After high school I moved to Minneapolis and spent the dead of winter in Minnesota working the graveyard shift at UPS. By default, everyone hated me and I hated being there so I moved home, got another dead end job and wasted a semester and a half at Riverland Community College thinking I could make something of myself (it wasn’t a waste because the college was “bad” but because I couldn’t make myself do the work and eventually got myself onto the academic probation list and thrown out). This is when I started producing music. How it all ended up working out, I’ll never know.

Mid-semester I read a short story by Ambrose Bierce for one of my required english courses, a story called “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” that had a profound effect on me. It wasn’t until later that I discovered the 1962 French film adaptation that ended up changing my general outlook, my frame of mind, my point of perspective, and my entire life from that moment on. It was a hammer between the eyes and I remember driving my white beat-up 92′ Caravan to work at Coke with tears in my eyes because of the ironic and obvious spiritual comparisons between my life and the impact of the story.

Read it for yourself or watch the film if you wish to draw your own conclusions. I find both totally inspiring and incredibly powerful. The film is one of the most beautiful pieces of cinema I’ve ever seen.

People tend to ask me “why Owl City?” and it’s not the kind of answer I can explain in thirty seconds during a loud meet-and-greet while the opener is soundchecking in the same room two people are trying to converse in. Even if you and I had half an hour and a quiet coffee shop, it’s not that simple.

Make of it what you will. After reading the story or watching the film, I always walk away feeling like I’ve gotta start living… an emotion I believe we all need to feel more often than we do.

Each time I think about it, the character in the story is me… and all I have left is a little bit of time.

That’s why Owl City.

But try not to turn. The “I Love You” still fogs up and I wanna smash the glass.

I eat a lot of peanuts. It’s not a conscious thing, I just walk into the grocery store and somehow peanuts end up in my shopping basket. And then when I get home the peanuts are the first thing gone so I go back and get more and the cycle goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on.

But that isn’t really the point.

Me and Daniel stayed in a hotel in Hollywood for a week with an awkward window between the bathroom wall and the outside hallway so we taped the room’s complimentary bathrobe over the glass and it was awesome. Lee told me he was about to drive a Durango and I almost died. That was before some kid called some dude a fartknocker and I tried not to laugh because I’m a 4th grader.

My ears are bleeding and one of my eyes feels like a screw. Cecelia Nuthatch has the most annoying voice in the entire universe and Rex uses a pickup truck as a skateboard when the cops are chasing him. So many hours in LA studios. So many new songs and lyrics that won’t leave me alone or let me sleep until they’re finished. People listen REALLY loud and we drive a weird car that smells like salsa. So many things. One place makes me wanna crawl in a hole and die. There was a ton of people at the parade but they all ran away and that old lady had super round glasses but she had a kind face and a voice like butter. It’s weird how there are pentagrams in a kid’s movie and when those crows ate that creepy old guy, I thought about how scary it was when I was a kid upstairs while my mom was driving home from work and my dad was in the shop. It’s supposed to be super cold outside but it’s not and now I just wanna create a thirty-acre lake or maybe 170 jobs or a decent night’s sleep. Places are funny. My friend Rachel and I got coffee here one time. She is nice to me.

Goodbye.

My parents gave me a biography about Dietrich Bonhoeffer for Christmas and I haven’t been able to put it down.

The more I turn pages, the more I realize this guy was one of the leading lights and greatest heroes of the twentieth century, a man who stood up to Hitler. He was a theologian whose unshakable faith and moral courage led him to boldly confront the monstrous evil that was Nazism. The book reads like a narrative, ostensibly a philosophical commentary on a man so steadfast in his faith, nothing could make him flinch — something I personally find remarkable. In contrast to what he calls “cheap grace,” Bonhoeffer lived and died believing true grace influences all aspects of a Christian’s life and requires a willingness to sacrifice everything to God. Ethics were not reduced to a set of rules to him.

Beyond Bonhoeffer’s personal story, the biography sheds light on some of the circumstances and personalities that led Germany from the defeat of WWI to the atrocities of WWII, which has kindled sort of a new fascination for a kid who’s never received good grades in history classes. It’s like learning about it again for the first time, only far less vexing, as was my experience of twentieth century history in high school.

And so it seems whenever I’m not working on music, I’m reading, or flying in airplanes, or both. The better the book, the shorter the flight.

It’s called “Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy”

Sorry for the waiting game. Its been a busy past few weeks and my work has been cut out for me. To say nothing of the old pointed gender cliche which accuses males of lacking necessary skills required to multitask (arguably true or otherwise), it seems my mind compartmentalizes itself into detached sections and categories which run quite deep, few though they may be, and they keep me totally immersed in thought whenever I’m working on new material. Thus when I find myself at home in front of the fireplace in small-town millpond Midwest and I happen strike upon a new vein of inspiration, it’s hard for me to focus on anything else until I’ve explored that vein like a coal miner on an extensive underground course. Sometimes such tunnels of creativity and innovation lead me all over the map, sometimes they hit the wall at a dead end, sometimes I glimpse a glorious light at the end of the tunnel, sometimes it turns out to be a freight train. I’m covered in dirt because I’ve been crawling on my belly a few hundred feet below the surface for the past two weeks, and although Christmas was a swift and much needed respite, it’s back to work for the next handful of months. Goodbye now to the sun for I won’t see her for some considerable time.

