Josh Ritter: Wolves (The Animal Years)

Zach Posting:

There is a old saying popularized by the tv show How I Met Your Mother, “Nothing good ever happens after 2am.”

Law school is known for the study hard, party harder mentality. I, however, have never been willing to embrace the lack of sleep that comes with this lifestyle. Therefore, I am the guy that goes with everyone to the bar until midnight. Then I slip out when no one is looking so that I don’t have to explain why I am no longer living with my parents yet have a 12:30 curfew.

The following day I always get the “what happened to you?” followed by a barrage of comments about me being an old man, blah, blah, blah. This is exacerbated by the fact that I hang out with mostly European exchange students. In America, people show up to bars at 10 or 11 and party till 2 or 3. In Europe, they show up at Midnight or later and go until 6am.

Last night, I fulfilled my promise to them that I would stay out until they wanted to go home. After finally crawling into bed at 5:30am, I wonder: “Does anything good happen after 2am?”

I honestly don’t understand the hype. My ears are ringing and I have a terrible headache because of really bad techno. As a side note, dancing to techno sucks. I will make no argument about why because it just isn’t needed. The good news for most, however, is that it is perfectly geared for people with no natural rhythm.

Secondly, my voice was so harsh by the end of the night it sounded like I was going through puberty for the second time. Third, I have never been bumped into my so many drunk people in my life. I personally don’t think, dodging spilled beer needs to become a talent of mine. Lastly, I couldn’t even sleep in this morning so I am still exhausted, have a headache, and a soar throat. Now I know why everyone out there is drunk, it is the only way to hide the fact that it really isn’t that much fun.

New Plan: If people want me to hang out past 2am, it will involve a beach/lake, the stars, a bottle of wine, music (preferably blasting from an old beat up jeep wrangler) and in an ideal world (a bonfire). Then at least you enter the new day by seeing the sun rise.

Who is with me???

A perfect logo for our series. Made by my wife...the genius.

bobby posting:

Sufjan Stevens – Once in Royal David’s City

Short post, big question.  Our church has been in this incredible series this December:  “Christmas Framed”.  The idea is that we all frame Christmas.  We put whatever’s really in our heart smack in the middle of that frame and allow it to be our focus this time of year.

Week One we walked thru Luke’s telling of the story and laid out all that Christ brings to us:  hope, joy, salvation, peace.  Will you let down your guard, take up your Cross, receive and give yourself?  Week Two we walked thru John 1.  “The Word became Flesh.”  Christ came and “is come”.  How are we going to respond with the way that we celebrate?  Will we “buy” in to the lie or fall into the Light?  Week Three we walked thru Matthew’s telling.  In the middle of this story, in the middle of fulfilling The Story, Christ came to fulfill Your Story.  He came to be the focus of your narrative.  Will  you let Him walk with you right in the middle of where your feet are taking you?

My question to you is “How have you framed Christmas this year?”  What has been your focus?  Buying, busyness, fear, family, gifts, giving, hope, heartache, the lie, The Light, presents, Presence, thanksgiving, thoughtfulness, wandering, Wonder, Yearning, you?  We are ten days away.  Plenty of time to reflect, receive, react and respond.

bobby posting:

Jonsi & Alex – Happiness

I’ve felt it at my fingertips since I was a young boy.  The power of turning these words into something bigger than just complete thoughts.  The possibility of creating.  The potential to tell a story worth telling.

I’ve felt it at my fingertips since I was a young boy.  The weight of turning these loaded words into something heavier than just complete thoughts.  The gravity of creating.  The unmet potential to tell a story worth telling.

There’s always been one problem.  One very large, very significant chink in all this armor:  I’ve never found the story.

How do writers write?  How are places pieced together to establish the comforts of home and the mystery of the unknown?  Where are characters created into living and breathing beings?  Where is narrative nuanced into deep conflict and denouement?  How do writers write?  And yes…I did use the word “denouement” a moment ago.  I’m not so pretentious that I could continue writing without first calling myself out.

I just finished Donald Miller’s “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years”, his most recent book on the very nature of “story” itself.  I closed the book inspired and intrigued.  I felt called to write in a way that I hadn’t felt in quite some time.  It was as if the winter months were coming to an end and this sleeping bear was called to go fishing again…except this time around my stomach was aching for the largest fish in the sea.  I want to write and I want to write big.  I want to write wholly and heartily.  I want to and I would, but I don’t even know how to find a story worth telling.

I can put words together in a way that pleases even my picky, cautious eyes.  They can tickle my brain and curl my lips into a slightly crooked, sly smile.  I can get halfway thru a thought and find that vertical black line blinking…blinking…blinking…waiting in anticipation like a red light on a railroad track.  I know the train will pass at some point, that the sentence, the thought itself, will be completed.  That the analogy will piece together like two strangers making eye contact, smiling, waving.  I have confidence that what is in me will eventually work itself out.  I even enjoy this process, those pauses where you find yourself fumbling through catalogues of words and meanings in the scattered, sorted library of your mind, pages and papers flying everywhere like snow and wind and white.  I can write.  But I can’t write a story, because for the life of me, I can’t find one worth telling.  Where in the world do they come from?

