Wednesday, December 31, 2008

29. The people you share life with.

I helped one of my best friends pack up and move today.

Tony--who I met during my days at USC--and his wife Carrie are moving back to his hometown of San Jose to be closer to his family as they prepare to have their first child, due in June. I spent much of the day helping him lift heavy furniture and load up the U-Haul, which they'll set out in tomorrow morning (or later this morning, rather).

Helping a friend move is, as the late, great Mitch Hedberg used to say, not as easy as helping a friend stay put ("I just go over to his house and make sure that he does not start to load his [stuff] into a truck."). I certainly would have preferred to have helped Tony stay put; in addition to its more difficult nature, helping a friend move is perhaps one of the most bittersweet favors you can do for someone. You're glad to help them, to be there to see them off as they venture out on the next leg of their journey--but it's not something you necessarily relish doing.

I know Tony is doing what's best for him and his family, but I'm sad to see him go. He has been a constant and steadfast source of inspiration, encouragement, and companionship in the two years since he called me up and invited me to move back to LA to live with him and Charlie (one of my other best friends).

I could probably bore you to tears by listing the myriad reasons why I'm thankful to have had Tony as a near-everyday presence in my life these past few years. So I'll just list five of my favorite reasons:

5. His impeccable sense of style and fashion--which, even though he's let me borrow clothes from time to time, hasn't really rubbed off on me (that's ok, as my good taste in music hasn't rubbed off on him, either).

4. As my workout partner, he's encouraged me to get into the gym way more often than I would have if left to my own devices (it's sad, but when he moved to a different apartment complex six months ago, I found myself going to the gym less and less, until my muscles nearly atrophied back to the shapeless mush they once were).

3. His strong work ethic and discipline, it staggers.

2. Our many long evenings of soul-baring conversation--whether over In-N-Out burgers, glasses of wine at Miceli's, over a game of pool, during a workout session, or at the batting cages--in which we would just share about the victories and defeats of life (which usually boiled down to two specific areas of life: work and girls).

1. The inspiring way Tony lives out his faith: the seriousness with which he approaches his daily spiritual walk, his integrity and honesty, and the tremendous amount of time he spends in prayer and supplication. Again, it staggers.

(Even at just five items, that's a pretty enviable list of qualities, wouldn't you say?)

And so, I write this on the last day of 2008, knowing that the start of a new year is supposed to fill one with a sense of optimism and anticipation. And while I am excited for 2009, I'm also welcoming the new year with the disheartening realization that something significant will be missing from my day-to-day experience in this new year.

I will miss you, my friend.

Monday, December 29, 2008

28. The 'Rents Are Alright.

I've got a pretty amazing set of parents, I must say.

They're just so incredibly supportive and selfless, always ready and willing to help me out whenever necessary (and even when unnecessary). They've helped me stay afloat in several would-be capsizing scenarios this past year (which were, not surprisingly, financial), but they even look to help me out in the simplest of ways as well (a couple cases of Mountain Dew Code Red whenever I come home, an extra sandwich at lunch yesterday, help scanning a photo this morning).

I know I don't tell them nearly enough, but they're pretty wonderful.

27. A People of Thanksgiving

Going back to my home church in Nevada is always quite the experience for me.

For starters, it's a very intimate church setting; the congregation never exceeds 40 people, much smaller than my home church in LA. Because of that, it's also ridiculously informal--conversations amongst the congregates are commonplace during the church service itself.

Sure, I grew up in this church, but returning for a Sunday morning worship service never fails to provide a healthy dose of culture shock, reminding me that I'm no longer in slick, image-conscious, youth-oriented Hollywood. On one hand, it's a bit aggravating for me ("Can't they actually plan out a worship service for once instead of winging the whole thing?" I often think); on the other hand, it's a bit refreshing.

But it can also be downright inspiring: my home church is filled with people who utterly put me to shame in their ability to give genuine, heartfelt thanks.

A portion of the service is always devoted to the sharing of praises and prayer requests, and as was the case today, the worship leader opened the time by suggesting that everyone take a moment to think about some of the blessings they've experienced over the past year. What followed was a wonderful few minutes in which a litany of praises--both great and small--was lifted up: an elderly woman beating cancer, a drug addict making significant progress in staying clean, families able to reunite for the holidays, job stability in tumultuous economic times, a working vehicle, a good school system.

I must say, I was extremely impressed and encouraged by the faith and gratitude on display this morning.

It's not that I'm not grateful or thankful; after all, the whole point of this blog is to ruminate on the things--both great and small--for which I'm grateful. But I find that I tend to allow the disappointments of life to overshadow the blessings.

I mean, here we are, days away from 2009, and though I know that 2008 brought with it so much for me to be grateful for, I can't help but feel like the year was one giant letdown, of sorts. Certainly one might make the case that, for me personally, 2008 was indeed a disappointment on a number of fronts (relationally, occupationally, creatively, and just with my life direction in general). But in doing so, one might neglect to see what a year of growth, challenge, and increasing stability it was for me.

Despite the difficult and trying circumstances that the past year has often found us in (or perhaps in spite of them), there is still so much to be genuinely grateful for. I'm glad today brought with it a chance to see a real exercise in thanksgiving, a practice I give a lot of lip service (or should I say, *ahem*, blog service) to, but in truth still have a long, long way to go in fully understanding.

Sunday, December 28, 2008

26. Sometimes that Y-chromosome is a Real Godsend, 1.

Total amount of money I spent on haircuts in 2008: $40.

(That's roughly $20/haircut. Which isn't to say that my hair was only cut twice in '08--just twice by professionals. During the summer, I shaved my head, a low-maintenance and low-cost luxury that I consider myself incredibly lucky to be able to take advantage of.)

Saturday, December 27, 2008

25. An Open Letter to Kohl.

Dear Kohl,

You wouldn't know me from Adam, but I just wanted to drop you a quick line to say, "Nicely done on that store of yours."