This is a good thing.

If you are a creative person, perhaps you suffer from the same thing I do which has me constantly wondering if “I’ve still got it” after enough time has passed without either conception of completion of a given idea to suggest I’ve still got something exciting up my sleeve. Of course that’s nonsense and sometimes exactly what you NEED is this kind of amnesty granted by your intuition in order to move forward. You can run yourself into the ground if you never take a breath, the same as you can get into trouble if you let repose bloat and morph into lethargy or apathy. I hate the word “bloat.”

All this to say, I’m finally in the zone, totally focused on the next few rungs of the ladder and I’m excited to take in the view when I finally make it to the top. The thought is compelling and at this point, forward movement is almost as inspiring as the realization or accomplishment of a given creative idea itself. This means I am writing new songs like a madman, all of which I am terribly excited about. I’ve never collaborated much with outsiders (namely producers or co-writers) except for co-writing with my friend Matt and this new record marks a flying leap in that direction — because it’s new to me, because the thought is compelling, because I’ve never really done it before. I’m also mixing the new Dispatch record and it’s incredible.

As far as songwriting, and in the grand scheme of things, I’ve discovered an AMAZING network of veins and the coal mining down here is incredible. There are endless passages and shafts dying to be explored, hidden ducts and channels, tight squeezes, treacherous ledges, secret stairs and underground waterfalls; one could spend forever down here and the map keeps growing bigger by the day.

Thinking about a new record summer/fall of 2012. If you need me before then, I’ll be underground.

This is a total American/Canadian thing so I apologize to those of you who are puzzled by the concept of what a s’more has the potential of being. Allow me to describe one as “manna from heaven” or perhaps “sweet nectar of life.”

A s’more (sometimes spelled smore) is a traditional nighttime campfire treat popular in the United States and Canada consisting of a roasted marshmallow and a layer of chocolate sandwiched between two pieces of graham cracker.

The word “s’more” appears to be a contraction of the phrase, “some more.” While the origin of the dessert is unclear, the first recorded version of the recipe can be found in the publication “Tramping and Trailing with the Girl Scouts” of 1927. The recipe is credited to Loretta Scott Crew who reportedly made them by the campfire for the Scouts. It is unknown whether the Girl Scouts were the first to make s’mores but there appears to be no earlier claim to this snack. Although it is unknown when the name was shortened, recipes for “Some Mores” are in various Girl Scout publications until at least 1971.

Various confections containing graham cracker, chocolate, and marshmallow are often sold as some derivative of a s’more, however they are not necessarily heated or served in the same shape as the traditional s’more. The Hershey’s S’mores bar is one example. Pop-Tarts also feature a s’mores variety.

HOW GIRLS MAKE S’MORES:

01. Break graham cracker in half
02. Place four squares of Hershey bar on graham cracker half
03. Toast marshmallows golden brown
04. Place toasted marshmallows on Hershey bars to melt chocolate
05. Top with other half of graham cracker and eat gingerly

HOW BOYS MAKE S’MORES:

01. Eat Hershey bars
02. Burn marshmallows black
03. Eat marshmallows
04. Throw graham crackers and gooey marshmallow leftovers at girls
05. Howl with laughter

I had the immense privilege of scoring a new commercial for the Burj Al Arab 5-star luxury hotel in Dubai.

Check it out here.

It’s been six and a half months since I set out on a journey that carried me across four continents, 29 countries and literally around the entire globe. 96 shows later, the All Things Bright and Beautiful tour, the most recent chapter in the Owl City story, has come to a close.

And now here I sit alone in my living room, exactly the way I left it, like a veteran home from the war. The bus is gone, the gear is in storage, I don’t have to ask my tour manager where the green room is or what time soundcheck is or whether I’m going to get a shower tonight or not. I don’t have to search the corners of the room for outlets, I don’t have to live out of a suitcase anymore.

For the moment, I’m not sure what to do with myself. There’s always a transitional handful of days that inevitably follow the end of a long journey, and when it clocks in at over half a year, it’s a big change of gears. It’s like a tall glass of jet lag with a slice of bittersweet lemon.

It’s the end of an era.

But soon I find myself sitting around a table in a noisy restaurant with friends and family who ask me how the tour went, what I did, what I saw, how I felt, and what the whole thing was like. I watch the anticipation/expectation spread across their faces and it’s then that I feel a little disappointing because the life of a tourist is rarely as glamorous as it seems, which means life on tour doesn’t really make for five-star storytelling. So I usually just sigh and smile and order another lemonade and say, “Oh, it was a lot of time driving and waiting in airports.”

Life on tour is not the kind of thing one can really talk about because you really have to be there. It’s a difficult thing to describe and few people understand it themselves, let alone possess the patience or resolve to be understanding of it. I’ve learned this the hard way.

The thing I think I miss the most when I return home after a long journey is the soothing lull and rumble of bus tires on asphalt directly underneath me. I miss the muffled hum of the generator and the way the engine sometimes coughs as it carries me hundreds upon hundreds of miles through the night. I’ll have to figure out how to sleep in a bedroom again.