I was in-part accepted into one of the best universities in the country for young, aspiring writers because of something I wrote in my college application essay.  At least, that’s what I’ve always told myself (I’m sure it had more to do with the fact that this Midwestern school needed more Southerners to fill out their stat sheet).  Boldly, I wrote that I would write the “next great American novel”.  Of course it was, in all honesty, just a bold piece of crap.  But the thing is, I’m not quite sure that I knew it at the time.  I think I really believed the story would come.  I think I thought that, with time, change of scenery, life experiences, Hemingway and F. Scott and Twain would crawl down my brain to my shoulders, arms, and fingertips like the ivy falling free at Wrigley Field.  But it never did.

I’ve written all sorts of things since.  A pinch of poetry, a parcel of prose.  Journalistic pieces, songs, letters, sermons.  But never a story.  Like a knight without a dragon I’ve found myself losing my grip on the sword of words.  Part of me fears it will never come.  But you know what?  More than that, another part of me fears something even worse:  it will.

I’m secretly scared the story will come.  I’m secretly scared the story will come…and that it won’t be good enough.  You see, I suppose the question for me isn’t necessarily “Where does the story come from?”…but how do writers turn that very simple story that came from somewhere very near to their own heart and experiences into something more widely known and largely felt?  How do writers make the very possible seem impossible, the ordinary extraordinary?  How do they take a bespectacled boy who goes to Wizardry school and turn it into a modern day piece of Greek mythology?  I’m worried my story is something right in front of me, something on the tip of these fingertips that constantly type “something sane” instead of “something new”.  I fear that I won’t recognize it, and even if I do, I fear that I’ll get  halfway in and not be able to find myself out.  Read enough books on writing (the irony:  reading about writing) and you’ll come back to one piece of advice that is near and dear to all who’ve had success:  “Write what you know.”  Here’s what I know:  I fear that I won’t be good enough.

That last sentence could paralyze me for the rest of my writing, waking life.  Like my inability to ever really, loosely, whole-heartedly just let go and dance with my wife at a wedding, I could just sit there and curse my body for never outwardly expressing what I’m inwardly feeling.  I could.  But I don’t think I will.  The Wizardress of writing herself (J. K. Rowling) wrote something perfect and profound:  “Fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself.”  It’s not that I’m not allowed to fear writing a story worth telling.  I am.  I always will be.  It’s that I’ll lose sight of even feeling that fear.  It’s that I’ll let that fear swallow me so whole I’ll forget what I’m fearing in the first place.  It’s that I’ll someday forget why I ever even wanted to dance with my wife in the first place.

I must hold so tight to that fear that I face it with all the burn and bite these fingertips can force.  That I’ll unblinkingly stare that fear hard and heavy into its hallowed and hollow eyes.  That, more than anything, I’ll stride into that fear with the cadence of slow, measured steps—one, two, three…one, two three—and willingly dance like a dirvish.  That I’ll finally find a fight worth fighting, and lash at it with all my heart, soul, mind and strength.

That these fingertips, the ones I’ve felt currents of electricity in since I was a young boy, that have known the strength of building small structures and simple sentences, that have relished the ability to one day really create, would do so.  And would do so without abandon.  Without caution.  Without fearing fear.

That they would just tell a story.  A simple, sincere story.  A story I know.

zach posting:

Branford Marsalis – Berta, Berta

Before entering law school people warned me that I would work harder than ever before. I knew that coming from four months of unemployment and a six-week European vacation into an 80-hour workweek would be a shock to the system. As much as I tried to prepare myself, it has been even harder than I expected. On average I work from 7am until 9pm at night minus an hour break for dinner. I work seven days a week except for a break Saturday evening for friends and Sunday afternoon for church. So much for my Sabbath.

I entered law school thinking that the next three years would be a training period, a time where I pay my dues in order to enjoy life later. I realize, however, that it will not change once I leave. Firm jobs require just as many hours if not more. Furthermore, I live in the moment. I cannot help it.

The saving grace in all of this is I have somehow learned to love working this hard.  I enjoy reading cases on Constitutional law, sorting through contracts and making arguments for criminal cases. Much of the time, however, is toil: there are long readings I don’t want to finish, there are mornings when I wake up at 3am to finish a paper, and there are countless nights where I sit down in my room, in my closet, to drown out the sound of friends enjoying themselves upstairs.  I am almost always tired and have little time to give to friends, family or even God. So where is the up side?

The experience is forcing me to grow dramatically. I normally can’t tell that I am making any substantial step forward. Instead, I look back each 6 months and realize that I can barely recognize the person that I was such a short time ago. Now, however, I can feel myself being stretched and pushed. I understand that I am gaining perseverance, humility, wisdom, and perspective. For the first time I have been pushed to my limits. For the first time I have straddled the line between success and failure. More than anything, however, it just feels right.

