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.