Also, too, the great Ronald Reagan.

Most everyone keeps an inventory - in their brain or leather-bound journal or on their Stickies - of the things they want to do while still dwelling on planet Earth. My earliest such list was permanently recorded in my dear mother's brain when I was five, or thereabouts:

She asked me, "Stephen, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

I replied matter-of-factly, "I want to be a teenager - or a spy."

So that was my 5-year-old bucket list.

Things have changed since then (I have already accomplished half of my life's goals, as you may have already noted). Gradually, that list has morphed into something altogether different. I haven't written it down in some time - an exercise that is healthy for me because I tend to actually do things that I write down - but I assure you it has more than two items. It now has three or something.

I'm not going to write it down here, yet. Maybe someday. The purpose of this post was to report I am in the process of scratching out an item on my list - training for (and ultimately completing) a marathon. As I have embarked on my training regiment, the goal has become more specific - to finish in under three hours, thus qualifying me for Boston.

After a few weeks of training, things are looking up. Three toenails are dead. My knees are starting to ache. I like eating GU. I know what overpronate means.

Wish me luck.

Not sure anyone actually ever reads this part, but here's some good music:
Cardinology by Ryan Adams
Gossip in the Grain by Ray Lamontagne
"Late Night Partner" by Ed Harcourt
"True Love Ways" by Buddy Holly
Bodies and Minds by Great Lake Swimmers

Pea S. Lewis?

I'm presently tackling my first book of poetry. Now, I have always admired poetry - in the same way that I admired wine until I really gave it a shot. In other words I didn't admire poetry at all. I thought it pretentious and inaccessible. Maybe because I was too lazy to think or to look up obscure references to Greek gods. Maybe that makes me normal - I don't know.

Either way, I stumbled upon a collection of C.S. Lewis' poetry during a recent jaunt to Half Price Books - and it is slowly, methodically tearing down my presuppositions about poetry with astonishing passages like this from the poem entitled "On Being Human":

They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down to the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang - can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.

Not sure just how air-tight the theology is here, but I do know those words resonate with my soul in a deep place. And I think that's what poetry is supposed to do. So, I am giving poetry a chance, just like my Mom told me to do with peas (typically those episodes ended in nausea while stealthily shoveling peas to the floor - so it's not quite a perfect metaphor).

And one music recommendation:
"Eve, the Apple of my Eye," by Bell X1.

Enjoy, lovers.

Ever Afters and Toy Poodles or: Why Weddings are Badass

Hello, humans.

Sitting here at a Starbucks in heart of Dallas after witnessing the matrimony of a couple dazzling individuals. I am a huge fan of weddings for several reasons, which you will [might] now read about:

a) Weddings force you to contemplate weightier things - things like ever-afters, devotion, faith, true love, sincerity, trust. These things are important because they act as just that - weights that tether us to the ground. Without them we'd just kind of float away into the great blue unknown. They make things worthwhile. They're hard. And worthwhile = hard. Not necessarily in Webster's Thesaurus, but in Miller's, the lesser known younger cousin of D-Web (as those of us in the industry call him).

b) You will, without a doubt, run into someone you weren't expecting to see. And it will be refreshing because you haven't seen or even thought of this person in a year - and you will remember why you love this person. And then you won't see them for another year - at the next wedding of another friend. Sometimes weddings, I'm beginning to believe, are the only thing keeping this country together. Obama needs to change his campaign slogan from HOPE to WEDDINGS. It will confuse at first, but then one by one, everyone will understand and nod knowingly.
...and that paragraph went places I hoped I'd never go.

c) There are a lot of stunning females. Creepy, Steve.

d) You get to spend a few hours at some really nice places - like church sanctuaries and clubhouses and (if the stars align) you receive free college drinks by the handful. And then you end up talking with Friend X's mom for 45 minutes about how much you both enjoy toy poodles, and she repeats the same phrase ("Wasn't it just a beautiful ceremony?") no less than six times. This is typically a sign that it's time to leave this nice place.