The image of the bible can sometimes be dark: “Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life” Genesis 3:17. “What does man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?” Ecclesiastes 1:3. Yet it also paints it as good: “That everyone may eat and rink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God.” Ecclesiastes 3:13. “Then I realized that it is good and proper for a man to eat and drink, and to find satisfaction in his toilsome labor under the sun during the few days of life God has given him” Ecclesiastes 5:18.

I understand why God has put us on Earth “to toil under the sun.” How else would we ever grow? All this being said, I do not want to live to work, I want to work to live. I cannot help looking into the future about all the things that I can ‘accomplish’ for God, but what really drives me is the thought of family and friends. Many will say I am in the wrong profession, but I still hold out hope that I can have both an incredible family and have a career that creates substantial change in the world.

bobby posting:

The Kinks – A Well Respected Man (Juno soundtrack)

There’s a blog that I like to check in with pretty regularly called 22 Words.  It’s a pretty straightforward concept:  every post is simply twenty two words long.  Genius, right?  The writer, Abraham Piper (son of pastor/writer John Piper…which is an intriguing enough reason to read the blog in it’s own right), claims the blog is an “experiment in getting to the point.” I can get behind that.  I may tend to err on the other side of the amount-of-words-used-in-blog-post spectrum.  Chalk me up for 22 hundred words and I’m good to go.  But I can understand the importance of straight-forwardness.  In fact, I could spend this post waxing on and on about that balance, about the tension between brevity and longevity.  But I’m saving the sort of carpal tunnel that that amount of typing will give me for another day.  Instead, I want us to look at a recent post by Mr. Piper on his blog.

In his post entitled, “Alright guys, man up & admit how girly you are”, Piper wrote:

I’ll go first:

• I like yarn shops and pink bathroom decor.
• I occasionally use a straightener.
• I’ll enjoy the church craft fair.

First of all, count the words.  22.  Brilliant.  Okay, now that we’re over that, though, we need to assess what in the world we just read.  “Yarn shops and pink bathroom decor”.  Hmm.  I may not be able to get there.  But I’m also trying to understand.  “I’ll enjoy the church craft fair”.  Well.  You’ve pushed me even further away.  But hey, maybe you like to paint.  Maybe you’re an artist.  But then there’s that one scrunched right there in the middle.  My guess is it was put there on purpose.  Piper was trying to hide it.  I used to do that when “not telling the whole truth” to my parent’s back in the day.  It’s a great strategy for marriage conversations as well.  Trust me.  Okay.  Don’t.  But really, “I occasionally use a straightener”.  What?  No.  Let me try that again.  WHAT?!?!  Really?  A straightener?  Oh dear.

What’s interesting…okay…what’s even more interesting is the fact that Piper’s little “girly” confessions were not unique to him.  Of course some men commented that they liked chick flicks and cooking for their wives.  For that I say, “well done, men.  Good for you.”  Sometimes P.S. I Love You and a good, man-cooked meal hit the spot.  But other guys on the comment sections starting crossing that same line that Piper crossed.

“I use a straightener everyday for my faux hawk.” Wait, men still do faux hawks?  Who knew.  Listen, David Beckham has moved on.  It’s time for you to as well.  Here’s your newest inspiration.

“I straighten my hair. I even have some heat protection spray for it as well.  I was late for a meal out recently because I was straightening my hair.” Okay…that makes for three men on this one blog that have admitted to straightening their hair.  What’s going on here?

I’m obsessed with bags and shoes, and my wife, who hates to shop, does not allow me to go to the mall. I can almost get behind shoes.  I like some shoes.  And we use different types of shoes for different activties.  Weddings.  Exercising.  Working.  But bags?  Multiple bags?  Being “obsessed” with them?  Interesting.  Very, very interesting.

And finally, perhaps the kicker:

“I pick out all of my wife’s clothes and makeup.  Plus, God help me, I liked the movie “Yentl” as a kid… have no idea why… I’m still seeking therapy for that one.” Oh sakes alive!  Really?!  I don’t know which of those two admissions is worse.  They’re both making me cringe.  In fact,  I wasn’t the only one.

The next commenter on the blog wrote, “I guess I’m insecure, but this comment stream feels odd to me,” followed by someone else writing, “Not that this is any reflection on these comments or the men behind them, but I can’t read these without hearing them in a falsetto voice.”

The post exploded.  72 comments.  Men, women, single and married, all responding vigorously to the topic at hand.  You can track it all yourself right here. It sort of left me shell-shocked.  You see, it felt like many of the men were crossing the line. That they were perhaps putting themselves out there a little too much.  I almost felt embarrassed for them, seeing as how they definitely were not embarrassed for themselves.  Then on the other side of things, it felt like many folks were coming down too hard on these men for opening up in the way that they did.  So what if you use a hair straightener?  What’s the big deal about pink?  Crafts are for girls…and boys, right?  Hmm…

It got me thinking a lot about the connection between Christian men and manliness.  Sure, as someone else pointed out on the site, non-Christian men engage in these kind of questions.  Have you ever really read GQ?  Better yet, have you looked at the ads in GQ?  Have you seen the demographic they’re trying to reach there?  Let that be your project next time the Missus wants to go read books at Barnes & Noble.  So it’s not just a Christian men thing.  It’s universal.

