable: off road golf carts, ATVs, off-road scooters, bicycles, dirt bikes, and even rugged baby strollers.

One guy really got me. He drove a dually quad-cab truck that pulled a fifth wheel camper. Behind that camper was a second trailer that carried an off-road golf cart. That’s 16 wheels driven by one man. It was a snapshot of man’s fascination with it’s own invention: the magnificent wheel. And every wheeled-vehicle was yet another possibility to explore the earth beneath them.

After four years, people still like the 300. You would think people would move their affection to some other car, but no. The 300 is more popular now than it was it’s debut year. Somehow word got out that it’s a cool car for cool guys. Guys who would normally buy a sporty car or an SUV realize that they can look cool and still be reasonable about the daily use of a family vehicle. It’s a dream come true.

The customs keep coming. Every year since the car was introduced, every guy who owns a custom car shop uses the 300 as his show car to flaunt his design skills. And it’s a rare car that can actually take some customizing and not look ridiculous.

The stock Chrysler 300, photo from 2003, compared to 300C customized by Dub Industries (and Photoshop.)

The stretched 300. Just recently Chrysler announced that they were making a long-wheel base 300. Lincolns and Cadillacs typically have made sedans that are slightly stretched so they can be used by limo services for patrons who want room but don’t want to ride in an outrageous stretched limo like a bunch of prom kids. Whenever I rode with celebs in NY, they always rode in stretched sedans. Many limo services already use the 300 to tote around the rich and famous. This says something about the universal appeal of the 300 because you can buy one for under $25,000—hardly an elite price tag.

Livin’ large.

Barack Obama drives a 300. He is fighting to become the Democratic candidate for the White House in 2008. Obama is uber popular because he’s charismatic and has style. It seems like the last president with that combo was JFK, who made the 4-door Lincoln Continental famous. (Unfortunately, it was also the car he was assassinated in.)

Rumors of spin offs. I don’t know if this has ever happened in the history of American automobiles: a 4-door sedan is so popular that they might make a 2-door or a convertible.

2-door Chysler 300 Concept from www.cwwcardesign

Aftermarket modifications from WestCoastCustoms.com

Chysler 300 4-door hardtop with suicide doors, from www.cwwcardesign

Ford wants to make a 300 too: The Interceptor. I gotta admit, this is a pretty badass car. This has “mob boss” written all over it. But as today, this is just a concept car. And almost every concept car looks cool and futuristic. By the time it gets to production, it’s edgy beauty always gets dulled down for the masses. If the production car looks this good, then the Interceptor will be the new 300. And that’s not bad, is it? Maybe it’ll be a new type of rivalry, like muscle cars in the late 1960s.

Gang. Sterrr.

Chrysler has another car up it’s sleeve, but I’m not convinced yet. The Chrysler Imperial Concept has that big sheet metal look of a Bently or a Maybach, but I’m not sure it does it as well as the big dogs. Like the Intercptor concept, I’ll have to make a call when it’s made.

I’m glad I went, because Bella was awesome. It was smart, indy, and so beautiful. Subtle. It’s the kind of movie that I’ll buy on DVD and keep on my shelf.

After the credits, the producer Leo (a young producer, I might add) came out and told a little history of the film, how he met the lead actor, Eduardo Verastegui, and the director Alejandro Gomez Monteverde. I’ve interviewed a few Hollywood producers, but I’ve never been a fan of their work. I just played my part to make a great interview. But I really enjoyed Bella, so having the producer stand in the room and talk directly to the audience was a thrill. (He actually thanked some of the people in Life Teen for their inspiration, and he mentioned my name. I was blown away. I mean, this was a good movie.)

I hurried out of the theater and walked under the palm trees of downtown Phoenix towards the US Airways arena to watch the second half of the Suns / Caveliers game. By the way, it’s been damn cold here. I only had $15 in my pocket, so there was no way I could get a ticket from a scalper. But I asked a couple for their ticket on their way to their car, and 10 minutes later, I was in the arena.