See, although I was born and raised in rural Nevada--which means Wal-Mart, Target, and JCPenney's loomed quite large in the retail experience of my formative years--I've since, sadly, become a bit of an urbanite snob.

Oh sure, I still drop by the local Target* or Best Buy now and then, but I do so with an air of haughty disdain, as though I have debased myself by mixing with the bourgeoisie suburbanites of LA County ("There's no way this store could possibly carry the new Bodies of Water album; no one who shops here would have the faintest clue as to who they are," or so goes the arrogant line of thinking when I peruse these stores for music).

And when it comes to clothing, I'd much rather go to the independent boutiques...or, failing that, stores like H&M that, at the very least, have the veneer of haute couture.

So you can imagine how I felt in the two or three instances when I dropped in to one of your stores. Until today, that is.

I walked in with my family--having literally just dismissed the store as a "poor man's Target,"--and found myself immediately drawn in to a rather sizable and (to my pleasant surprise) decent men's section. When it was all said and done, I'd picked out a hat, some jeans, and a diamond-print** sweater (2009 is apparently going to be the year my style either goes really geek-chic or goes waaaaaay retro, like back to the 40's--I haven't really decided which yet). That, and I almost picked up a great USC t-shirt...but the price wasn't to my liking, even with the Black Friday II sale pricing.

All that to say: Kohl, it's a long way from Fifth Avenue, but I gotta tell you, I like the cut of your store's jib.


Sincerely,

A Slightly-Reformed Shopper

P.S. Is Kohl your first name or your last name? I didn't really take the time to figure it out beforehand, so I just blindly assumed it was the former. I'll feel slightly stupid if it actually is the latter--if that is indeed the case, feel free to add a "Mr." to the several times I address you in this letter. I may be a retail snob, but I do have some manners.

*This is actually a little bit of a white lie. I quite love Target, actually, and don't mind a stroll through Best Buy now and then. I was just using a little--what's that called? Oh, right--artistic license.

**I've also been informed that the kids apparently call this "argyle."

Thursday, December 25, 2008

24. "For unto us a child is born."

I have so many things to be thankful for on a day like today.

Getting to spend time with the fam. Good friends, some of whom I even heard from today (including my closest Iraqi friend!). Gifts, food, financial stability, winter-y weather, the chance to come home for a week, lots of great TV mini-marathons (I think I just got myself hooked on "House, M.D."--such a good show!), the collective lip service we pay to the notion of "peace on Earth, goodwill to men"...all that jazz.

But at the heart of all of the fun and festivities of the day, I, we, remember the little boy born in a lowly stable, around back behind an inn in a quiet outpost village. His birth, a divine paradox: seemingly insignificant, and yet profoundly seismic and monumental.

Like a child who takes a quick, dismissive look at a newly-opened present and, with brow furrowed, tosses it aside, asking, "That's it?", I often find that I, too, am not fully-appreciative of this wondrous gift. Chalk it up to my lack of maturity and understanding, my own selfish desires and sense of what's "best" for me, my inability to get past the simple, unflashy packaging.

The truth is, I all too often go for the flashy, the gimmicky, the promises of countless hours of fun--only to find that in the end, they don't ultimately provide lasting contentment and joy. All too often, I forsake the gift of gifts and look for other things to fill the void. And even on a day such as this--with all the gifts, and family, and food, and TV--it's easy to forget the remarkable life-, world-, universe-altering event we commemorate, an event that renders us forever changed, and forever renewed.

My hope is that I will mature to the point that I never again look at the gift and ask, "That's all?" But rather, that I would continue to approach this day with an ever-growing understanding and appreciation of the significance it holds.

It truly is a day for thanksgiving. For reasons both great and small, sure, but ultimately: because it is the birthday of a King.

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

23. One Solitary Life.

"He was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman. He grew up in another obscure village, where He worked in a carpenter shop until He was thirty. Then for three years He was an itinerant preacher.

He never had a family or owned a home. He never set foot inside a big city. He never traveled two hundred miles from the place He was born. He never wrote a book, or held an office. He did none of the things that usually accompany greatness.

While He was still a young man, the tide of popular opinion turned against Him. His friends deserted Him. He was turned over to His enemies, and went through the mockery of a trial. He was nailed to a cross between two thieves. While He was dying, His executioners gambled for the only piece of property He had: His coat.

When He was dead, He was taken down and laid in a borrowed grave.

Nineteen centuries have come and gone, and today He is the central figure of the human race. All the armies that ever marched, and all the navies that ever sailed, and all the parliaments that ever sat, and all the kings that ever reigned, put together, have not affected the life of man upon this earth as powerfully as this one solitary life."

--J.A. Francis, "One Solitary Life" (originally penned in 1926)


Merry Christmas to all of you. May this Day of Days be a beautiful and blessed one for you and your loved ones!

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

22. More Love Letters: To the perfect woman.

(My sincerest apologies to Messrs. Simon and Garfunkel.)


Mrs. Crocker
to the tune of "Mrs. Robinson"*

And here's to you, Mrs. Crocker,
Jesus' birthday treats are what you know (whoa whoa whoa)
God bless you please, Mrs. Crocker
Christmas finds us gladly gaining weight
Hey hey hey. Hey hey hey.

We'd like to know a little bit about your recipes.
We'd like to bake some gifts to give our friends.
Of all the things we have to do around this time of year
Spending time with you could be the very best.

And here's to you, Mrs. Crocker,
Jesus' birthday treats are what you know (whoa whoa whoa)
God bless you please, Mrs. Crocker
Christmas finds us gladly gaining weight
Hey hey hey. Hey hey hey.

Hide 'em in the hiding place so Santa doesn't see
Then we'll have some left on Christmas morn.
Snickerdoodles, peanut blossoms, and some toffee squares
I'd eat a thousand, and still keep coming back to your...

Cu-cucina, Señora Crocker
Jesus' birthday treats, delicioso (whoa whoa whoa)
God bless you please, Mrs. Crocker
Christmas finds us gladly gaining weight
Hey hey hey. Hey hey hey.