You see, men nowadays are okay with their feminine side.  Sometimes, it’s even flaunted.  “Metrosexual” was the buzz word of the early 2000s.  I even, sort of, embraced it there for a while before feeling just a bit put-off by it all.  I like a good haircut.  I know how to match my own clothes.  I know who Emma Thompson is.  But I also love sports, grilling, and camping and I hate shaving, Soaps Operas, and spending more than 60 bucks on a pair of jeans.  They’re jeans!  My guy friends buy jeans that cost twice as much as that.  Three times.  Nearly $200.  For denim!  Sorry.  That’s another post for another time.

Right about now I’m realizing the appeal of keeping your writing confined to just 22 words.  There’s so many things I want to say, so many ideas to address, so much masculinity that right now feels undressed.  My thoughts are as sprawled as the suburbs, as scattered as Waffle House hashbrowns.  But if I were to really suck it up, you know, man up, and narrow it down, here’s my two largest thoughts as I try to turn this ship back home a bit:

1 / Where does Wild at Heart and the sweeping Men’s Movement within Christianity fit into any of this?  How are we, as Christian men, supposed to respond to this?  How are we, as those same men, finding our way to and thru masculinity?

I just finished Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz.  I know.  I’m a loser.  I should’ve read it six years ago.  When it first became a National Bestseller.  But I don’t do National Bestseller’s.  I look down on people that do.  But I’m wrong.  This book would’ve been even better if I’d read it back then, while I was still in college, grappling with so much of what the book grapples with.  Same for the Harry Potter books.  Should’ve been reading them all along.  Again, I’m an idiot.  They’re all incredible.

Anyway, I’m now interested in reading what else Miller has to offer.  I’ve read a good chunk of another of his books, To Own a Dragon:  Reflections on Growing up Without a Father.  It’s incredible and I can’t wait to tackle it all (nice manly metaphor there) as soon as I get my hands on a copy.  I think it’ll answer some of my questions.  Especially all those that still linger after reading, and trying to live out, Wild at Heart. Here’s a taste for you:

For a long time I wandered around in a fog.  Manhood felt like something that had been handed to me accidentally.  I just knew somebody was going to explain I was actually a lesbian with a penis, and if I wanted I could continue to watch college football, but should probably tone down the interest in post-season baseball, as this territory was reserved for men who had killed sleeping bears.  Or for men who loved Jesus.

Hilarious.  Brilliant.  Dead-on.  Read it for yourself.  I’ll be excited to join you for that roller coaster.  Oh…and I think that’s the only time the phrase “lesbian with a penis” is used in the book.  At least, I hope.

So that’s the first issue.  Here’s the other.

2 / Did Abraham Piper even cross any sort of line?  Did those other men?  Am I just off on this one?  Is there a line?  If so, where is it?  If not, should there be?

This perhaps, is what this writing comes down to:  Is there any sort of big deal here or did I cross the line myself by perhaps trying to turn this into something it’s not?  No answers here.  Just questions.  No pretty bow to tie on the end of this one.  Make that, no pretty and pink bow to tie.  Speaking of Pretty in Pink, I’m thinking there’s some men that would like to take this opportunity to make a confession about certain movies that they might like more than they should…

I’m out.  Not “out”.  Not like that.  I mean, I’m done writing.  For today.  Hey, this paragraph?  22 words.  Brilliant.  Count ‘em.

bobby posting:

Great Lake Swimmers – Unison Falling Into Harmony

On Monday mornings, I meet at the early hour of 6 am with some solid guys.  I think I’ve told you about this before.  You see…we’ve been doing this for a while, now.  Several years actually.  I’ve been in-and-out a few different times because of college and living elsewhere, but since March of ‘08, I’ve been as consistent with this group as I’ve been with just about anything else.  Probably more so actually.  We study giant, sweeping books of the Bible (Isaiah) or dive deeply into a Christian book that really stretches us.  Not to say anything against Purpose Driven Whatever…, but that’s not exactly what we’re working with here.  We’re snobbier than that…in a good way, I think.  Maybe our next book should be on Pride, now that I think about it.  Actually, our next book is right here, and it could wisely be your next book too.  But what I’m here writing about today is our last book, again brought my way by my partner Coworker in Christ wise counsel dear friend, Taido.

In the book, Longing for God, two authors go thru the history of Christianity to focus on the works of “spiritual giants” to probe into spiritual growth. While the book had some faults, it really proved influential on our group as a whole.  So much so, that after finishing last week, we all decided to embark on our own Longing for God process this week.  We were assigned the following project:  Lay out your own Spiritual Growth.  What does it look like for you?  How does it happen?  How has your relationship with Christ evolved over time?