I miss the frivolous banter and the familiar voices in the green room or on the other end of my in-ears. I miss the way the backstage rooms shudder and shake and things rattle and move while Jackson is EQing bass tracks in the house. I miss not knowing where we are or where we’re going or where the next show is, but loving the ride because in so many ways, life is about the journey and not the destination. I miss the new faces and the energy in the audience and the spirit in the room so thick you could cut it with a knife. I miss the sparkle and shimmer and the dull roar of the opening band playing downstairs and the thunderous applause after each song. I miss the butterflies, the dull ache of nervousness before the intro. I miss the camaraderie and the companionship and the mutual support, the jokes, the chatter and the lightheartedness. I miss knowing there’s a job to be done and taking it seriously, viewing the appointed task as something you get to do rather than something you have to do.

Life on the road is a whirlwind, a wild roller coaster with all kinds of unexpected twists and turns and tunnels and sudden drops, but it’s such a magical, extraordinary thing to experience that, given the chance, I wouldn’t choose anything else.

Endless love and thanks to my incredible band and crew for the past six months of memories I will cherish forever. I’d be nowhere without them.

And infinite acknowledgment and appreciation to each individual person who bought a ticket, came to a show, fought traffic to find the venue, listened to me sing for 95 minutes, applauded before the encore, bought a record, handed me a letter, brought cookies for the crew, waited outside the bus, asked for photos, and a million other gracious acts that made my heart melt over the past six months around the globe.

Silent gratitude is no use to anyone so I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Two years ago, if you told me, “Adam, you can quit your lackluster job, you can stop going to school for nothing and focus 100% of your time and energy on your true passion in life, you can drop everything and start writing songs, recording albums, playing shows, making friends, and ultimately devote yourself to the ONE thing in this world you’ve ever been good at…”

I would’ve never believed you, but here I am, and I don’t deserve an ounce of the grace I’ve been given.

And so for giving an undeserving shy boy from nowhere a shot at reaching out and taking hold of the dream he never thought was reachable, I thank you. Thank you with every fiber of my being.

Glory to God.

It feels good to be home.

“Now may God himself, the God of peace, make you pure, belonging only to him. May your whole self — spirit, soul, and body — be kept safe and without fault when our Lord Jesus Christ comes.”

1 Thessalonians 5:23 (NCV)

Brb forever.

Inspired by the majesty of a tropical island, this particular cruise yacht boasts an endless assortment of lavish luxuries. Cabana beach huts, a deck swimming pool fed by a waterfall and a river spanning the length of the ship, and even an entire volcano. It comes packed with VIP rooms, an arcade, a gym, lounges, spas, and even a helipad.

At the stern is a retractable beach deck which allows easy access to the sea itself, and of course, all sorts of other water activities such as fishing, sunbathing, wake boarding and jet-skiing. The whole concept is pure genius and the result looks even better.

www.yachtislanddesign.com

As the result of spending countless hours slouched in uncomfortable chairs at 35,000 feet over the better half of Eastern Asia, I am 319 pages into book one of The Inheritance Cycle and it’s blowing my mind. I have yet to see the film of the same name (partially because a few of my friends have suggested I steer clear of it) so I know virtually nothing about the book, the series, or the author, I just started reading. I enjoy stories that are easy to lose myself in and this one does the job nicely. I’m totally into it.

Of course there are a slew of obvious comparisons to be drawn between Eragon and The Lord of the Rings, but I’ll be the first to admit that any epic fantasy of my own (written as a fifteen-year-old high school grad) would inevitably bear TONS of comparisons to other renown literary works in the same vein, especially given I’m an admirer of the genre. This is not criticism but merely the positive pointing out of similarities. Nothing but props to Christopher Paolini. The story is a flowery masterpiece of prose, plot and composition and I find myself wishing I too had the tremendous talent and resolve required to craft such a complex work of art. The guy is a genius.

Action, legend, adventure, mystery, revenge, danger, suspense, heist, peril, uncertainty, folklore, mythology — all savory toppings I prefer on a masterfully constructed literary sandwich of epic proportions.

I’ve acquired a taste for epic fantasy and Eragon, by all means, is hitting the spot.

One of my favorite stories in the world is a short chapter taken from Austrian author Felix Salten’s incredible 1923 novel Bambi, a Life in the Woods. The story of the little deer itself is quite a bit darker and melancholy than the Disney movie, but if you find inspiration in anthropomorphic literature, I highly recommend it. The tale is pure, moral, sterling and virtuous — all things I find rare and unfamiliar among 95% of modern novels on today’s shelves.

Every year about the time the autumn leaves start falling, I dig Bambi out of my bookshelf because of a chapter concerning two introspective oak leaves entitled, Winter. It’s poignant and beautiful and I wilt and smile at the same time because Salten’s words benevolently remind me that life is fragile and even the smallest moments should be cherished dearly. I like how subjective and sobered I feel after reading the chapter. I can’t wait to read it to my son or daughter someday when he/she inquires about the subject of death (and even more excited to further explain that death isn’t the end for followers of Christ) but that’s another story.