Sitting on a sofa poring over your cookbook
Thinking you're about as perfect as they come
It don't matter if you are a made-up corporate shill.
You know the way to this man's heart.

Where have you gone, Pilsbury Doughboy
Your crescent rolls could help us celebrate (yeah yeah yeah)
What's that you say, Mrs. Crocker?
The doughboy's stuff's not up to snuff today.
Hey hey hey. Hey hey hey.


*The actual lyrics, if you so wish to take a gander for comparison's sake.

A postscript to "Love letters."

Having just written, posted, and now read the last entry, let me just say: I promise to make up for such sap-ridden dross by writing some less-than-treacly posts for the next few days.

Penance for giving in to my sentimental nature.

Monday, December 22, 2008

21. Ghosts of Christmases Past (Or: Why I never throw away old love letters.)

In a corner in what used to be my bedroom (it's now the guest room, natch), there's a stack of several Rubbermaid tubs. Each of these tubs is filled to the brim with newspaper clippings, stray photos, publications from events I was involved with in high school or college, movie ticket stubs, plane ticket stubs and postcards, and the holy trinity of old-fashioned personal correspondence: cards, notes, and letters.

All of which hold no real economic value*, of course, but do hold tremendous personal value for me. Especially the notes and letters.

Hi. My name's David T. I'm a packrat. A nostalgia junkie. A sucker for sentimentality.

Tonight--as I end up doing every time I come home--I cracked open one of the tubs and rummaged through its contents. This particular one happened to be from 1997-1999, a pretty significant period in my life: the last few years of high school, graduation, freshman year at USC...and the first girlfriend.**

As I dug deeper into the tub, I stumbled across all the old love letters my high school sweetheart and I used to write to each other (or, rather, her letters to me--mine weren't there, for obvious reasons) during our short-lived long-distance romance; the early ones were all handwritten, some were typed, and ones from when we actually started dating in early '99 were printed out. Seems a new type of letter-writing really caught on around that time (something the kids used to call "e-mail").

I read through all the handwritten letters, including the first one in which she said she would come up to Nevada from Arizona and be my date for homecoming (I'm pretty sure that a portion of that letter was memorized verbatim for several years of my life). I breezed through the stack of printed-out e-mails; they contained so many boring details from everyday life, so I basically skimmed for the juicy parts.

I marveled at her beautiful handwriting, smirked at seeing some of her grammatical/spelling issues (considering her age at the time, they were rather minimal), and both smiled and cringed at the over-the-top language, the excessive and reckless use of words such as "forever," "dreams," "best friend," and the grandaddy of 'em all: "love."

We threw a certain three-word expression around like it was a catchphrase from an SNL sketch. Even well before we were officially dating (which, understandably, made for a confusing year of high school). Reading those letters tonight, I found it a bit silly, almost absurd, how often she wrote the well-worn phrase to me. And yet, every time I read the phrase or something akin to it--now nearly ten years after the fact, mind you--a stupid little smile would quietly register across my face.

See, somewhere along the way, I think I forgot what it feels like to be so deliriously, foolishly, head-over-heels in love.

And though this relationship didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of working out, it's nice to be able to go back now and revisit that place and time when I was a bit more naive and a bit less cynical. When love seemed to render everything else trivial ("All you need is love," as they once sang). When things seemed so damned certain and simple. When I was much bolder in matters of the heart, without the fear of heartbreak constantly holding me back, timid and scared.

Moreover, it was an instructive read. They say your first relationship indelibly shapes future relationships, and through these letters I could clearly see the patterns that emerged: the types of girls I tend to fall for (sassy, smart, and independent), the way I approach relationships (in typical hopeless romantic / overly-obsessive fashion), and the problems I tend to deal with (the perpetual white noise of jealousy and insecurity issues, the start of which I actually managed to pinpoint back to that awkward year with the glibly excessive use of that loaded catchphrase).

It's healthy to spend some time with the past once in a while. Not to dwell on it or wish it was different, but to cherish the happy moments; to see and emulate the faith, hope, and love that we may well have since lost; and to learn from our mistakes.

That's not to say that keeping every ex-flame's letters is a good idea, per se. A few years ago, I brought home a girlfriend who had the misfortune of seeing one of these cards prominently showing out the side of one of these transparent bins, and I in my infinite stupidity and unfortunate lack of sensitivity couldn't seem to understand what the big deal was. There's certainly an argument to be made for tossing old love letters out, and it'll definitely be a consideration once marriage enters the picture.

But I do think there's something worthwhile in holding onto some to serve as reminders: reminders of who we once were, who we've since become (thankfully), and what our hearts were once capable of--and can be capable of again.



*I guess I'm going to have to live an outstanding, noteworthy life, if only so that these objects of my packrattery (or, as I like to call them, my voluminous troves of personal history) can someday be renamed "artifacts" and find a permanent home in a museum devoted to me. At least that's what I tell my dad to keep him from throwing the boxes out every year.

**Epilogue: she got married, something every last one of my exes has gone and done. But we'd remained friends and stayed in touch up until a couple years ago, and then she fell off the face of the earth. To my knowledge, she hasn't joined the known world on facebook or myspace.

20. No place like home for the holidays.

It's true, you know?

Starting tonight, it's the four of us in my immediate family, together again in the only place I've ever celebrated Christmas: our home in the illustrious "Gateway to Death Valley."

I know not everyone gets the opportunity to go "home" for the holidays, and my heart goes out to those who, for whatever reason, aren't able to make it back home to be with their families during this time of year. And so, in light of that realization, I'm all the more grateful to have had the opportunity to come back home every year, especially these last five in which I've lived and worked in the so-called "real world." It's something I admittedly take for granted, getting to come home and be with my family every 25th of December.

It's nice to be back. Even though I know full well that I'll be bored to tears come the 26th.

(This year's return is made all the sweeter, too, knowing that a year ago, my family was rather unsure as to where we would be spending Christmas '08.)