I digested the question all week long.  While sitting at my desk at work, while lying in bed at home, while trekking 12 miles in one day on the Buffalo River Trail, while driving in my car and sitting fat and happy on my couch at home.  I’ve copy and pasted below what I came up with and shared with my group.  It’s the steps I took along the way, not that it’s nearly as clear and concise as that in real life.  I finished each section by shortly detailing what my prayer life looked like at the time.  In some ways, I think those short, sweet sentences themselves hold just as much weight as the paragraphs preceding them.  Like a great Apple Crisp that almost makes you forget the steak you just devoured.  Man, I’m hungry.  Anyway…

I’d love to hear anyone else’s thoughts.  Post it in the comments section, email it my way and I’ll put it up here on the site if you’re willing.  What I learned after hearing everyone else share this morning is that the communal part of this growing process is pretty integral to individual growth as a whole.  So sharing is caring…for yourself..and for others.  Enjoy…and dissect.

My Own Path of Spiritual Growth

- First and foremost, I encountered a willingness to surrender and believe.  To accept love, embrace a new life, and live for more.  It was like seeing a black and white world turn to color for the first time.  The curtain was torn and real life was revealed…not that I had any idea how to live in this new reality.

Prayed for God to grow in me, and for me to grow in God.

- Next, like a dog joyfully running alongside his owner, just-happy-to-be-outside and not too concerned with the leash,  I just passionately followed thru with this new, wild and wonder-filled commitment.  I was bold in my new convictions, so much so that life at this point was mostly lived by the law.  That may sound contradictory.  But  I held comfort and found substance in solid commandments and moral truths.  I stood strong in black and whites, in not even wading into any uncharted gray waters.  Where nowadays this may look Pharisaic and legalistic, at the time, it simply seemed essential.  It was following the lines on the script…no improvising…trusting in the words that had already been written.

Prayed boldly and believingly.

- Slowly but surely, I began to live beyond the law.  This is not to say I picked up the booze, stole cigarettes from the convenience store, or starting throwing profanities at the heavens.  It was just that I began to learn that this was not about right and wrong, but about life and death.  The life and death of a living, breathing, walking and talking soul.  Rules could no longer provide that sort of real, living life.  I found a deeper understanding of grace, grew in a greater, real relationship with Christ.  Began to live out the fruits of the Spirit because of my own desire for more out of myself, and out of this relationship as a whole.  Learned to really trust the Lord, the ruler, with my life, with my daily, breakfast-lunch-and-dinner everyday life.

Prayed with hope and honesty.

- More recently, I have encountered spiritual growth by grappling intellectually with the Bible, with greater truths about God and my faith on a larger scale.  In the middle of “wrestling” though, I have actually begun to really lay strong foundations for my relationship with God.  Even more, I have felt complete grace and peace in pushing on old foundations.  Doubt and faith are so closely tied together, that without the first you can’t have the second.   You see, faith without doubt is no longer faith, it’s knowledge.  I’ve been stretching out my faith like a walker running out his muscles.  Sure it aches in areas it’s never ached before, but it’s also opening me up to run in a way I’ve never ran before.   This kind of growth requires straddling a thin line between careful caution and reckless abandon.  Be careful to be reckless…this is one we can grow in deeper ways than we’ve ever known.  I’m just barely, barely scratching at the surface…

Praying probingly.  Praying pursuingly.

- And finally, I mostly find myself skirting back between here and the place before.  Here is where I’ve found deep, deep contentment in Christ.  It is knowing that you’ll never run away from this relationship, and earnestly looking down the road at all the life you’ll get to still live together.  All those uncharted waters you were once so afraid of.  Contentment has always sounded so stagnant and boring to me.  For most, that’s the biggest fear of commitment:  “contentment.”  It sounds like the veneer has been polished away and life has gone.  Dorothy has clicked her heels and left Oz.  In actuality, though, I suppose I can’t think of a better metaphor.  “There’s no place like home”, and finally, at this point, you’ve realized that this home you’ve grown in is where your heart is, where it’s always been.  It’s loving this home like never before.  It’s still continuing to seek more, yearn for more, live for more, hope for more, and expect more.  But like a college student coming home for Thanksgiving and being overwhelmed with this giant array of delicious, free, HOMEmade food, this is appreciating home like you’ve never appreciated it before.

Praying thankfully and undeservingly.

________________________________________

That’s really where I am these days.  But before I wrap up, I want to acknowledge one more thing that is glaringly obvious to me, but I feel as if I’ve left it out to you. In the middle of all my growth, really honoring the Sabbath, fasting, service, study, discipleship, missions and other spiritual disciplines have all proved invaluable and essential.  But more than anything, and a thread that completely ties together my whole piece, is a real sense of community.  I could rewrite this whole post by replacing each “step” I’ve taken with one or several names.  Of people that met me in that place and pushed me along like never before.  That slowly watched my steps for me, that carried me on their back or even gently nudged me off a ledge I needed to jump from.  It’s the fabric, the knitting woven amongst it all, and hopefully, us all.  There’s no place like home.  Who has shown you that?  Who has given you that sense of community? Think about where you’ve been along the way.  Who’s taken you there.