The Suns are so exciting to watch. If you don’t like watching the Suns play, then you just don’t like the game of basketball. They are the most exhilerating team to watch in the NBA. The arena was pulsing with energy on the court and in the stands. Awesome. I would’ve stayed for the rest of the game, but the Suns were crushing the Cavs, and I had other things to go to.

I drove over to Melanie’s house for a movie afterparty. It was fun to see some old friends again. I asked Amy what she’s been up to, and she explained to me that she’s personal assistant to REO Speedwagon. Yes, the band who brought us “(I’m gonna) Keep on Loving You” and “I Can’t Fight this Feeling Anymore.” Although she’s responsible for a variety of things, the most notable is that she actually washes their underwear. This means a lot to me, because my friend played Speedwagon on his mom’s boom box when we were hanging out at her aerobics club when I was in 4th grade. It’s a irrational sense of accomplishment to have my friend wash their underpants.

It was fun to talk to the producer a little more in the kitchen. He told me he actually visits lifeteen.com often. I was flattered. It’ll be exciting to see where this film will go. Here’s some photos from the night:

Leo the producer, Matt the Man.

My roommate Matt Maher talking with Eduardo, the actor

Eduardo with my friend Brooke.

Then earlier this week I watched a Christmas episode of The Simpsons where the town loser (Gil) moved in with the family for over a year. He eventually moved out of Springfield to Scottsdale, Arizona, and ended up becoming a successful real estate agent. Marge was determined to reprimand him for the trouble he caused them back in Springfield, so the Simpsons drove to Arizona.

I was so tickled to see the ever-familiar Simpsons characters drive around my town. It was nuts! After I got over my fear of having someone accuse of having too much time on my hands, I took pictures of my TV, then I drove around this afternoon looking for the real scenes. This is what I came up with:

There’s no “desert” left around Scottsdale, but the sign is pretty accurate.

(To be honest, I didn’t take this one. I tried to, but I almost got rear-ended. This picture I found online.)

Clouds are rarely in the sky in Arizona, but the sky always has fluffy clouds on The Simpsons.

That’s pretty close! I used to work at the foot of the mountain on the left.

The Simpsons’s new home in Arizona.

This isn’t a perfect match, but it’s close.

The most wild part of watching this episode was that it was a Christmas special, and I was watching it around Christmas. So I looked at the TV in my living room, then looked out the doors of my living room and saw Christmas lights wrapped around palm trees and cactus. It was a magical moment.

:::

Since I was out taking pictures this afternoon, I decided to hike through Papago Park and enjoy the 60 degree weather. Here’s my journey.

Papago Park

A desert tree

A crazy rock. That green dot in the middle is a tree on another mountain 300 feet away.

It’s hard to see in this photo, but that’s Camelback Mountain in the far distance on the right.

This is a self-portrait snapped while I was inside a cave at the top of one of the mountains. In the distance is downtown Phoenix.

Next to the field was an impressive skate park. There were kindergartners skating next to guys in there forties. It was so cool to watch old guys having as much fun as the young ones. Because I didn’t have a board, I sat on the bleachers with cheering section of proud wives and mothers. The only guy sitting besides me was a dude with his armed wrapped up in a sling. When I asked, he pointed to the tallest ramp and said, “I was up there last week and I fell down all the way there.” He’s lucky he only broke his arm.

It was fun seeing all these skater families. The dads still talked like pro-skaters, and the moms were pretty and still dressed hip. As a kid raised in the rural South, I never imagined this beachside life really existed. Truthfully, it wasn’t much different than the NASCAR families whose lives revolved around local racetracks where hometown boys can pretend they are big-time racers. It’s still just people doing what they love to do.