Read the rest of this entry »

Hi. This is what I’m going to be doing for the next five weeks:

Minneapolis
Chicago
London
Hong Kong
Osaka
Nagoya
Tokyo
Seoul
Manila
Jakarta
Honolulu
Flagstaff
Oklahoma City
Omaha
Waukesha
St. Louis
Louisville
Cedarville
Allentown
Sayreville
Norfolk
Washington DC
Cleveland
Grand Rapids

So much flying.

My friend Anna let me borrow the first book of the Inheritance Cycle series by Christopher Paolini. Nothing like a solid high fantasy to get lost in while sitting in the sky. I’m excited to start reading. I’m excited to begin imagining.

See you soon.

Last June Mat Kearney handed me a small box someone had given him to give to me.

Inside was a large metal rivet.

My favorite place in the whole world is Canal Park in Duluth, Minnesota, and possibly my favorite thing in the whole world is the Duluth Aerial Lift Bridge perched on the harbor. The view of Sydney Harbor from inside the dentist’s office in Finding Nemo is a spitting image of Duluth, but perhaps a bit more “industrial” and a lot more Midwestern. Duluth is my safe haven, my sanctuary, if you can call it that. There’s a certain flower garden in the hills overlooking Duluth I might attempt to convince my future bride to marry me in (if she’s not into Howth, Ireland). But that’s another story.

What was this mysterious rivet? It didn’t dawn on me until I read the handwritten note included in the box.

A very sweet girl from Virginia somehow knew of my love for the bridge and actually took the time and energy to contact a local Duluth gift shop to purchase an ACTUAL rivet taken from the bridge during maintenance (the last one the shop had), and ultimately place it in my hands via the hands of Mat Kearney.

Totally amazing. I screamed like a girl.

She also included this:

I now own a piece of my favorite thing in the entire world. How many people can say that?! How am I supposed to talk about this without smiling from ear to ear? This is a big deal.

Dear Ashely from Alexandria, Virginia — thank you from the bottom of my heart for the rivet. I truly appreciate your thoughtfulness and am honored to be the recipient of such a treasure. You have the gift of encouragement.

Hugs,
Adam

I’m pages away from finishing a marvelous book by John Piper entitled, “Desiring God” and a few nights ago I stumbled across something tucked away in one of the book’s appendices that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.

First, a bit of preface.

Without delving too deep, Piper defines what he calls Christian Hedonism as the way by which “God is most glorified in us when we are most satisfied in Him,” furthering the idea that man’s chief end is to glorify God. He goes on to explain the following:

We all make a god out of what we take the most pleasure in. Christian Hedonists want to make God their God by seeking after the greatest pleasure — pleasure in him.

-John Piper

Beyond that, I’ll let you read the book for yourself and draw your own conclusions if you find yourself searching for deeper meaning. The subject of this blog entry is not about Christian Hedonism directly, but rather about a quote within “Desiring God” that I found ASTOUNDING and haven’t been able to get out of my mind since.

Piper writes:

In “The Simple Life”, Vernard Eller delights himself in some of the great parables of SØren Kierkegaard. One of his favorites is the parable of the lighted carriage and the starlit night. We could also call it the crisis of Christian Hedonism. It goes like this:

“When the prosperous man on a dark but starlit night drives comfortably in his carriage and has the lanterns lighted, aye, then he is safe, he fears no difficulty, he carries his light with him, and it is not dark close around him. But precisely because he has the lanterns lighted, and has a strong light close to him, precisely for this reason, he cannot see the stars. For his lights obscure the stars, which the poor peasant, driving without lights, can see gloriously in the dark but starry night. So those deceived ones live in the temporal existence: either, occupied with the necessities of life, they are too busy to avail themselves of the view, or in their prosperity and good days they have, as it were, lanterns lighted, and close about them everything is so satisfactory, so pleasant, so comfortable — but the view is lacking, the prospect, the view of the stars.”

This parable BLEW MY MIND. What a potent dose of perspective these words are! And furthermore, which man am I? Am I MISSING OUT completely on the beauty that lies around me because I choose to live in a temporal existence occupied with the pleasures/necessities of life versus an awareness and enjoyment of God?

Piper summarizes:

Eller comments, “Clearly, ‘the view of the stars’ here intends one’s awareness and enjoyment of God.” The rich and busy who surround themselves with the carriage lights of temporal comfort, or the busy who cover themselves with troublesome care, cut themselves off from what Kierkegaard calls “the absolute joy”:

What indescribable joy! — joy over God the Almighty… for this is the absolute joy, to adore the almighty power with which God the Almighty bears all thy care and sorrow as easily as nothing.

Wow.

If you really mull this over, it’ll have you tossing and turning in no time — and the more you think about it, the more profound it becomes.

I’m a thinker, not a talker. Mind pictures, exemplums and allegories hit home. This one was a grand slam.

I’m unbelievably excited about this.

Sometimes I imagine I’m going to walk into a hotel elevator and meet someone during the trip to the lobby who will end up playing a role in the rest of my life. It’s as though the encounter is seconds away from willing itself into existence at any given moment, and had I a digital countdown, I could lean against the wallpaper and let the elevator doors open and close while I watch the second hand tick its way down to my rendezvous with destiny. On one hand, I’d have all the vernacular ammunition I’d ever need for a straight shot of eloquence, but to somehow convince myself that such a sacred encounter happening this way would be “theoretically ideal,” that would be like training my voice to speak with a harsh accent that hurts my ears. It’s not about destiny at all because Darth Vader ISN’T MY REAL DAD!!!!!!!1!! The bleakness of such a habitually forgetful/inattentive disposition unnerves me but it’s also what keeps me remembering where I am and what I’m supposed to be doing.