But even more, think about where you are right now?  Open up your eyes and get your hands typing.  Writing it down or, at least, talking about it, may bring more clarity to your own growth and your own life.  I challenge you to take that step yourself.  Or even, I challenge you to ask sometime to politely nudge you over that ledge.

adam posting:

somehow, i feel okay posting this minutes after bobby’s post. this certainly is not an attempt to steal his thunder, but i think they go well together. beginnnnnnnning now:

Tonight the Avett Bros play a show in Madison, WI. They will visit the exact venue, The Barrymore, where eight years ago I witnessed the live performance of the Big Wu’s 10^th Anniversary show. That night was one of the happiest moments of my life, and yet it contained the saddest realization of my high school years. 

The Barrymore Theater is a run-down auditorium that reminds me of a school playhouse. Two sloped cement aisles split rows of red velvet chairs and lead down to a simple elevated stage. Almost exactly eight years ago, about ten feet from that very stage, I caught my friend Danny as he slumped against my tie-dyed t-shirt. Halfway through the second night of the 10^th anniversary gig, he turned gray and passed out completely, drowning in a dizzying sea of marijuana, alcohol, and an unkown variety of mushroom.

Danny, Chris, and I had become best friends during a lonely and difficult senior year of high school. Chris and I lifted weights together three times a week. Danny and I drove together to school. The three of us shared a love of hiking and the outdoors, of jam bands and sports. Our weekend nights extended to the early hours of the morning. One night we chased deer in Danny’s rusting minivan. Another night, I drank my first beer under the one lane bridge behind Danny’s house, and we threw our empty bottles down to the paved bike path below.

We caused trouble in high school with elaborate pranks, and skipped out of classes with intertwined and intricate excuses. But, while foolish and annoying (placing dead minnows behind various library books, serving Digornio pizza to classrooms while in session, and at one point hiding a dead squirrel in the drop ceiling of the hallway outside of our gymnasium), these pranks were not endangering our character any more than a skinned knee threatens a man’s life. And yes, I do now understand the grossness of hiding dead animals as a joke and can no longer easily explain the humor in these actions.

The three of us had anticipated this early winter evening for months. We had sworn allegiance to the Big Wu over all other main-stream jam bands like the String Cheese Incident or Phish, cherishing our own Midwestern band and memorizing the words to at least a dozen songs. The afternoon of the show, we met at our local Park ‘n Ride and excitedly packed snacks and drinks into Chris’ Toyota SUV. The one hour drive to Madison lived up to our anticipation, and I distinctly remember savoring the moment while leaning forward from the backseat to join in on conversation. It felt a lot like the sense of satisfaction after eating a home-cooked meal amongst family.

We arrived wild-eyed in the college town of Madison, and it seemed that the momentum of the evening could hardly be contained. Someone spotted a local Mexican restaurant and hollered for Chris to pull in. But, halfway through our burrito dinner, I sensed that I was being left out of a shared secret. The other two guys were taking turns sneaking off to the bathroom, and they would return to the table smiling to each other as they sat down. When Danny returned to the table after his second visit to the bathroom, the upper portion of his pant leg was soaking wet, and I asked for an explanation. They had been smuggling glass bottles of beer into the bathroom in the pockets of their pants. Against my protests, the trips continued for another round, until a glass bottle crashed against the tile bathroom floor and sent us hurtling out of the restaurant.

As we careened out of the parking lot with the other two guys laughing in the front seat, the weight of loneliness began to sink into my stomach. My sense of belonging had been lost. Later that night, as I watched the people around me dancing with free spirits and inhaling strange tastes and smells with abandon, I felt isolated and alone. By the time I dragged Danny out to the SUV and forced him to drink a bottle of water, I was ready to return home.

Riding back in the darkness of the stark highway and the quietness of the exhausted group, I realized that this was the last night I would ever share with my two closest friends. I understood that they were leaning into experiences that I refused to attempt, and that the adventures were reaching depths I did not want to visit. I remember looking out of the window in sadness and admitting to myself that I could no longer pretend to share the same goals or aspirations.

That moment, while riding home, felt like someone turned on the lights during a crowded show. Suddenly the ripped velvet seats and the cracked paint of the cement aisles didn’t seem as inviting. The stage seemed smaller. And underneath the rows of seats, I could see the stains of spilled beer and the crumpled forms of discarded trash.

bobby posting:

The Avett Brothers – I and Love and You

I was riding shotgun as my wife drove us home from grandma’s house when we passed a Best Buy.  I looked at the store, giant in scope and lit up like an Alaskan winter.  I remembered that as a teenage boy I’d make up reasons to head there the same way that Dad’s make up reasons to spend Saturday afternoons at Home Depot.  I’d walk in, scan CDs and movies and home theater systems and video games and laptops and cameras and video recorders, and usually leave spending the $15 in cash that I walked in with on some album Rolling Stone told me I needed to have.  Not that there was anything wrong with that.  In fact, that’s exactly how I came to love my favorite band, Wilco.