Music time!
Greg Laswell, Three Flights from Alto Nido
Electric President, Self-Titled
Wild Sweet Orange, We Have Cause to be Uneasy
Joshua James, The Sun is Always Brighter
The War on Drugs, Wagonwheel Blues

xoxo.

Hi there.

Just wanted to pass on a few things I have been enjoying of late. Sometimes I just need to SHARE something with people - something that makes me so happy that I want to pass on the happy to, well - you. This sort of weird compulsion to experience things with someone. With is a weighty word. There's not enough with out there. Experience these with me:

• Priscilla Ahn's Take Away Show performance of Dream. If you're not familiar with Take Away Shows, check out the site. Essentially, they place musicians (typically indie types) in public places and simply film them performing - in the backs of taxis, in elevators, street corners, in the middle of crowds. The beauty is in the rawness. If nothing else, check out Priscilla - Dream is a masterpiece.

• The Second Gleaming by the Avett Brothers. This six song EP zooms in on the understated, quiet side of the Avetts. It's gorgeous, acoustic, earnest, summer night music. Check out "Murder in the City" on their MySpace to whet your appetite.

• The Olympics. Duh. Personal faves include women's sand volleyball (not for the reasons you'd expect, perv), Usain Bolt's scary speed, women's gymnastics (for the reasons you'd expect - love you, Nastia!), not women's basketball, Shawn Johnson's adorableness, Bob Costas, Bela Karolyi, swimming relays. Chances are I'm watching some obscure sport as you read this - shirtless and sticking to our leather couch. But happy. Happy as a lark.

• That's all.

Love you like I love Nastia.

Dr. Horrible and the Pursuit of Happiness

Whoa.

That's the present flavor. It has been a rich, heavy, wearisome, at times overwhelming couple of months. Quick, an update in 50 words or less!!!

Suitcase, plane, lost suitcase, Europe, trains, Grace, sunrise in Barcelona, pesto, wine, wine, wine, sunset in Florence, beer, "Oh, Muy-Kuhl," Austin, Dr. Horrible, sleep in train station, bratwurst, v-neck, Grendel, boat times, Coldplay, "Ha-ha, I have high shoes," trash tanks, TOMS, Fay-Bans, "I can't stop smiling."

So, there you have it. Clears things right up.

Here's the general life plot synopsis, in three acts:

Act I
Europe
London
Paris
Barcelona
Italy
-Florence
-Rome
-Milan
-Como
-Cinque Terra
Switzerland
Germany
Home

Act II

Austin

Act III

Job Hunt
?

Some music that's worth it:
Paper Route, Are We All Forgotten
Coldplay, Viva La Vida or Death and All His Friends
Fleet Foxes, Fleet Foxes
Conor Oberst, Conor Oberst
Shearwater, Rooks
Jakob Dylan, Seeing Things
Jon Foreman, Summer EP

Off to Europe For a Month...

...for a holiday, as the Brits have more eloquently deemed it (I'm practicing). Might be an occasional post here and there as we (Scotty, Charles, Michael and I) traipse our way through the UK, France, Spain, Italy and Switzerland. Might not. Either way, we're going to leave a trail of sangria,  bad decisions and broken hearts in our wake. 

Mom asked me earlier today what I'm most looking forward to. "I'm looking forward to the laughs," I replied. That may sound cheesy in writing, but it's true. Upon further thought, however, I have revised my answer. I am most looking forward to this:

Love you, Mom. See you in a month.

Things I Like, Vol. 1

I like things. Things are really great, unless you worship them. Every so often I’m going to update you on things I like at the present – like a modern show-and-tell session. I once cut the Nike sign out of a pair of shorts in 5th grade for show-and-tell. I showed the class the Nike sign and I told them I liked Nike. That’s essentially what I’ll be doing here, except the only cutting I’ll be partaking in here will be followed by a Command + V. Which brings me to my first item.

MacBook

I always wondered why people were so militantly obsessed with their Apple products. You always hear things like, “I just love my Mac/iPod/iThing! You have got to get one for yourself.” I am always leery a things that people tell me they love; I’m more pessimistic than I wish I were. Oh yeah, and also – I’m a jerk. Well, my brother and sister each purchased a MacBook in the past year because they are smarter than I am, giving me ample time to get acquainted with said device. Like any relationship, it took time to get intimate, to build rapport, to learn to trust.

