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