They were plastered right there on the cover of the magazine.  “Would this album, Yankee Foxtrot Hotel, propel them to fame and fortune?” Rolling Stone asked.  The article convinced me.  I immediately hopped in my Jeep and made the purchase.  The whole way home I drove questioning and confused.  Really?  This album was it?  This was the best that 2002 had to offer?  I didn’t get it.  The same way I didn’t get that the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds album always made editor’s top 5 all-time lists.  So I did something novel.  I listened to it again.  And even more novel…one more time.  Eventually, that music began to seep its way into my pores.  I began to convince myself.  Every time I put that disc into a player, I grew more and more into the music.  It became deeper and deeper, a part of me.       While passing Best Buy with my wife, I realized that that whole process just doesn’t happen anymore…and you know what?  That’s a shame.

Just recently the Avett Brothers released their highly anticipated, critically acclaimed new album, I and Love and You. Just like Wilco’s work before, it was going to be one of the best of the year…sure to please.  Even more exciting for me, I was going to get to see this band, one of the best live performances you’ll ever see, in concert in my home town.  I was making promises and commitments to everyone I knew that I would surely be making the trek to Best Buy.  This was not an iTunes purchase, and it certainly wasn’t a rip-from-the-internet kind of album.  This would be one I had to be able to physically hold in my hand.  To play in my car and my home stereo.  Then something happened.

NPR released a full-length stream of the album.  My partner-in-crime and I listened to in around the office.  The title track came on.  It was good, but I already knew that.  It’d made the rounds on all the music blogs and the video had already hit YouTube and everywhere else.  Then came the second song.  Solid again.  The third and fourth and fifth.  All fine songwriting and enjoyable listening.  But somewhere in there I zoned out a bit only to realize that I’d stopped really listening to the album.  I thought it was good.  At least, it seemed like it.

A few days later I’d see that incredible live show.  And it was just that…incredible.  In fact, go see them if you EVER have the opportunity.  Watching those two brothers work a crowd is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.  And then four days later, I had the opportunity to experience the full album, in its entirety, in the solitude of my own office.  A little internet invention called LALA.com gives you the ability to listen to any album in its entirety…once.  If you want to listen to any song again, you’ll get a 30-second iTunes-ish preview, unless you pay 10 cents or so…and then you can listen to it within LALA anytime you want.  Pretty cool concept right?  That’s what I thought, at first.  Now, I’m not so sure.  I think LALA has ruined music for me.  Way more than iTunes ever could.

When I bought my first Wilco album, I had something invested in it.  Literally, I had 15 bucks on the line.  I was committed to enjoying it, at least enjoying it for its worth of $15.  I gave it a second listen because of that very reason.  In fact, that’s the same reason I gave it a third.  Finally, the wheels began to turn.  It was an acquired taste and I was slowly becoming a judge of fine art.  I had to physically labor to get something out of it.  But in the end, it was completely worth it.

With LALA, I’m able to listen to the whole album, all the way thru, for free.  Afterwards, I’m left with one impression or another.  If the record screams, “GO BUY ME NOW OR YOU WILL NEVER SLEEP WELL AGAIN!”…then I obey and Best Buy it.  If not, I’m probably not going to spend my hard earned 15 bucks.  But look at the loss here.

What if I’m completely missing out on another musical experience?  What if I need to literally invest something in this, besides the time of one full listen, to get anything out of it?  Does that say something about the music itself?  Should it just be able to be consumed and enjoyed right away?  Or is that the reason why so many people love/hate pop music?  Am I asking too many philosophical over-played-out questions for the blogosphere?  Sorry about that.  I know…I kind of annoyed myself there for a second too.

Sorting out the deep-thinking pretentious college-aged kid questions, and getting back to the crux:

1 / How much of an impact does physically investing in something have on our actual enjoyment of it?

And…

2 / Does that matter in respect to the “art” of the piece itself?

I’m the kind of guy that feels the need to answer my own tough questions, so here goes:  I’m convinced that if I would’ve simply purchased the Avett’s album right away at the store, I’d still be listening to it every morning on my drive to work, and loving every second of it.  And you know what?  I think that does sort of taint the “art”.  But you know what else?  I think I’m ok with that.  I think there’s a valuable lesson on love itself somewhere in here, especially on this romantic idea of love at first sight and the idea of laboring to love.  But instead of running that dead, I think I’m going to go ahead and bow out now and let you connect the rest of the dots yourself.