(Cut to eHarmony commercial with MacBook and I canoodling on the couch, explaining how we met, and how happy we are, and how everyone gets nauseous because we’re such a perfect couple. Me: “She’s just so easy to be with – just so intuitive and knows what I want to do next.” MacBook: “He has such soft fingertips…”) I like MacBooks.


Every Man Jack Mint Body Wash

Now, let’s get one thing clear: I will always be a loufa man. Always. I’ve heard every conceivable anti-loufa argument from all manner of uneducated swine:

• Loufas are gay.
• Loufas collect germs.

I guess those are the only two I’ve heard now that I think about it. Not exactly John Forbes Nash-level rhetoric. I know you bar-soapers won’t be swayed by logic, so I won’t present logic. Instead, I present Every Man Jack Mint Body Wash. The minty fresh assault on your senses will leave you ruminating on its wonders long after you’ve left the confines of your shower. I have literally been looking forward to showering the past couple days since happening upon the faux-wooden bottle at Target. I like Every Man Jack Mint Body Wash.

Music – First Half of 2008

Everyone does year-end best-of lists. Including me – I love them. To cut down my work toward the end of the year and because I thoroughly enjoy talking about music, here are my favorite releases from the first six months of 2008:

Honorable Mention
• Death Cab for Cutie, Narrow Stairs
• PlayRadioPlay!, Texas
• Mates of State, Re-Arrange Us
• The Felice Brothers, Self-Titled

Second-Tier
• MGMT, Oracular Spectacular
• The Helio Sequence, Keep Your Eyes Ahead
• Jon Foreman, Fall, Winter and Spring EP’s
• Vampire Weekend, Self-Titled
• Headlights, Some Racing, Some Stopping

Saucy Minx
• Grand Archives, The Grand Archives
• Bon Iver, For Emma, Forever Ago

If you have not had the pleasure of hearing The Grand Archives or Bon Iver, you have not had much pleasure lately. Out of everything I've heard this year, these two have stuck with me the most. Bon Iver, in particular, lodges deeply in your lower gut. Kind of like IBS without the embarrassment. Anyhow - I think you'll like both of these albums more than you can imagine if you give them a chance. And the rest of them as well. I like music.

The Real Reason You Hated Middle School

Middle school was rough for me. If you polled 100 people on their view of middle school, I’d wager a vast majority would profess a similar sentiment. I mean, have you ever heard anyone say, "Middle school was the best time of my life! I love social awkwardness and scoliosis screenings!" Thus, I don’t make that claim expecting any sympathy. I say it because you probably know what I’m talking about.

That being said, my middle school experience was far, far less female-dog-resembling than most. I was an athlete. I got decent grades. I didn’t get teased much. I was in with the hip kids. I was in with the band kids. I had a badass Penny Hardaway jersey (that I wore nearly every Monday in 6^th grade with matching shorts). I got by.

Except with girls.

I have this theory. In other words, what you are about to hear is probably false. Nonetheless, I have this theory about girls in middle school – and why I was a comprehensive failure with them.

You see, in middle school you’re labeled. And there’s no escaping that label until a) you do something outrageous enough to earn a new label or b) you get to high school and there are too many kids to label.* It wasn’t until high school that shook my label as the Cute, Sweet Guy.

To a middle school male it’s the Scarlet Letter, kiss of death – whatever you want to call it. You see, girls don’t "go out"** with the cute guys. They go out with the hot guys. Once you’ve been labeled cute, it’s over. Even if you are hot – or even hott – and someone says you’re cute, you’re screwed. You will not have the opportunity to dance too close to a girl at a social. You will not uneasily hold hands under the table during lunch as you down bomb pops and Capri Sun. You will not have a girlfriend.