Years ago—I can’t start a sentence like that! “Years ago” are the words of a wise Indian elder or nostalgic old man. Let’s start over: I’ve learned not to believe MTV hype. When I was in high school, I watched a “Year in Music” with MTV News. They said that punk dominated the charts. I was sitting there with my spiked hair, studded belt, and clunkin’ boots—a real punk—and hadn’t heard any punk on the radio or videos on TV. What do you mean, “charts dominated by punk”? I think I’d know.; So this year when I heard bands like The Strokes, The Hives, and The Vines were dominating the charts, I was interested to see if it would really happen.

The show was pretty ragged, and so was the crowd. The lead singer seemed so strung out on drugs—or image—he was just a character, not a real person. The distorted vocals, staggering across the stage, and alas, the smashing of the guitar. On the quiet ride home, Matt M. quoted what he had read about the band. The lead singer confessed that he has to be drugged-up to keep it up. I walked into my quiet house, and I really felt bad for him. Doesn’t he know how this story ends?

Mrs. Kobain told her son Kurt, “Don’t join this stupid club.” Now he’s dead. No more shows, no more songs, no more friends. He’s dead.

:::

“Make these broken weary bones, rise to dance again.” The music filled up the tent and the thousand people there sang along. I made my way through the back row, past dozens of old people. They were old people that you wouldn’t expect to see outside on a Friday night. They are old people you just don’t see anymore. We hide them in old folks homes while we go shopping.

Not tonight. They leaned their walkers against their lawn chairs, or sat contently in their wheel chairs. They raised their arms and sang with all the life they had. They are alive and loving it.

That whole place was alive, alive in a way I didn’t see at the Vine’s concert, or at the mall, or in MTV. Here everything seems right. Everyone is kind to one another. All insecurities are gone, even if it’s just for a few hours. We were different ages, colors, shapes and sizes, and it didn’t matter. It really doesn’t.;

There will be a decade of old folks, wrinkled, hunched and ugly, sleeping their last years in an old folks home. The young nurses will joke about the tattoos that every old lady has in their lower back. Most guys have a matching tattoo, barbed and thorny, wrapped around their flabby arm or blue-veined ankle.

Will we yell at the nurse “crank it up, that’s Dr. Dre!” Will the bingo after-parties be booty dancing?

What am I doing here? The music, the dancing…wow!; I wanted to go dancing. Where to tonight?

We don’t dance like that anymore. You pretty much go to a club with almost no clothes on—especially if you are a girl. When the music starts, you start pounding against each other like you are mating. Anyone will do, just whisper something in her ear and go at it.

I am a big fan of sex. As a Christian, you should be; God made it good for a reason. I am a big fan of music, dancing, celebrating. But, how has sex and dancing gotten so perverted that they are no longer good?

I just deleted a paragraph trying to define what kind of “good” I mean. But when “it’s all good”, nothing is good.

Holy?

Sex is holy, but not always. Dancing is holy, but not always.

When we reduce ourselves to animals gorging ourselves in instinct, we brutalize beauty. We’ve lost the romance and elegance of dancing, making love.

Tonight I was walking home from Mass, talking to my little brother on the phone. It is a beautiful night with the perfume of orange blossoms in the air. I was sipping my Dr. Pepper and eating Cheetos walking past manicured lawns. My brother was telling me how he’s doing on his video game…strategy, battles. Then I remembered we are at war. I got a shot of adrenaline—imagining that I was in the middle of Iraq, watching bombs light up the sky, blowing up the road in front of me.

People act like this is some reality show. No. This is real.

I have to pray for everyone: coalition troops and Iraqi troops. I have to pray for all Iraqi people. I can’t be spoiled by America. I have to do what I can.

Protesters. I don’t know what to think about these protests. I don’t like the protests because they are largely anti-American. It seems to be the same here on our own soil. I read in Time that it is ant-American, socialist groups that are funding the majority of these protests. Sure, you can pay for your own poster board and marker, but who rented the $300,000 stage?