Sunday, December 21, 2008

19. Transferable Skills

I really didn't want to work today.

I was feeling utterly miserable when I woke up this morning, and though I was able to cancel my two tutoring sessions for the day, I couldn't cancel an SAT workshop I had been scheduled to give.

So I dragged myself out of bed this afternoon, made my way over to enemy territory (ucla's campus), and proceeded to give a 90-minute presentation to a classroom full of high-achieving 10th and 11th grade minority students from all around Los Angeles.

It went over exceptionally well.

I surprised myself; in part, because I didn't think I had it in me to speak for 90 minutes, especially in my sad state of (ailing) affairs. But also because I was able to constantly maintain the high level of energy that I usually have when speaking to a group of people. And because (if you'll allow me to brag a little) I kept the group of students entertained. I landed lots of jokes perfectly--some of which I'd perfected over the past year in my weekly classes, others completely spontaneous, off-the-cuff asides--to the sweet sound of genuine laughter.

It was a good feeling to know that, even hampered by a nagging cough and irritated throat, I can still engage a large group of high school students, get them laughing, keep them interested in what I have to say, and basically speak extemporaneously for an hour and a half and not sound like a complete idiot.

I really enjoy my job as an SAT tutor and teacher. But I like to equate it to waiting tables; as good as I seem to be at it, I certainly don't plan on doing this gig forever. It's really just a job to pay bills while I'm pursuing my real passions. But I like that I'm picking up what I consider to be transferable skills: namely, getting up on a stage, of sorts, and basically performing. I like that I'm learning to engage people, to entertain them, motivate them, inform them, inspire them.

I'm learning to perfect* the art of public speaking.

And as I left the conference today, I got this great little inkling, this little blurred glimpse of the future, this sense that told me: you're going to be using this somewhere down the road, just you wait and see.

Just you wait and see.



*"Perfect the art?" That might be going a bit too far too soon...how about, "Not be a disgrace to the art," first?

Saturday, December 20, 2008

18. Seems like a great place to escape to.

I'm booking a New Year's trip to Vancouver, BC.

Why, you ask? Well, for starters, 'cause I heard it's absolutely stunning. And photos like these only serve to confirm that notion:



(This shot comes from a series of breathtaking shots taken in 2008, as collected by the Boston Globe.)

Vancouver has been, for some time now, the next Great North American city to cross off my list. It just sounds perfect: a bustling, vibrant city intimately enveloped in the beauty and grandeur of its surrounding environs.

I'm in need of a change of scenery, if only for a few days. And Vancouver strikes me as the perfect getaway from LA. From what everyone tells me, I won't be disappointed by it.

It's funny to think how we tend to idealize far-off places. We often set up lofty expectations for what are essentially unknown quantities in our otherwise-known worlds, because, hey, these getaways seem to be the perfect antidotes--the perfect escapes--from the places we're stuck in now. In the song "Boston," the lead singer of (adult contemporary) rock band Augustana sings about leaving California and moving to Boston (he claims--contrary to what TV's Cheers would have us believe--that it's "where no one knows my name"). In Jonathan Larson's rock musical RENT, the young bohemians of New York City's run-down Alphabet City sing of leaving the rats and roaches of the East Village and heading out to Santa Fe (a detail which, when I someday meet Larson in that great big Life Cafe in the sky, I'll have to ask him about: Johnny, I know it's a complete 180º from NYC, but as someone who grew up in the Southwestern U.S., I ask...really? Santa Fe? Why not Santa Barbara?).

I have a few of these (perhaps over-) idealized getaway places myself, places that I'm dying to see at some point in the next few years. Biloxi, Mississippi. Savannah, Georgia. Boston. (Sure, why not?)

And, yes, Vancouver, BC. I'm excited to see if it really is as amazing as I imagine it to be.

Friday, December 19, 2008

17. Of Montreal on Letterman tonight

Not to take anything away from today's item of thanksgiving, but you should know this wasn't originally my plan for Thursday's post.

See, I had a topic picked out and ready to go (which I'll probably save for tomorrow--tomorrow now being later today). But I've been sick in bed all. day. long. And as such, I've had neither the energy nor the desire to do much writing today.

What I did have energy for, though, was staying up to watch one of my favorite bands--Of Montreal--perform on Letterman tonight.

I saw the band play at the Palladium in Hollywood about a month ago, and let me just say: the show was easily the most bizarre, most surreal stage spectacle I've seen in my entire life. And also one of the most enjoyable concert-going experiences I've ever had.

I could go into further detail, and may do so at some point in the future. For now, though, know that the operative word for oM's stage show is bacchanalia.

A portion of which the nation at large, thankfully, got to see tonight under the lights of the Ed Sullivan Theater. Enjoy!



(For any interested parties, Of Montreal will be playing LA--ok, ok, Pomona--again on February 19th. I'm definitely planning to go see 'em again; anyone care to join me?)

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

16. The one TV show that I can honestly say changed my life.

On December 17th, 1989--nineteen years ago today--the FOX network premiered an animated series about a dysfunctional family living amongst their fellow yellow-skinned denizens in an average town in middle America.



400+ episodes, numerous awards, and a feature-length film later, The Simpsons is, incredibly enough, still on the air. And while I consider myself a die-hard fan, I stand firm in my belief that the venerable series is sadly now well past its sell-by date; Homer Simpson and his brood hit their zenith in the mid-90's--from Seasons 3 to 8--and it's been rather painful to watch how far the show has since fallen.

Still, The Simpsons is far and away my favorite TV show of all time.

I started watching the series semi-secretly in '92, against my parents' wishes, of course (funny, I can't think of anyone growing up in the 90's whose parents allowed them to watch the show--seems there was a near-universal parental bias against it). Even at a young age, I was drawn in by the humor, intelligence, and endearing nature of the show. I got it.