Sure, I had my share of crushes. In 6^th grade it was Jennifer. She was the New Girl, we had Social Studies together and I was the first to 'discover' her. I must’ve felt like Columbus did when he first set eyes on the Americas. Minus the systematic massacring of an entire race of indigenous people. Sadly, this one ended with a stolen locket, Valentine's carnation delivery and a 30 second phone conversation likely prompted by her mother.

In 7^th grade it was Alex. There were two schools of thought when it came to who held the title of Hottest Girl in the grade. There was my party who supported Alex. She was adorable, athletic, had long blond hair. And then there was the Abbie faction. She was a tall, stunning brunette. But Abbie and I had some history. At least in my eyes. In 5th grade I wrote her a note professing how good she looked in her black Chuck Taylor's, and as a result, how she should be my girlfriend. I guess I should have complimented her jorts instead. Therefore, she did not have my allegiance in the race for the Hottest Girl crown.

In 8th grade it was Karen. Karen was the first female who I was legitimately good friends with. We had Coach Bergmann's third period History class together. To this day, Coach Bergmann remains my favorite teacher and coach in the history of my formal education. More importantly, Karen and I would walk to her locker everyday after class to drop off her books. Let's just say it might as well have been Chemistry class with all the sparks that flew. Let's just say that was a bad joke.

All of these crushes ended in some tragic way - usually with some sort of letter that was never returned. I refuse to believe that I was not boyfriend material - I still hold that it was my label as the Cute, Sweet Guy that no one wanted to date me. I mean, for goodness sakes, there was this redheaded kid named Brett who had a bulbous, hairy growth on his left hand likely caused by overexposure to Surge. But since he was Semi-Athletic Redheaded Guy With Strange Growth, he dated Not Quite the Hottest Cheerleader, But Still Not That Bad.

So there's my theory. Like any theory, it must be thoroughly scientifically tested and scrutinized. Or you can just accept it because you trust my judgment and frankly don't care that much. Obviously you weren't Science Nerd.

*An important note here: Labels do exist in high school, but only for the most extreme cases. For instance, you could probably still name the Loose Girl, the Freakish Athlete, the Gay Guy, Brilliant Guy, Cute Girl Who Only Became Hot Senior Year and Now Everyone Notices Her But You’ve Known She Was Going to Be Hot All Along, at your respective high school. Everyone else gets clustered into a general group, which in turn bequeaths its own labels upon those within that assembly. You see how complex this can get. Even Audubon would have problems classifying the average high school.

** Someone needs to do an exhaustive study on the varied names given to “dating,” and how they morph as one’s schooling progresses.

Gram.

Note: I wrote this several weeks ago when I found out that my Gram was going to pass away within the month. I was in a plane on my way back from Minnesota.

Barbara Roberts Munson passed away today at the age of 78.

It's been a couple days since I heard Gram was going too fast. I was on my way home. Gram is too.

Cities burned below like lava, all orange and glowing through the misty sky as we floated toward Texas. They stood out like lighthouses in the grey dusk. Like a lost traveler, the lights guided me home. For the first time all week I felt like my feet were on solid ground - suspended 20,000 feet in the air.

In the distance a giant cluster of that lava light sprawled out in front of me. I thought of Gram, braving every second, selfless as a blanket, warming everyone with her last energy. As the night crept in, the cities only burned brighter. I missed Gram right then - already.

I cried some. Then I remembered. I remembered Egypt, blueberry pancakes and Babe the pig. I remembered the way she adored her husband, the way they fawned over each other when they celebrated 50 years together. And I remembered how she made some horrendous meat loaf once when I was younger. Mostly I kept remembering her faith.

I miss you, Gram. See you soon.

Seattle.

Up here taking in the beauty of the Pacific Northwest this week. Holy goodness. I typically only venture up here for Christmastime to visit the extended family. As a result, to this point my Seattle experience included rain and snow and mean looking clouds. Seattle in the Spring is something very, very different.

I have this recurring dream where I sprint nude through a mountain meadow, wildflowers exploding around me like pollen grenades, birds triumphantly singing songs of freedom, people's faces melting in horror. I also have this habit of revealing too much about what goes on inside this head of mine. What I'm getting at is that if I were to make my dream (it's certainly not anyone else's dream) come true, it'd be here and now. And there would be a friendly, well-spoken Sasquatch involved somehow.