So in a way, musings like these have purpose. Or at least challenges I can benefit from.

Twenty years from now I imagine I’m going to feel like I missed out on something profoundly heartfelt when I look back on this pivotal scenario and the way it played out. Even if I loosen my grip long enough to steal an introspective moment out on the balcony, somehow I believe I’ll catch myself thinking, “I wish I’d been more assertive!” instead of idly letting life play out scene-by-scene in front of me. Maybe that’s just preconcerted apathy but my brain tends to harbor some deep-rooted necessity to keep reminding me that this fateful meeting could happen at any moment (and of course it could) but more importantly, that I be ready and waiting in the wings to handle it the way I’ve already anticipated.

It’s annoying but I’m so glad it doesn’t work like this. The caveat is that there’s NOTHING to be ANTICIPATED, or rather, it’s not my job to worry about it.

Call it the common dwellings of reticent people but at the end of the day, it’s all smoke and mirrors. My mind is a house standing against a background of sheltering trees that cannot protect it from every whip of wind that bends quasi-romantic intellectual faculties into deviations of straight lines; rigid projections of backbones that show signs of curving or arcing over time.

But I don’t worry about it.

But more than this, I’m deeply comforted to know that no amount of absentminded woolgathering can reconstruct “the plan” into something that I must practice or rehearse for, even if I wanted to. It will be unplanned, unpremeditated, extempore, unconstrained, unforced, and the thought becomes more beautiful the more I think about it (or perhaps the more I try not to).

Above and beyond all of this, I take great joy and comfort in knowing my Savior has it all blueprinted and planned down to the tiniest detail, and that my job isn’t to blubber and worry about the design — but to hush. To be concerned with the principles of morality, servanthood, discipleship and character, and ultimately, to trust.

For what is faith without trust?

Of the hundreds of relationships you participate in throughout the course of your roller coaster life — associations of all kind: good/bad, joyful/sad, casual/serious, friendly/hostile, short/long, romantic/heartbreaking and everything in between, there’s always ONE relationship that harrows you like an old wound that refuses to heal. It haunts your mind, frequents your thoughts — maybe because you let it, maybe because you’re reluctant to fight a losing battle when your emotions are swinging like saloon doors on rusty hinges. You live, you breathe, you dream, you repeat — but such austere malady won’t go away and your heart and resolve commit to a constant tug of war, each pulling on one end of your instincts. So you might as well diagnose yourself a royal schizophrenic! Wrestling with your emotions over the dream of someone who still claims so much of your sentiment but is no longer there… well isn’t that lovely.

And so you sit and think.

But you CAN’T think about things like this so you distract yourself!

And it actually works.

Wow, I feel better already.

Goodbye now to the breakdown between thought, emotion and behavior. Farewell to faulty perception and inapt actions and feelings. Goodbye to withdrawal from reality and personal relationships into fantasy and delusion. Good riddance to an overwhelming sense of mental fragmentation!

Life is way too short to worry about the past, and I for one, don’t have time for anxiety.

If you need me, I’ll be in my fuzzy turtleneck with a bowl of cereal staring out the kitchen window. I like the way the rain sounds against these old bay windows.

If you buy this for me, I’ll put you on the guest list for life.

I’ll also marry you.

I was very blessed to be involved with two artists known as He Is We and their delicate new single entitled, “All About Us.” The song radiates a flavor of bliss I’ve never quite tasted before and it’s one of those tracks you keep playing over and over because you want more of whatever it is that connects the emotional dots. You play it once and it feels good, so you play it again, and before you realize it, your iTunes count is over thirty but you’re still going strong. The word endearing keeps popping into my head. One line predicts, “every heart in the room will melt…” and if my heart is any indication, there will indeed be a lot of melting going on.

The song is absolutely beautiful. It’s soothing and quiet, romantic and molasses-sweet, but brave and confident, even shy and vulnerable — all at the same time. It’s a flowery patchwork of ear candy and I’m humbled to have been asked to leave my fingerprint on it. Big hugs and many thanks to Rachel Taylor and Trevor Kelly. May God use the song to whatever capacity He wills.

Check it out.

itunes.apple.com/us/album/all-about-us-feat.-owl-city

It was chilly outside but not the kind that increases with the darkness until you’re so cold that you forget who you’re with or where you’re walking. It was sweatshirt weather; the trick was to keep moving and as far as I was concerned, as long as there was sidewalk ahead, I could’ve kept walking forever. Given the chance, I probably would’ve, but I had a 6AM flight to catch the next morning and the night just didn’t seem long enough.

I spotted her perched on a sidewalk bench under a streetlight and away we strolled.

Melbourne was still a new place to me, bursting with so may intricacies and marvels that my wide eyes undoubtedly labeled me TOURIST to all observant bystanders. But I didn’t mind; the shy smile on my face gave me away. A steady current of city nightlife carried us down several traffic-choked veins before dumping us out onto a winding riverside footpath with front row seats to a shimmering skyline.