And it's true: I can honestly say that watching the show in my formative years helped shape my life. Consider:

1. I learned a great deal about American culture from the show, thanks to its satirical social commentary and constant barrage of references to pop culture and history. I'm sure The Simpsons was never meant to be educational, but I probably learned--and retained--more from watching the show (and subsequently consulting the über-geek websites that dissect the references) than from the various history classes I've taken over the years.

2. A great deal of my sense of humor--and a good bit of my personal lexicon--is derived from The Simpsons. Apart from impacting the way I find and express humor in a particular situation or conversation (which is something I couldn't even begin to explain), the show is, for me, a common point of reference in conversation. The frequent phrase, "That reminds me of this one episode of The Simpsons..." has made more than one friend of mine roll their eyes in tolerant bemusement.

That, and the Simpsonian expressions of "No foolin'?," "Mercy!," "tom-foolery," "scrum-diddly-umptious," "Me fail English? That's unpossible," "Que lastima!," and the distinct sing-song of Nelson Muntz's "Ha ha!" have all permeated my vocabulary over the years.

3. This is where The Simpsons' influence in my life gets downright ridiculous: watching the show, it's safe to say, has led me to where/who I am today.

You see, when I first started watching, I was mesmerized by the sound of Lisa's saxophone in the show opening. So when the time came for me to choose an instrument to learn for 6th grade band, it was a no-brainer.

I played the saxophone throughout middle and high school, which in turn led me to decide to attend USC so that I could play in the vaunted Trojan Marching Band (the idea that I could be a part of this sort of grand spectacle sold me on going to USC). While in the TMB, I met a girl who would introduce me to New York City. I fell in love with NYC, and returned to spend a summer there, which is how I met my future mentor and pastor Doug. Doug offered me the opportunity to come live with his family and work at his church; I took him up on the offer, moving out to the Big Apple immediately after graduating from USC.

Reading one of Doug's magazines one day, I stumbled across an opportunity to go teach at a Christian school in Northern Iraq. So after two years in NYC, I made the move to Iraq. While in Northern Iraq, I started communicating with a girl back in the States via e-mail. When I returned to the U.S. six months later, I decided to pursue a relationship with the young woman, and wound up moving back to LA to be closer to her.

And in preparing to move back to LA, I decided to buy a VW Bus on eBay, a decision which has since resulted in a documentary film project that I and several friends have been working on for the last several years.

So, the way I see it, my entire life's trajectory basically traces back to me sneaking episodes of The Simpsons in the family den back in the 5th grade.

Not to mention the hours upon hours of entertainment I would've had to find elsewhere.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

15. It's gratifying to know that I helped him get there:

I found out today that a student I tutored at the beginning of the year was just admitted to Stanford!

14. "From Detroit down to Houston, and New York to LA..."

This might sound silly, but I love it when the people in a particular group hail from various parts of the country (and in some cases, the world).

Case in point: tonight, a group of us went out for burgers and beers to welcome our friend Austin back from his trip to Africa. Among the states represented by this handful of USC alumni: Washington, Alabama, New Jersey, Minnesota, Nevada, and well, yes, California.

This was also the case yesterday, when a group of my friends from church got together for lunch after the service: Indiana, Michigan, Colorado, California, Nevada, North Carolina, Kentucky, and Missoura* were all represented.

And for what it's worth, back in New York, the group of twenty-somethings from my small church in Queens represented an even more unique set of homelands: the U.S.--Iowa, Virginia, and Nevada (if you couldn't tell by now, the Silver State is represented by none other than yours truly)--Canada, England, Serbia-Montenegro, Mexico, Peru, France, Japan, even Burma.

You get the idea. I feel pretty blessed to have found community with people who come from here, there, and everywhere.

No reason in particular. It's just a fun thing to think about from time to time: the places we've come from, the people we meet, the ways we learn and grow from interacting with one another.

I suppose that could just be the pilsner talking, though.



*This is how I tend to pronounce the proper name of the Show-Me State, thanks to an episode of The Simpsons, wherein Grandpa Simpson, when asked why an American flag he was displaying only had 49 stars, replies, "I'll be dead in the cold, cold ground 'fore I recognize Missoura."

Sunday, December 14, 2008

13. "Baby, I am calling you on that."

Ladies and gentleman, one of my favorite songs of the year: R.E.M.'s Living Well is the Best Revenge.



A few things to note:

1. For the uninitiated: R.E.M. is my favorite band of all time. So, for what it's worth, I'm inclined to like almost anything they do. There was a lot of hype leading up to this year's release, Accelerate (it was termed by the press as R.E.M.'s "comeback" album), but within seconds of hearing the arpeggiated riff of Living Well... open the album, you just knew the whole affair was going to be a raucous good time.

And it was (and still is, for that matter).

2. As it stands, Accelerate will probably be in my Top 5 albums of 2008. Which means this track--far and away my favorite off the album--is in pretty good standing to be one of my favorite songs of 2008. And probably one of my Top 10 favorite R.E.M. songs of all time.

(Yes, I'm an unrepentant list-maker, especially when it comes to all things music.)

3. While I absolutely love just how much this song kills, musically, I'm pretty sure there's something deeper going on that has really endeared this song to me. And that, in a word, is catharsis.

Let me explain.

"Living well is the best revenge" is a well-known quote by 16th century English clergyman and metaphysical poet George Herbert. R.E.M.'s lead singer and lyricist Michael Stipe took this quote and crafted a rather vitriolic and vindictive lyric around it; my impression is that his intended target was conservative media pundit Bill O'Reilly (Stipe's a rock star, and rock stars are apparently required by law to lay into O'Reilly).

But the words could just as easily be aimed at anyone who betrays, maligns, or mistreats another individual:
It's only when your poison spins
Into the life you'd hoped to live
And suddenly you wake up in a shaken panic...now!

You set me up like a lamb to slaughter
Garbo as the farmer's daughter
Unbelievable...the gospel according to who?
I lay right down.

Now I'm not one to sit and spin
'Cause living well is the best revenge
And baby I am calling you on that.
For me, listening to this song has been extremely cathartic, especially after several instances of feeling incredibly slighted this past year.