As it stands, that isn't a likely scenario. But not because there aren't friendly Sasquatches (no chance that's the correct plural) out there. No, I have other obligations up here. My grandmother's health taking precedence over everything else. You see, my grandmother has breast cancer. And it's not looking terribly promising. But if you knew Barbara Munson like I did, you'd know that she's not going quietly or quickly or without purpose. On April 16, the doctors gave her between a week and a month to live. Well, here's a picture of Gram taken a couple days ago. She's not going anywhere fast.

It's hard to see one of the feistiest women I've ever known hurting -- she's in a tremendous amount of pain. I saw her cry for the first time in my life this week. But she has a deep faith. That tree-planted-by-the-water kind you read about in Psalm 1. If there's one thing I've learned up here in Seattle it's that trees like water and water produces massive trees and there's something really stunning about a massive tree.

So, if you happen to read this, pray that Gram can sleep well tonight and that she feels Jesus' love. That's all she really wants.

To close, here are some pics of Seattle and the surrounding areas I took this week. Enjoy!?




XOXO,

Gossip Girl

The (Sort of) Great Wall of Miller

Pop and I have finished up a project that we began about 9 months ago. No, this project was not a baby. But it might as well have been with all the pain it has caused us. If it were a baby it'd be a fat one. A chubby little screaming monster. But it wasn't a baby; What we have worked on for months looks a little something like this:

No, it probably (positively) should not have taken 9 months to build (we did take about an eight month hiatus). No, it doesn't look perfect. But yes, we are proud of it because we created it. Kind of like those parents who -- let's be honest -- don't have the World's Most Attractive Kid. But they love that kid more than anything in the world because he/she's theirs. And to them he/she's perfect. Pop and I have had more than one of those Love Actually "to me you are perfect" moments with that wall, minus Keira Knightley.

Life moves on. Literally.

As in, I'm moving to Austin at the beginning of July, starting a new job (hopefully sooner rather than later), and starting a new chapter of my life. For reasons that are mostly boring to explain in writing, it's time to go. Life is not always terribly easy to understand, but sometimes there are these natural breaks, obvious arrows pointing you to go somewhere, to do something. I'll provide some more specifics as we move forward the next few months, so stay tuned.

Recently bought a little point-and-shoot camera, which will hopefully enhance the visual stimulation of these posts. This is my first real, live picture producing device, so I'm probably a little too excited about it. Should you have an encounter with me in the next few months and I ask you to take a picture in a non-picture worthy situation, just smile knowingly, judge me in your head and say, "Sure, Steve, I'll take a picture with you even though we're just filling up at the gas station." I'll get past this honeymoon stage soon. Promise.

(*Sappy nostalgia alert!*) As I write this one, I'm simultaneously listening to the thunder, rain drops and Jon Foreman as the day winds down. One of my favorite things -- always has been -- is being the last one awake in the house, downstairs in the living room with just one lamp on. I think it stems back to my youth when I would spend summer nights at my grandparents' home in Pennsylvania. They have the coziest house in the world. I don't just say that either. I love that house. I think everyone should go to that house and watch a Phillies game on a summer night with my Pappy. It'd solve a lot of the world's problems.

Anyhow, I think that's why I love being here on my couch with the rain pouring down with just one lamp on. This is what Gram and Pappy's home is like.

Back to Jon Foreman. Switchfoot's lead singer is in the process of releasing a six-song EP dedicated to each of the four seasons. So far he's managed Fall, Winter and Spring. Summer is coming soon. Anyhow, these EPs are better than anything Switchfoot has put out. Period. They're at turns stunning, raw and beautiful. They allow Foreman's voice to do a lot of things that his punkish, rockish band does not. The production is impeccable. I can't get over how good they are. Do yourself a favor and at least check out his MySpace.

I'll be out on the road for the next few months, so you may see posts from such exotic locations as: Austin, Seattle and various European countries. Where in the World is Carmen Stevieago? Holy goodness. I'm going to bed.