It was dazzling, one of those rare occasions in life you wish you could bottle up and refrigerate for later to relive its wonder. The Yarra River pulled fancy dining boats draped in twinkle lights downstream at a lazy pace as hushed laughter and the clinking of crystal spilled out from somewhere onboard. We sat by the water and drank in the evening. A few brave seagulls chose to spend their time on the sidewalk eyeing our ice cream versus hovering over the food court stealing trash or whatever it is they do. Everything in front of my eyes appeared 20% clearer, the night was deep, the world looked brighter than I’d remembered it a few hours before, the dull city ambience hummed clean and pure in my ears and I had to remind myself to keep breathing because it was all too breathtaking. There are moments in life when you find yourself wishing you were somewhere else (for whatever reason, good or bad), but on this night, there was nowhere else on the planet I would’ve rather been. It was flawless. So we kept walking.

Tall stone pillars lined our side of the river and burst big plumes of fire up into the sky on the hour. Over thirty feet away, I could feel the flames warm on my face and it felt good in the brisk night air. I’m a Minnesota boy and she was an Australian girl but we both felt the cold burn in our fingers so we moved on and continued walking. The ornate hotel fountain we found was glorious. How do they get water to jump across the room from one spot to another in perfect streams of green and blue? We explored a treelined avenue washed in soft lavender, a network of garden paths under a heavy scent of flowers — everything seemed to twinkle and sparkle in the low light and it was all so captivating.

I liked the way we both knew the same words but said them so differently. There’s something quite musical about Australian accents, I’ve always thought so.

We slowly made our way back across the bridge, back through the city the way we came, and suddenly we were back where we started, saying shy goodbyes although it felt like we’d only just said hello. And then just like that, she was gone.

In the elevator on the way back up to my room I remember taking a deep breath and thinking, “Wow… I’m never going to forget this night.”

Drowsy

Antisocial

Up Ship

Kookaburra Knockout

Gold Coast Swimmers

Emo

Whirligigging

COME AT ME BRO

Beachcomber

Mr. Roo

Legz

Tradition

Unimpressed

Sky City

Scott Stapp

Gandalf

SOON

Tamborine Mountain

My airplane neck pillow and I are fully prepared to start functioning. Excuse me while I listen to Norma Jean and The Chariot for the next fourteen hours in the sky.

I hope a furious kangaroo runs out onto the fairway while I’m playing nine holes of golf and challenges me to a fight of bare fists.

I’d own that silly little plant-eating marsupial like a boss.

We’ll be seeing ya!

The porpoise may well be our only hope. The octopus, by contrast, may well be our greatest enemy.

It is critical to distinguish between these two — one savior, the other archnemesis; one shining day, the other blackest night; one yang, the other yin, except in this case there’s no yang in the yin and no yin in the yang. But anyways.

It’s a well-known fact that an octopus can camouflage itself so that it looks like rocks or other underwater features of submarine landscape. The secret behind their color capability is a special skin cell called a chromatophore. Each chromatophore consists of three bags of pigment and by squeezing or expanding these bags, octopuses can change the color displayed by each cell, allowing millions of subtle combinations. Sneaky little menaces.

So if you thought they are always the same color then you obviously don’t know the first thing about octopuses.

How would you sum up an octopus in three words?
Vicious, vicious killers.

How about nine words?
Vicious, vicious killers who know exactly what they’re doing.

Can’t legal means be brought to bear?
Unfortunately, no. Octopuses, as they well know, are technically outside the reach of our laws and judicial systems.

What can I do?
It’s natural, after learning about what octopuses are really all about, to want to help in the effort to defend against them, but I’m afraid that it may already be too late. Despite this, there are some things we can do, and the valiant power of the human spirit (and the American Spirit!) are things that give us hope even in these times of woe. Here are some ideas, drawn from the playbook of real-life:

01. Spread the word.

02. Put up signs in your neighborhood explaining what’s wrong and how we’ve been misled by our own government (it’s not unpatriotic to criticize the government — what’s unpatriotic is not to care). Here are some slogans you can use for signs:

“The octopus is upon us!”

“Don’t leave your baby with an octopus.” (because it might eat the baby)

03. Be on the lookout for an octopus coming to get you — and if it comes to get you, give it “a little grief.”

07. Again, use common sense. Would you leave your son or daughter with a known killer? No? Then why would you leave him/her with a known octopus?!

I think it’s obvious by now that the Octopus Question has no solution, only more questions. But it’s still the case that octopuses are as dangerous as terrorists in most U.S. cities, and in many, twice as dangerous (twice as many limbs to use for evil purposes). But somehow, even though the information is right in front of us, most of our countrymen prefer to snuggle with their wives and kids and thus ignore the ominous threat that looms before us as though it wasn’t even there at all. Classic.

Ignorance may be bliss but it is also a grave problem because knowledge is power, and with power comes responsibility. Responsibility to act. Responsibility to fight with courage and valor. Responsibility to fellow man. An octopus has eight tentacles and knows it how to use them. So, too, must we know how to use the tools that God has given us: our friendships and relationships; our brains and skills; our ability to create technologies that will stand the test of time. This fight will not be easy, nor will it be waged on the cheap. But it must be fought, and, indeed, won. The Octopus is not the Hydra: cut off its head and two more will not appear. It is merely a question of whether we can marshal our resources and act with sufficient speed. It’s true, we are down — but not out.