With Love,

Me

Daniel posting:

Money has gotten a little tight around here with MPH tuition soaring, marriages of even pets (or so it seems) to attend, and a lady friend to keep happy. Naturally, I decided to take the initiative and look for avenues of supplemental income. This pursuit took me straight to the announcement board outside the bathrooms near md labs (this is synonymous with the study dungeons where loud vents pump what you hope is air into a room that echoes the barks of research dogs pleading cries as desperately as the gingerbread man in Shrek). There I found destiny: a two-drug study of an anti-retroviral and an anti-tuberculosis medication to see the pharmacokinetics of the two drugs’ interactions in healthy patients. “How perfect could this be?” I wondered, thinking of my interests in infectious disease and this possibility of “adding” to the body of knowledge about treating HIV+ patients infected with TB.

Though my “dream” opportunity has arisen to make a fast $1,225, I’m stuck here wondering, “Is it worth it?” Is it worth yet to possibly pee orange? Is it worth it to possibly build resistant to some of the most potent drugs available (aka am I setting myself up for trouble if I ever do get something pretty nasty in the future)? Is it worth it to take charge and clutch what seems to be a good fit without first consulting Him?

The pastor preached about the difference between the world’s reaction to life’s difficulties and the disciples reaction the other day. His sermon illuminated many things for me and convicted me that, like this study, I often rush to do what I think should be done, to plan for the challenge, to prepare for adversity. But I forget to pray for His will….

The promise: “But you shall receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you shall be witnesses to Me in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the end of the earth.” – Acts 1:8 (The global solution: A God for all)

Awe-struck: “Now when He had spoken these things, while they watched, He was taken up, and a cloud received Him out of their sight. And while they looked steadfastly toward heaven as He went up, behold, two men stood by them in white apparel, who also said, ‘Men of Galilee, why do you stand gazing up into heaven? This same Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven, will so come in like manner as you saw Him go into heaven.’” – Acts 1:9-11 (sometimes it takes Godly interventions to prod us out of inertia, into action)

Godly “planning” = praying: “Then they returned to Jerusalem from the mount called Olivet, which is near Jerusalem, a Sabbath’s day’s journey. And when they had entered, they went up into the upper room where they were staying: Peter, James, John, and Andrew; Philip and Thomas; Bartholomew and Matthew; James the son of Alphaeus and Simon the zealot; and Judas the son of James. These all continued with one accord in prayer and supplication, with the women and Mary the mother of Jesus, and with His brothers.” – Acts 1:12-14

I’m attempting to memorize Deuteronomy 6, fellas, and would appreciate your encouragement/accountability. Here’s what I have so far:

“These are the commands, decrees, and laws the Lord your God directed me to teach you to observe in the land that you are crossing the Jordan to inherit, so that you, your children, and their children after them may fear the Lord your God…”

It’s not much, but it is a start. Test on Friday, so pray for God to still come first (please).

Dan

adam posting:

Last night I was huddling outside the grocery store on a cold and rainy evening, waiting for Kristin to pick me up, when Robert Harvey Harrison sent me a text message. And when I looked out again across the wet parking lot, searching for the familiar headlights of my Mitsubishi Montero, I was smiling.

The unique aspect of my moment outside the grocery store was that a text message reached a level of impact it doesn’t often attain. The text is an often misused and almost always overused form of communication. You have probably been trapped into the obligatory conversation with an acquaintance that over-texts: they include us in the celebration of their favorite team’s victory, they inform us of their current psychological state, they send messages like “wuts up wit u l8tly?” and expect an in-depth answer. And even I have been personally guilty of the “Evite” use of group texting.

But Bobby’s text message, in one unpunctuated and non-capitalized sentence, carried with it the three most important messages a friend needs to hear: “I care about you”, “I’m thinking of you”, and “You are important to me”. It was beautiful in its simplicity.

Text messaging is the sitcom of communication tools. It is the thirty-minute weekly show that requires periodic laughter and one big twist per conversation to sustain interest. And most users of text limit their purpose the same way that most television shows produce easy forms of entertainment. In the end, texting reveals the same weaknesses as a weekly sitcom: time limits, low expectations, and a tendency toward forced attempts at humor.

There are higher forms of communication beyond the instant gratification tool of text. Like a trusty favorite movie, an old friend can be called over and over again, without any need for the occasion other than a longing to hear that person’s voice. A phone call can make you laugh, it can make you cry, it can change your opinion – a phone call can frighten or calm, brighten or bore. And post offices do still exist for purposes beyond sponsoring Lance Armstrong’s bicycle endeavors. Like a good book, letter-writing requires a sustained focus for long periods of time. But, I doubt any text could ever compare to the joy of finding a tattered and bruised hand-written letter in the mailbox.

Even if we only have time to communicate through a hurried text message, remember that it is still a form of reaching out to another person. Creativity and thoughtfulness still carry the day, even on a one-inch square phone display. Bobby’s text proved to me that there is still the chance to make Friday Night Lights out of a weekly television show. There is still an opportunity to impact a friend you love.