Love you.

Lost in Translation: How a Redhead & Puppets Ruined My Hungarian Social Life

In the early 90s my family lived in Budapest (pronounced Buda-peSHt), Hungary for two-and-a-half years. Now, there are four Miller siblings. And one Miller Mother. That ratio does not lend itself to a successful homeschooling experience, as we discovered after about a week of attempting the feat. There was a bloody, near-death incident involving a pencil sharpener and a magic marker. We'll leave it at that. Off to Hungarian public school.

So I found myself in Hungarian 1st grade sitting next to a bilingual redhead, whom I developed a semi-crush on because she 1) spoke two languages impeccably well. 2) She was forced to talk to me constantly for the first year on account of my limited grasp of all things Hungarian. And 3) she was brilliant. In fact, I would put money on the fact that she is now a mathematician, understands string theory, and has a really nice pair of intellectual (but yet stylish) reading glasses. She's probably even trilingual. Damn it, Anita, I still want you.

I can't emphasize how rough those first few months were. Going into my first day of class, I only knew a couple phrases: I could say "Yes," "No," "Hello, my name is Stephen," and "Where is the bathroom?" The latter of those is still branded on my brain because Mom forced us to memorize a cheesy ditty with the Hungarian words in it. If you ask, I will sing it for you sometime. Then you, too, can simultaneously impress and nauseate that special Hungarian in your life.

Everyday just after lunch the class would split in two. Half (including Anita) would stick around and hang out in our class, the other half of us would be shipped upstairs to another room -- full of puppets! This Jim Henson wonderland seemed more than odd to me, but I figured, This must be theater class. If I can show these Hungarians anything, it's how Americans are superior thespians. One word: Hollywood, biotches!

We circled the chairs around, our teacher passed hand puppets out to about half the students, and they just began puppet-talking to one another. They seemed to be having very civil, cheerful conversation; I liked it -- until the instructor gave the signal to pass the puppets around the circle and frog puppet landed in my lap. This was my time. I calmly recited my four goto phrases with that amphibian on my hand. Uproarious laughter erupted from the entire circle. I was devastated, thinking my American accent had sold me out.

It wasn't until a couple months later that became aware that daily after lunch the class split in two for foreign language. I was in German class. English was downstairs.

Thanks for the heads up, Anita.


I forgive you, though -- you little trilingual, redheaded angel. Wherever you may be.

I Googled "Anita Redhead." This is what happened.

Anne, Jens and Friends

Sometimes I find words trying to escape me, to be spilt onto the page, like some pushy bully cutting in line, because they find some sort of validity there – some permanence on the page, or screen, or whatever. Sitting here in an Indianapolis airport at the end of March, sunlight gushing through the windows, the words are trying to escape. Bullies. No front cuts!

Reading Anne Lamott and listening to Jens Lekman spurred on this bout of writing. We’ll get to them in a second. But it can be anything, really. A good conversation (thank you for the best one I’ve had in a long time on Tuesday night, Aubu). Traveling. A certain temperature. Contentment. Sadness. Josh Ritter. I guess they collectively call these things inspiration. But it can be just as quickly be trumped out by, but not limited to: Boredom. Self-consciousness. Emptiness. Sucking at writing. Reading too much Perez Hilton.

Let’s talk about Anne Lamott and Jens Lekman now.

So D.O. told me to read Anne Lamott. I D.O. whatever D.O. tells me to do (take a minute to cringe, compose… and we’re back). She’s good at writing. And she writes about commonplace things in a way that points to their importance – the profundity of the ordinary. My favorite author, ever, is F. Scott Fitzgerald. I once said I’d sacrifice Scotty (my younger brother) to be able to write like him. (This is problematic for several reasons, not the least which is I don’t think Scotty wants to be sacrificed – do you, Scotty? Cuz we can do this right now.) Anyhow, I am starting to think the same about Anne Lamott.