Are we our brother’s keeper? Only time will tell.

I have a thing about bug zappers because they forever changed the sound of sweet summer evenings filled with frog choruses and cricket refrains to sudden insect electric death. Ironically “glockenspiel” is way more fun to say than to play.

And it was all… just a dream…

She was trying to teach me how to dance and it was really awkward but I didn’t care because she was beautiful and exquisite and endearing and I was so in love with her, I didn’t care about being embarrassed. The walls were painted pitch black, the lights were low and there wasn’t any music playing but there were throngs of people everywhere and a man with a beard kept asking me a lot of questions. He reminded me of Gandalf the Grey and I smiled inwardly because I’m a dork. I sang and played my heart out that night and I just couldn’t contain the sparkling cocktail of wide smiles and bright eyes that poured out of me because things felt so right and pure in that definitive moment.

She surprised me. She was waiting for me. She threw her arms around my neck and I held her close and felt her giggle with happiness, the kind of joy you can’t hold back no matter how hard you try. But why would anyone try?

The street bikes and motorcycles were a bit much but that didn’t really bother me. It was the right place for them, actually, the right kind of setting so I guess that made me sort of the oddball. I remember people yelling at each other over airwaves and cell phones and it was pretty intense for a moment, but you know me, I just tried to stay out of the way. I’ve never liked confrontation. I remember she had a pretty summer dress on and a flower in her hair and I remember the way her perfume made my insides freeze and spiderweb crack like dry ice before bursting into a million tiny crystal shards that clawed the rungs of my ribs and burned butterfly prints on the inside of my chest. I loved her and I couldn’t wait to see her because it had been so long since I’d held her in my arms. She was the last thing I expected to happen to me, but there she was and it made me believe that pure and sudden bliss was not a rare anomaly. Moving on is simple, it’s what you leave behind that makes things difficult.

Then the lights clicked off as the last box was loaded into the truck and I said a handful of warm goodbyes to people I’d never met before. A nice pair of parents were there with a car and I remember driving home, exhausted, drained, dog-tired, but quite content and exhilarated. It was dark outside and the hum of interior cab noise made me sleepy as the moon followed outside my window. I remember holding hands with her in the dark.

Now there’s something sharp in my wrist and I think it’s the same thing inside my mouth. There’s a sharp coiled cable running from the light to the wall and a soft place to put things nearby but I never really use it. I’m always afraid I’m going to forget something important when it’s time to leave, and there are few things worse than realizing you’ve lost something for good, whatever it may be. I’ve never been fond of leaving, except for perhaps leaving bittersweet the warehouse after a long day or the dentist’s chair after a tortuous hour. Those kinds of departures are enjoyable and I always tend to drive faster and sing louder post-appointment, but I feel like there are many kinds of “leaving” and most of them tend to be tiresome.

Sometimes I purposefully forget to turn the lights out when I leave so that when I return home, it feels like someone is expecting me. Sometimes it’s nice to feel expected, the same as it’s nice to feel unreachable from time to time. We always talked about doing so many things, going so many places, seeing and feeling and tasting so many flavors of emotion and scenario, some of them we did in fact experience, others we just never got around to. It feels distant and hazy and pretty miserable at times, but all the more reason to cling tight to what is true and real and sustaining. Missing someone is like a bad dream you can’t wake yourself up from.

But the glass shatters in a cool way and I love imagining what it would be like to repel off the side of skyscrapers in Hong Kong or fight crime in Gotham City or spend all my weekends as two different people. Laura is buying clothes somewhere in LA right now and I need to figure out how to enjoy the atmosphere because it would be silly to wake up anxious. There are so many places to hide out here, so many pieces of driftwood and bits of palm trees that cleverly conceal the most beautiful fish. It’s easy to think they might go largely unnoticed but I’m sure this is not the case. I just do my own thing and try not to bother anybody.

It’s funny how time can manipulate and stretch itself like a contortionist. I feel like yesterday was this afternoon. Now I’m lying on a deep royal purple and there are eyes everywhere but it’s a thrilling feeling. Meetings float like battleships on the near horizon and I have to take sleeping pills at night or else I’ll miss everything. I like these quiet secret moments unless of course I must fly somewhere or wake up early. I took the tour and it seemed like a lovely place, full of good people and great ideas but I always catch myself thinking about what lies just beneath the surface. Sometimes I prefer not to know.

Wow.

A billion emotions are buzzing in and around my mind like a psychiatric beehive institution, a crawling traffic jam of bedlam and chaos. Except these thoughts aren’t cute fuzzy little bumblebees with wooly mittens and happy faces, these are awkward, disoriented hornets that aren’t sure where to go or how to get there. It’s an unsettling feeling and sometimes I’m just a lightheaded worker bee who can’t find a place to land. Everything is spinning and my heart beats twice as fast as it should, making tonight an emotional triathlon of which I’m underprepared and totally undertrained for. I’m not entirely sure what’s happening and I don’t believe I could stop this race if I wanted to. My two-stroke heart is pumping double-time and I’m running faster than my legs can carry me, but the scary thing is that I’m not sure where the finish line lies, or if I’m even pointed in the right direction.