Does it make anything better? Does it heal wounds? Of course not. But it allows the listener to channel the anger and hurt, and then, release it...possibly by rocking out to this song with reckless abandon (seriously, I've had more than my fair share of Risky Business moments in the past year).

But more than serving as an outlet for venting bitterness and pain, the song--and the Herbert quote at the center of it--carries with it a clarion call to turn past injustices into good. I suppose one can equate the term "living well" to mean living happily--whether through acquired wealth, power, or simply contentment--but I see it as an issue of character.

Living well seems, to me, to mean treating others right.

And that's what I want to aspire to, especially when I feel dejected or used. I want to channel the energy of those powerful feelings, and allow it to be turned to good. To bless others.

It's a very lofty notion, one that I'll fall short of on every single attempt. But it is the ultimate revenge--or response, rather.

(Though becoming rich and famous probably doesn't seem like a bad form of revenge, either, if we're being honest with ourselves.)


4. Did I mention that this song absolutely kills? Seriously, it's one of the hardest-rocking numbers in the entire R.E.M. canon.

All in all, a fine way for the band to re-introduce itself in 2008, methinks.

Day 12: Can't write. Couch-surfing.

The plan: come home after a busy day of hanging out with various friends / engaging in various frivolities, and crank out a post on an R.E.M. song that has been an anthem of sorts for me this year.

The actual outcome: after a fun-filled afternoon and an evening spent dancing until the wee hours of the morn, I decided it best to crash at my friends' house tonight instead.

So the essay on Living Well is the Best Revenge will have to wait. In part, you might say, because I lived pretty damn well today.

That said, let me share another, brief, bit of thanksgiving for the day:

There's something about couch-surfing that I absolutely love.

Why? I'm not entirely sure. Maybe it's that it serves as a confirmation of camaraderie and trust that has been established between friends. Maybe there's something bonding in the act of sharing a dwelling place and communally resting, if even for one night at a time.

Or maybe it's just because I love sleeping on couches.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Day 11: A verse to sum up the day.

If one falls down, his friend can help him up.
--Ecclesiastes 4:10

I had several wonderful friends who helped pick me up* today, through words of encouragement and support, and through interceding on my behalf.

To them, I say: thank you. Your love and encouragement mean the world to me; I am incredibly blessed to have you in my life.



*So as to avoid sharing too much information, I'll just say that I had a relapse, of sorts, this past week.

(Don't worry, Mom; it's not what you think. I gave up the Dimetapp ages ago, and haven't looked back since.)

Day Ten: Old Man Storytime

I came home late last night after a long day, looking to reconvene with the Sandman and shut out the world as soon as humanly possible.

I almost made it. But then my roommate Charlie came home. As did his dad, Charles, who was staying the night with us.

My night instantly turned around. And went on much longer--to my delight--than I had initially hoped.

You see, Charles Sr. (or Mr. P, as I'll call him from now on) is a newly-minted nanogenarian--he hit the big 9-0 last week (my roommate, his son, is 28---for those at home who want to do the math). And he is quite likely the most sprightly, engaged, and healthiest 90-year old I have ever met.

Mr. P's an absolute delight. He's warm and personable. And a fantastic storyteller to boot. Which he can do, nonstop, for hours.

(I'm assuming that's just something you start to do as an old man, right? Tell stories for hours and hours on end? I mean, I'm expecting to follow suit when I get to that point myself.)

The difference, though, between Mr. P's stories and those of many other old men who've gabbed my ear off? Mr. P's are absolutely fascinating. They mostly center around jazz music.

Born and raised in New York (Brooklyn, to be exact), he traveled around North America for much of his early years as a professional jazz guitarist; to hear him tell stories of his musical exploits is to be instantly transported to the golden-hued Jazz era in America; his descriptions of the New York City of the era are something straight out of Gatsby.

I would give nearly anything to be in that place and time for but a moment (y'know, once the flux capacitator finally becomes a reality). Listening to Mr. P weave his vivid tales, though, I must say, is a pretty good substitute.

(photo by Chad Sengtock - www.ishotphotography.com)

Thursday, December 11, 2008

Day Nine: "Let the color streams arrive..."

One of the things I dislike most about Southern California is the lack of four distinct seasons.

I know for some people, nothing could be better than the perpetual sunshine, but I find it terribly distressing. I need some semblance of seasonal change, lest I experience some weird inverse Seasonal Affective Disorder. And no, dear region of mine, a month of kinda-almost-sorta-drizzly weather doesn't quite cut it.

(This might explain why Albert Hammond's "It Never Rains In Southern California" absolutely wrecks me.)

It should come as no surprise, then, that I love it when the leaves actually change colors here! The weather outside may be frightful (and not the "frightful" normally associated with this time of year: it was in the mid- to high-90's last month...I mean, really?), but one look at the bright reds, oranges, and yellows that now envelope our deciduously-lined street is, indeed, delightful.*

Have a gander for yourself:





(I'm no Ansel Adams, it's true. I basically shot these with my iPhone on my daily trip to the neighborhood Starbucks. I think they get the point across, though, right? Now, if Santa were to give me a digital SLR for Christmas...)

The streets in our neighborhood look quite lovely in their autumnal splendor. And I'm grateful that it at least looks like fall. Even if we're just eleven days out from the winter solstice, and I'm walking around in flipflops and a t-shirt.


*Apologies to Irving Berlin for the lame riff on his cherished holiday classic.**

**Yeah, I know Irving Berlin didn't pen "Let it Snow." And I'm too lazy to Wikipedia who did. So there.

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Day Eight: A verse to sum up tonight's company happy hour:

"I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God."

Ecclesiastes 3:12-13

Day Seven: Kenneth Cole builds resilient eyewear.

(I dabble in bad haiku from time to time. It's just one of those things you'll have to accept.)

Glasses
Still serve these eyes well
Crumbling, often rolled over
Forgetful sleeper

Monday, December 8, 2008

Day Six: Giving Voice to the Voiceless.