Take this passage, from pages 264-65 (cite your sources!) of Traveling Mercies, for example:

“The truth is your spirits don’t rise until you get way down. Maybe it’s because this—the mud, the bottom—is where it all rises from. Maybe without it, maybe whatever rises would fly off or evaporate before you could even be with it for a moment. But when someone enters that valley with you, that mud, it somehow saves you again. At the marsh all that mud and one old friend worked like a tenderizing mallet. Where before there had been tough fibers, hardness and held breath, now there were mud, water, air, mess—and I felt soft and clean.”

She has a way of taking very, very specific tangible things – tough fibers, hardness, held breath – and applying them to a universally understood concept – pain. I like that because I can understand those things. On top of that, she’s hilarious, uses the F word in all the right places, doesn’t act like she’s OK, and one last thing: she’s good at writing.

Now for our Swedish friend, Jens. Well, Jens is like that friend of yours who’s a little guarded, a little off, took a long time to get to know. He’s hilarious, but only in a way that you can appreciate if you’ve known him a while. He has a bad haircut. You’ve known him for a year and a half, but only now could you really say (or even want to say), “Yeah, we’re friends.” But he’ll be around for the long haul – at all the most important events in your life, bad haircut in tow, because he really has nothing better to do. I know it sounds peculiar talking about a musician like that – someone I’ll never befriend. But this is how I imagine Jens Lekman in my mind.

He wrote these lyrics, and I love them. I think they better describe what it feels to be in like with someone than The Hills or The OC or The Next Sitcom With a Smoking Hot Cast That I Will Unabashedly Dive Headfirst Into, ever will. And they make me giggle because they’re so true.

I saw on TV about this little kid
Who had a pig for a pet
His mom had once been attacked by a dog
So a pig was the closest thing he could get
This has of course nothing to do with anything
I just get so nervous when I’m talking to you
All I think about everyday is just kissing you
And all I’m feeling is that feeling that feels refreshingly new.

Moral of the story. If I ever tell you a story about a kid who had a pig for a pet, pucker up!

OK, so Spring is upon us. In honor of season of love and rain and renewal and warming temps, here’s a list of songs that should make for an ideal soundtrack to the season:

“Scenic World” by Beirut
“Kanske Ar Jag Kar I Dig” by Jens Lekman (quoted above)
“Cherry Tulips” by Headlights
“Miniature Birds” by The Grand Archives
“Here We Are” by Patrick Park
“A New Chance” by The Tough Alliance
“Hard Days 1.2.3.4.” by Loney, Dear
“The Great Salt Lake” by Band of Horses
“Ballad of Carol Lynn” by Whiskeytown
“Painting by Chagall” by The Weepies
“Midnight Coward” by Stars

xoxo.

Jens.

Sex God (Provacative Title!)

Several months ago I chewed through Rob Bell’s Sex God. Believe it or not, it really lived up to its title: it was about Sex and God. And how they go together. Or how God invented Sex. Or maybe it was about strip clubs. I’m not quite sure anymore, but I did like a lot of what Rob had to say. A lot of it was conjecture, but what I like about Rob’s conjectures is that they don’t straddle the line. He says what he means. Even if what he means isn’t necessarily true all the time.

One Rob-truth especially stuck with me – perhaps because it’s a Truth-truth: it went something along the lines of “...something serious -- something hellish happens when people are treated as objects, and we should resist it at all costs. (p. 22)" In my words: every time we dehumanize someone we bring a little bit of hell to Earth.

If it’s a Truth-truth then I am guilty of bringing a hell of a lot hell to Earth:

Every time I judge someone’s importance based on what they do (or don’t do) to make a living I bring Hell to Earth. By doing so, I have deconstructed an entire identity down to a job. Jobs are not human.

Every time I look out for myself and glance past others I bring hell to Earth. Pretending that other people do not exist might just be the definition of dehumanization. Invisible people are not human.

Every time I flippantly discount someone’s importance because of what they’re wearing I bring hell to Earth. I have torn their worth down into some sewn together pieces of fabric. Fabric is not human.