What’s that hippy song? “People with signs saying, hey look at our signs.” I see so much pride in the protests. I am for peace. I hate war. And I also know this situation can’t be solved with a motto scribbled on a poster. It seems to me people just like to be seen having a purpose for their life. And is this really about Iraq? I’m sure some people protest because they don’t like the government, others don’t like Bush, and some students wanted to skip school. And the peace marches end with people getting maced.

Where are the people of Iraq protesting Hussein’s weapons?

Monsignor Dale said everyone is playing their part. The protesters are doing what they are supposed to do: rally behind a cause. The U.N. is doing what it does, a forum for countries to come together to discuss and act on the world court. France is defying the U.S. to keep us in check. The pope says war is wrong and they’ve not tried hard enough to solve this peacefully. He’s right. I’d be disappointed if the pope wasn’t a moral voice of reason. Bush and Blair are doing what they need to do: get rid of Hussein.

I was planning on going to see him before he moved back to Atlanta. I got home from Delaware, repacked my bags, and got on another plane to Tahoe. Bush gave an ultimatum to Hussein, and I strapped on my snowboard.

These past few days were bizarre. My body was hurting bad from so many falls. My wrists were so shot, I could barely open a door. I almost didn’t go out this afternoon because I didn’t want to risk hurting my career. Typing this hurts.

I prayed so hard these past few days. I zipped down the long white slopes, thinking of what was going on in the world. No one knows how this thing will turn out. I am so tired and I can’t type anymore.

Every news station, protester, and coffee shop barista knows how we should run this country, and only one person is doing it. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to have this weight on my shoulders.

I never can put my trust in a politician. The system is so twisted, I wonder if a person with integrity can make it on top. But, I do have faith that Bush is doing his best. He’s trying to do the right thing. While past presidents—Clinton—was busy trying to define what the definition of “is” is, this president is steering our nation through a difficult, uncertain time of history. He has to wake up and make decisions beyond, “should I call in sick today?”

Stephanie and I accidentally watched About Schmidt, the other Jack Nicholson movie. There’s no clever story or over-the-top characters, just an old man retiring, losing his wife, and watching his only daughter get married to an average guy. Every character in this movie was so average and lifeless. Nobody was under the age of 35, but I could see people my age in each character, even the old people.

Twice I seriously thought about walking out and doing something else. Why watch someone else’s miserable life? But, Stephanie and I were on a date, and I can’t imagine Jack Nicholson would choose a bad movie all the way through.

“When I am dead, and the people that know me are dead, it will be like I never existed. What have I done with my life?” That line really got me thinking. Really, that’s what happens when you spend all of your life on yourself. Like Grampa told me in high school, “Invest your energy in something greater than yourself.” That’s what I am doing.

The movie is narrated as Jack Nicholson write to a six year old boy over seas that he just sponsored for $22 per month. Seeing how much future his boy has, and how little past he has, Schmidt wonders hard what his life was all about. And it’s through his sponsorship of that boy that this old man finds meaning.

Old generations and new generations…

Everyone wants good parents. But how many people are willing to be good parents? I can see it now: parents shape the generation that will rule the world. It’s been that way forever, and it’ll always be that way.

:::

It was cold inside this afternoon, so I threw a sheet out over the lush green grass and lied down to let the sun do its thing. I started getting those loopy-dream-thoughts and lost myself. I came to my sense and realized my plane was taking off in less than an hour. I zoomed to the airport, and I made it just in time.

Now I am floating somewhere over the Midwest on my way to Cleveland, OH. Night flights are always better. The passengers are usually calmer and I feel like I am in my own world. These Bose earphones hush the drone of the engines, helping me to forget I am on a plane.

I don’t know what’s going on inside of me. The movie last night affirmed me and I feel ever better about serving God with my life, not myself. But at the same time, I am struggling with the idea of getting old. I know this is silly b/c I am still in my early twenties, but everyone who is old was once young.

I am just going to have to leave it at that.