When I returned to Iraqi Kurdistan this past summer, I went with the Tiziano Project, an organization devoted to empowering and resourcing citizens around the globe to become citizen-journalists.

I and two other guys from the project worked with several of my former students to create several multimedia news stories, two of which would end up on CNN's iReport website. What's more, one of my students was even interviewed for a CNN broadcast--the opportunity of a lifetime to share his experience as a citizen-journalist with the world!

I'm so grateful to have had the opportunity to go back in this capacity.

Not only because Kurdistan is my adopted little corner of the world, and not only because the people there (my students, in particular) have a "permanent piece of my medium-sized American heart," (to quote The National's Matt Berringer), but because I was drawn to the profundity, the necessity, of the work: to give a voice to the voiceless.

The Kurds indeed have a story to tell. It's a story mired in unspeakable tragedy, yet full of resilience, beauty, and redemption. I know I want to have a hand in getting their story out for the world to hear, in giving this otherwise-voiceless people a chance to speak out.

So why do I bring up such earnestly idealistic (if not slightly heavy-handed) notions?

Because I find myself inspired by my friend Lindsay.

Lindsay has given several years of her life now to serving the various peoples of Africa. The Congolese are one such people group.

And because of Lindsay's work in the Democratic Republic of Congo (through her organization Food for the Hungry International), she has been given the opportunity to speak out about the crisis and utter devastation that has befallen the country in recent weeks.

She's been given a chance to speak on behalf of the people she serves.

CNN has done several on-air interviews with Lindsay. This was their latest with her. I, for one, am incredibly proud of my friend; incredibly grateful for her work.

And incredibly inspired.

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Day Five: Every College Needs a Good Rivalry.

'Cause having a rival institute to peg as one's mortal enemy makes life all the more meaningful--for the youthful collegiate and the wizened alum alike--doesn't it?

And in our case, life is so much sweeter because we've vanquished said mortal enemy on the gridiron nine out of the the last ten years.

This year, it was 28-7. And for the first time in ages, I was there to witness it.

Friday, December 5, 2008

Also, 'Tis the Season!

Well, whaddaya know. Two posts for one day!

My neighborhood put on a big tree-lighting ceremony and holiday street fair this evening. I met up with some friends, and together we took in the sights, sounds, and smells of it all.

Nearly every establishment along the boulevard had lovely light displays and decorations up. Several businesses served refreshments: hot cider, tomato soup, warm bread. The crisp air was filled with the sounds of carolers, bagpipers, a high school band, and the pleasant murmurings of a jolly-fied citizenry.

And, you know, it all reminded of a line I heard, once, in a song:

"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas..."

What's more, as we walked up and down the street, I stopped frequently to greet people I know. It was wonderful, if not just a tad shocking; one doesn't expect to experience the familiarity of a small-town here in LA. But tonight, I discovered that I was much more well-acquainted with people in my neighborhood than I realized.

(Working at the neighborhood Starbucks for a year or so will do that for you, I suppose.)

The Christmas-themed merriment didn't end there, though.

After we had our fill of the street fair, my friends and I drove to the fairly-new Americana (for you Angelenos, it's basically The Grove 2.0, but the mere presence of an H&M renders it far superior to its older sibling). There, we went shopping, ate cupcakes, and enjoyed more halls decked with boughs of holly and such.

(That picture really doesn't do the scene justice. The loveliness was stupefying.)

For a guy who misses New York City dearly when he can't be there to see it during this special time of year (this will be only the second time in seven years), I have to say: well played, LA. Sure, you still have a long ways to go before you reach the out and out majesty of Fifth Avenue during the holidays, but a strong showing tonight, indeed.

What a unexpectedly wonderful evening this turned out to be! (Especially considering what a bummer the afternoon had been.)

Day Four: Sometimes, it's more than a song.

God is bigger than
The air we breathe
The world we'll leave.
God will save the day
And all will say:
My Glorious!

--Delirious?, "My Glorious"
On a day when heartache, loneliness, and disappointment conspired once again to overwhelm my spirit, this song came to me, like a bird, seemingly out of nowhere.

The lyrics are less-than-brilliantly-poetic, sure, but that's fine; the underlying truth is what eased my spirit as the melancholy reached a crescendo late in the afternoon.

He will save the day.

That's not to say that He'll save me from congestion on the 101, from the mundane and unpleasant tasks of the day, from the sting of rejection, or even from the pangs of loneliness.

But in the end, He will save the day. He will redeem it. He will make it good. Not for my sake, but for His.

...

All of that aside, if heartache and loneliness are really the extent of my troubles today, then I gotta say: I'm doing pretty good, all things considered.

(Even if those co-conspirers seem to be doing a nice job of laying siege to my spirit. Which, y'know, kinda does suck.)

Thursday, December 4, 2008

Day Three: A Small(er) World.

The cheerily insufferable mantra of Walter E. Disney's animatronic progeny turned out to be pretty prescient, after all.

It's a small world, indeed. And thanks to glorious, glorious modern technology (namely, the iPhone), it's getting smaller by the day, it seems.

Today as I perused Amoeba Records (quite possibly the greatest record store in the known universe), I got a text message from my good friend Austin. Austin is in Africa, shooting a documentary film with a missions organization. Over the course of his six-week trip, we've been able to stay in touch via text messages and Facebook.

Now in Johannesburg, South Africa, without wi-fi, and in need of some time-sensitive passport-related information, Austin texted me to ask if I would do some Googling and track down the info for him.

So, with a half-dozen CDs and LPs still in hand, I moved to a less-trafficked section of the store (the World section--fitting, no?), and spent the next 20 minutes or so looking up the information on my iPhone. I fired the info back to Johannesburg; Austin and I volleyed a few texts back and forth, and I returned to my session of vinyl therapy, glad to have been able to help my buddy out.