Yes, it’s a Truth-truth. I think. Either way, I agree. In fact, an idea like that can really change the way you see people. And the way you view yourself. And the way you view the world. It’s one of those ideas that can shift your paradigm; it did all of those things to me. It affected the deepest parts of me because I know that I have brought Hell to a lot of people in my life – in my mind and in my actions.

Rob’s argument is that Heaven is a perfect relationship – with God, with one another. To God, relationship is of the utmost significance. He craves relationship with us and he wants us to cultivate relationships with one another. When we trample on that which God considers the most important, we have brought hell to Earth, because if Heaven is a perfect relationship, then hell is isolation. And isolation begins when we dehumanize someone, because we have deemed them unworthy of time, of attention, of relationship.

So what do we do with this? We ask God to make us painfully aware of when our hearts judge – and thus put distance between – one another. We ask God to heal those relationships that are busted up. We ask God to do these things, and then we act. We act as a sort of glue to a world where everything is broken by loving those who need love, by loving those who are impossible to love. Relationship by relationship it’s possible to bring a little bit of Heaven to Earth. I think what God is saying in Isaiah 58 in regards to sacrifice also applies here:

“…Share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter – when you see the naked, clothe him, and do not turn away from your own flesh and blood. Then your light will break forth like the dawn and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the LORD will be your rear guard.”

Random Smatterings from the Past Couple Weeks.

Here are some random thoughts from the past week, in bulleted format:

• Had Once, the delightfully simple Irish movie that almost no one saw, ($14 mil in revenues (maybe that's a lot for a movie that cost only $100k to make? (I apologize for the triple parentheses))) not won the Academy Award for Best Song for the stunning "Falling Slowly," I'd have written hate mail the entire cast of Enchanted -- animated characters included. Not even kidding. I'm not typically the hate mailing kind, and I know the Academy Awards often honor the wrong film, but it would have honestly made me a disgruntled human; because Falling Slowly was the best song in a movie last year. All that said, I was extraordinarily happy when Glen and Marketa won. If you get a chance, rent it. It'll give you goose bumps and the feel-goods. And **(For Guys Eyes Only Section)** you might end up holding hands with whomever you see it. Unless it's Brian Pattillo because that's who I saw it with (the first time). He wasn't too into that hand holding business. Prude! Here's a link to an interview with the two stars of the movie -- it's great to see a couple of wonderfully gracious people get some recognition.

• I saw There Will Be Blood with my Pop on Wednesday. Interesting movie to see with your Pop (or your Old Man or Dad or Mom -- whatever you call the father figure in your life) because of all the relationship dynamics between father-son. Frankly, it's a painful movie to take in (or probably more accurately -- it takes you in), but it sticks in your stomach like the marble pound cake I just consumed at the World's Largest Coffee Chain. Pop and I have talked about it quite a bit, trying to figure out what in the world it was supposed to mean. One thing we and the rest of the world agree on is that Daniel Day-Lewis is mesmerizing -- in the same way that baseball-sized hail is mesmerizing. And Furbies. Hideous, destructive (I can think of at least 10 ways Furbies are destructive!), but just try to look away. You judge who looks more frightening:

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• Life outside of relationship is not life. This has never been more obvious to me. Nothing has been beaten into my head more the past year. It has probably been the loneliest year of my life so far. Not in a woe-is-me, curled-up-in-the-fetal-position-quoting-Poe sense. More in the literal, I-have-been-alone-A-LOT sense. In hotels. In airports. In small Midwestern towns. In massive neon-tinged cities. In rental cars. Deep relationship with God and deep relationship with other people make life worth it, but they have been hard to come by. Deep relationship with myself does not. And frankly life falls apart when I don't recognize this -- or do recognize this, and choose to live otherwise. As a consequence, I have never craved deep, messy, honest relationship more than I do right now. As a consequence, the ugly part of me is waging a fairly successful assault against that very idea with the shallow ("I'm doing fine"), clean ("I'm doing fine") and dishonest ("I'm doing fine"). So, let's be friends. And if I ever say "I'm doing fine," threaten me with Furbies until the truth comes out.

• Quickly, go check out these 3 bands!:

1. The Grand Archives
2. The Felice Brothers
3. Headlights