This place boggles my mind. There are dozens of these ultra-preppy professionals huddles at every table, and I wonder: why are they not at work? They are probably looking at me thinking the same thing. I’m here because I am tired of being at the studio. Thanks to this handy-dandy laptop, I can be here and still get work done.

If I don’t watch it, those birds are going to eat my muffin.

This coffee shop phenomenon—how long will it last? The rapcore/metal music scene is/was so saturated, I felt left out because I was white and hadn’t learned to rap yet. But that’s over, and even Limp Bizkit is going to have to change their sound. There will be a point when you can’t build another Starbucks. You can’t open up a Starbux in the bathroom of a Strarbucks. I don’t hate Starbucks as much as I do full-size SUVs, but then again, I really despise those gluttonous pig wagons.

You know that’s a shame, about rap-rock and coffee shops. I’ve liked rap rock for over eight years now, and the industry grabs onto a good thing and we get too much of it. I’m not a covetous hipster snob who insists on having all cool things for myself, I’m just going to miss that spit and crunch.

What’s going on with dating? Marriage? Happiness?

Though some kids got married in high school, most got married in college. That wasn’t too long ago. Here in 2003, marrying that young seems ludicrous. But back then “waiting till my thirties to get married” seemed like a miserable wait for no reason. Today, it’s like it becomes more and more “cool” to wait till you get older to get married. But I don’t believe that crap. That mentality is a response from a society of individuals who never got to know themselves in their youth, and had to waste all of their twenties wearing out their selfish lifestyle. Sleeping around and buying things didn’t make them happy, so they quick get married while they can still have kids that they’ve worked so hard not to have.

On the bus ride from the parking lot to the airport, I noticed this guy had on a wedding band. Then I looked at the old lady sitting next to him, and she had a wedding ring as well. Oh wow…they have someone waiting for them when they get back. I’ve never noticed wedding rings. When do you get those?

In high school, I devised a perfect plan for happiness. I would meet my girl when I was a senior in college, and she would be a junior. This way we could get married after we graduated and then I would finally give the gift of my virginity. I’ve been waiting along time for you girl!

I figured God would reward me for my patience and purity. It’s silly to think that God would play by my rules, even if I think they are fair rules. (I have been waiting a long time!)

I may not get married for several years. For the first time in my life, I am at peace with that. I live a life–a rush–being a pencil in His hand. It’s a rush I never expected, much less planned for. I am thankful God is not a wish-granting genie like so many people make Him out to be. By God’s grace, I will follow His path, not my own.

I had so many journals, brainstorming notes, and personal memos on that computer. My insurance might pay for it, but I doubt it. I was bothered as I went to bed, but not because my computer was gone. I was bothered because I didn’t seem to care.

“Things” just don’t make me happy. It could be a car, a house, or fancy electronic stuff—none of it makes me happy. I lived in The Real World mansion stacked with cool stuff and life didn’t start sparkling with joy. We got shipments of shoes, clothes, and skateboards as companies tried to get their stuff on air. It was like walking in a cool store and taking whatever I wanted.

For me, there is no thrill in owning. The rest of the world seems to get a kick out of it and I kind of feel left out, but that’s a good thing. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to really get a thrill out of the stuff that I have. You know, sitting in my garage and googling over my car.;

Though I do think owning the original Transformers would make my life better. That and a car with hydraulics so I can flip switches when I drive Mom to the store.

What if we were all the same age? Right now—everyone in this room turned 18 again. Who would be friends? Who’d want to go out with each other?

It makes you wonder. Who is to say who was hot when they were young, now they are old and they aren’t hot anymore, but still shallow. And angry they aren’t hot anymore.

Christmas Eve, Dad took us to see Danielle, his student who’s suffering from brain tumors. She is lively and smart and was proud to have a visit from her principal. She weighed next to nothing, and could see out of one eye. She told Mr. Smith she’s been learning brail and sees pretty well out of her left eye. Her thick glasses perched on her nose and she told Mr. Smith about her holiday and what it’s like not seeing her teachers as much as she used to.