In that instant, I was struck by how very cool--how very 21st century--this scenario was. By how unlikely this would have seemed even just two or three years ago, much less how utterly unimaginable it would've been a mere fifteen years ago. Technology has advanced to the point now where neither cost nor location are prohibitive in trans-global communications.

Sure, we've had e-mail, AIM, Skype, Facebook, etc for a while now. But in 2008, I'm no longer tethered to even my laptop. I can be out shopping--shopping!--converse with a friend halfway around the world via text messages (which, since Austin's is a domestic number, I'm assuming won't cost me anything extra--it had better not), and track down pertinent information from sources in several other places around the world.

All while deciding if I should buy the new Annuals album or go with the significantly marked-down Sufjan Christmas box set from a few years ago. (My solution: get 'em both. For the economy's sake.)

Wednesday, December 3, 2008

Day Two: O Chipotle! (To the tune of "O Christmas Tree!")


(With apologies to the Germans, whose timeless Christmas carol I'm about to forever tarnish.)

O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
Your carnitas, so tasty;*
O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
Mi corazón goes crazy.

Your burritos are a delight
I like to eat them day and night;
O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
I'd die for your guacamole.**

O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
Your hot sauces are quite okay;
O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
The corn one won't burn my tongue away.

Your burritos are very large,
At $5.95, they're worth the charge.
O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
I still remember my first foray.***

O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
Your brushed steel looks so edgy;
O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
You make fast food that's trendy.

I love to walk right down the line,
And watch as you assemble mine;
O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
I'd take you over Chick-Fil-A.

O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
You should expand to Helsinki.
O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
Your fare's faux-Mex? Well, fine by me.

I love to place orders online
And pick them up in little time.
O Chipotle! O Chipotle!
Mi corazón goes crazy.



Unnecessary Footnotes:
* To make the rhyming couplets work, you probably need to think/sing the lines with a really bad Mexican accent. Think Nacho Libre.

** No, I really would; I'm sadly allergic to avocados. (That doesn't stop me from having a little guac now and then, though.)

*** November 20, 2003; St. Marks Place, East Village, New York City. It was a chicken burrito. And heaven.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

Day One: Exhausted.

Yesterday I was absolutely exhausted. Even today, I'm not in tip-top form. I'm sluggish, in need of more sleep.

Physically, it's not the greatest feeling in the world.

But I'm incredibly thankful, as this particular exhaustedness is/was the natural result of a ridiculously busy and enjoyable 24-hour period that started on Sunday at 7:30 am.

It was a day where work and play intertwined. I spent six hours working (SAT tutoring) throughout the day. I was able to go to church, and afterwards, spent time with friends there. It had only been a week since I last saw them, but somehow it seemed like so much longer.

And in the evening, more time spent with friends both old and new. A handful of us (fraternity brothers, all) gathered to celebrate my friend Tony's birthday, and afterward, I met up with some other, recently-made friends, and took them out for their last night in LA before returning to Canada. When it was all said and done, I didn't get back to my apartment until about 7:30 am, Monday morning.

And with the exception of driving from place to place, there wasn't a single break in the action.

What's more, I wasn't feeling so hot on Saturday. I spent all day on my couch back home; sore throat, sniffles, the works. I was sure that the coming cold--one that I've successfully staved off for several weeks now--would knock me out for the remainder of the weekend. The lack of sleep on Saturday night after a long drive back to LA certainly wouldn't help matters. But somehow, somehow, I felt great the entire day Sunday. Still do, in fact (save for the exhaustedness).

Back in college, I was known to say from time to time, "Today could be, quite possibly, the greatest day of my life." And while the expression was generally said with tongue planted firmly in cheek, I would reserve it for days/situations in which I was at least pretty happy.

It's probably no coincidence, then, that I said the line fairly often when I was around good friends.

So while I wouldn't necessarily count Sunday as a banner day in my life, it was the kind of day that, were I back in college, would most certainly have earned a, "Today could be, quite possibly..." designation.

And so today, with the weekend now a thing of the past, the busy week ahead, I am thankful for the exhausted feeling that serves to remind me of the wonderful Sunday I just had.

Greetings and Salumatations.

Confession: I'm a serial blog-starter.

In the past month alone, I've reserved four--maybe even five--blog names here on blogger or on typepad. And though I have quite the grandiose plans delusions of grandeur regarding those blogs ("I'll quit my day job! I'll score a book deal! I'll date Anne Hathaway!"), I have yet to type even a single word in any of them.

The start, for me, is easy; it's the all-important follow-through that is exceedingly difficult.

On top of all that, I have a lovelorn LiveJournal, one that, sadly--despite its seven years of faithful service--I've pretty much abandoned without any explanation or apology.

It's true; no one can accuse me of being a blog-monogamist. (I'm sorry; I couldn't resist. Please forgive me.)

But enough of the past. On to the raison d'être for this here blog: this is one I thought up yesterday, one that should be an easy write for me (and thus, won't be so easily abandoned...hopefully). I'm going to chronicle the next year of my life by writing about one thing each day--at minimum--for which I'm grateful.

See, I got on this huge giving-thanks kick last week, what with the Thanksgiving festivities and all.  I posted a lengthy "treatise" on Facebook about how I would begin commemorating something I called Thanksgiving Eve (with the hope, naturally, that it would catch on and that I could add "Creator of Holidays" to my already-cornicopious resume). And commemorate I did: I told a few people how, in specific ways, I had been blessed by their presence in my life. It was a wonderful way to remind myself of the Almighty's good gifts to me (namely in the human resources department).

But even as Thanksgiving '08 fades into the ethers of the year now past, and as Christmas comes up around the perennial bend, I find that I want to stay in that place. A place of grounded thankfulness. A place in which--even in my occasional and fruitless forays into that glib notion that my circumstances are far too bleak, far too disappointing, to muster up even a word of gratitude--I can still find reasons to be joyful.

And so, here I begin. A year of thanksgiving.

(Unless, of course, I abandon this blog as well.  Which, given my track record, is a real possibility.)