You don’t think about death. Death is not an option. Life is what she has, what we have. We cannot live this life for ourselves. There are too many people who suffer in this world.

Wednesday:
It was freezing and the wind ripped right through my sweater. I cranked up the heat and started driving…looking for adventure in the last hours of Christmas. I went to the Adoration Chapel and the Cathedral of Christ the King in Buckhead. I ran into an old friend from Life Teen and chatted for a half hour she told me what she’s been up to since she graduated from high school and Life Teen.

She studied abroad for the past several months, enjoying a new culture, and life in an old castle in Scandinavia. Complete with spires and two motes, she ate her meals with other students in the dungeon-turned-cafeteria. With the help of some contraband Tabasco, a steady diet of potatoes and bread kept them going. After a couple history classes and traveling around Europe, she’s dying to write a book about cathedrals. I hopped out of her Jeep into the cold and grabbed the cold metal handle on the tall door.

I stepped into the Cathedral, looking up at the Gothic arches, savoring the aromas of the Christmas trees and incense. The Cathedral was empty, and my heals echoed through the arches. It was there that almost four years ago I enjoyed my first Life Teen Mass. Every Sunday night I experienced God’s love in a new way. I went onto help out with the youth group. I moved to New Orleans to be on the “Real World.” Now I travel every weekend and speak at Life Teen parishes around the country. How life changes…

It was 28 degrees out, and a difficult night for everyone. There were two homeless people sharing the chapel, an elderly lady asleep in the corner, her Bible sliding from her hands, and a young man, alert and rubbing his hands. The space heater couldn’t keep up with the cold shining through the stained glass windows.

I knelt down and prayed. I promised Stephanie I would pray for her all day on Christmas.

There was a knock on the wooden door and Dave Sloan steps in. I smiled. All night I thought about how I wanted to hang out with him. It’s been almost two years since we’ve talked. Strangely, I wasn’t surprised to see him in the chapel.

Dave and I slid in a booth at the Landmark Diner off of Roswell road. It’s the classic New York diner wrapped in chrome, with a menu offering burgers to octopus. I hadn’t eaten much all day, and the stuffed flounder was perfect. We sipped through four cups of coffee, as I caught up with one of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met.

Dave is a poet, writer, and lover of God. He’s had a long, tough journey. He’s spent time in jail, rode his bike across the country, lived in a barn, and now speaks on chastity. He keeps his head shaved and his pencil sharp, ready to write anything about anything. He’s a regular at spoken word sessions in coffee shops. In AA, he discovered Christ. Since then, he’s been on a divine mission through the gutters. He has a deep admiration for Pope John Paul II and his writings, especially “Theology of the Body” and “Love and Responsibility.” He smelled the gutters and savored the sunrise.

He confessed he just turned forty, and I reflected on arriving at 24. He sold his Jeep and bought a huge station wagon to take care of new friends. We parked next to a brand new Land Rover with a ribbon tied to the grill. We talked about new projects we were working on, my passion with lifeteen.com and his adventures with purelove.net. Two men of God sipping coffee on a cold Christmas.

Thursday:
“Get up Amber is having her baby get your suitcase let’s go!”

The baby boy was 20 minutes old. Everyone was crying and laughing and loving. I stood in the huddle—bewildered. I’ve never seen a baby that young. I’ve never seen people with such pure happiness for being alive. He’s so little and so helpless. I wanted to hold him but I wasn’t ready and I hardly knew the family. I was just the little brother of a friend.

Katie told me that Amber had cried for the last week, wanting so bad to hold her baby boy. There is nothing more precious than the love between a mother and child.

:::

I was the last person to make it on this flight. Again. We bolted to the airport from the delivery room. Now I am hovering somewhere over Texas on my way to Phoenix. I can’t really process the past few days, but one thing is for sure: it’s been a Christmas like no other.;