The color grey was charming and the blue was intoxicating but I didn’t care; both were so unbelievably gorgeous, I just sat there stunned, staggered, debilitated.

What do I do? Where do we go from here? Everything is split down the middle and I need more wisdom than I thought.

It was a sweatshirt-weather kind of night in California and I remember the way those big green and blue letters stood out like bright neon monoliths in the deepening midnight. She had a red convertible waiting for us in the parking lot and the top was down… actually I don’t think the top even worked at all because I remember us talking and laughing about what we would do if it started raining on us. It was the most natural thing in the world, yet I might be a liar if you asked me now. I remember the stars were quiet and faint because of the layer cake of light pollution above us but still, everything about that night was stunning, by every and all definitions of the word. I could feel the glow of the dash on my face, the flutter of the music in my ears and the swift whip of the sea air in my hair. We put our hands up to see how long we could hold them out before they became ice cubes and I loved feeling wind-tossed because it felt like horizontal sky diving. We raced along the coast in the darkness and wound up on a secret beach somewhere with apple cider and a blanket. I still can’t believe what happened was real because everything about that night was too eloquent for words. I don’t recall speaking or listening, I just remember feeling, processing, sensing, experiencing, living deeply, breathing it all in.

How I wish I could return to that night sometimes. Just for fun, just for a few minutes, just now and again.

Still, that scarf had a charm of its own and that makes me feel a bit better about things.

Surreal.

How can I trek through the Arkansas countryside on horseback alone if I don’t have any company? I mean I love the pinewoods and the rolling hills and the great open prairies, but how am I ever going to fall asleep at night? Or wake up in the morning for that matter? Rooster’s got an eye patch that looks like a square of stove pipe and I wonder what’s behind it. There’s an abandoned treehouse down by the river and there’s not much left of it now except for a few rotten boards propped up in the crotch of two old limbs, but it was once a palace and I often think about what life would’ve been like had I seen its glory days. What would I have turned out like? The cattails are taller than they used to be and the old gravel road ends abruptly at the lake. It’s an interesting thought but I’m too tired and dizzy to think about it now. There’s a crow on the fence in the bean field and it’s watching me move from the corner of its eye. It made me cry when Violet got carried away but that was before Cowslip showed up and the field was suddenly covered with blood.

I always wonder who worked these fields and how many beautiful stories were left untold and thus forgotten in the void of time. It’s rather a world within the world, untouched it seems, by the handprint of fashion and popularity, but honestly, I prefer things that way. I crave for the countryside, unspoiled, uncontaminated by consumerism and tourism and humanity in general. There’s a raw innocent purity amongst the trees, I can feel it. Not like the big city — dirty and noisy and full of vile immorality. Should I have more time on my hands these days, I might settle down by the sea someday. I’d crank out the bedroom window, heavy on its old hinges, and let the soothing sound of water against the sandy banks lull me to sleep. Somehow I imagine falling asleep wouldn’t be as tough, and for an insomniac, that’s a delightful notion. Better still, in a boat. Not a fancy yacht or a cruiser, just an old fishing boat or something to explore sand bars and tiny island chains with. My collection of sand dollars could always use another addition and during such afternoon excursions that slowly burn into dusk and then midnight, I might bring a fuzzy blanket along and settle down onto the floorboards between the seats and get a good glimpse of the starry sky. In goes the anchor and it’s suddenly magical. I could spend forever out here, alive, alone, content and happy.

But that’s a fantasy more or less. Right now there’s a closet full of people staring at me, watching me type out letters that form words which read off a screen they cannot see from where they are. I wonder if they know I’m talking about them. They are the ghosts that lived here long before any of us chose to call it home. I don’t want to look in their direction but the more I try to appear casual, the more I’ll bet they can tell I’m pretending. They’re not scary or eerie or alarming, they’re just sad. I want to help them.

Sometimes I get sad after I watch something melancholy and it’s strange how that emotion doesn’t leave you immediately the way laughter or some other intake of information tends to do. Sadness stays with you like a predator shark locked on a sunfish. It’s hard to shake it and sometimes it seems the more you attempt to avoid it, hide from it, you might successfully call off the chase for a bit but then the second you see something or hear something or whatever, you’re RIGHT BACK AT IT AGAIN. So annoying.

There’s a little country pond across the gravel road and Dad used to tell me snapping turtles lived at the bottom. He said he caught one the size of a trash can lid once and I believe him. I think about that place all the time, whenever I wanna disappear from RIGHT NOW and escape to somewhere peaceful and quiet — somewhere away from the things of man. I dislike big cities because I detest feeling like a helpless consumer who can’t do anything himself. You have to pay to go anywhere or do anything and that gets old really fast to me. No independence, too many people, so much noise, so much sad corruption. Above all else I crave for innocence and purity and even though it’s rarely around, it’s indeed right in front of my eyes and the trick is to see it. So what am I waiting for? It’s time to stop waiting. Because loving the world is the same as hating God. The equation is obvious. It’s time to change.

It’s the same way for my living room. I’m not sure if I should even be writing about it here and now, because of the reminders my mind will associate with that room… bittersweet, but more bitter than sweet. Let’s call it what it is.

I can feel the tubes burning, glowing orange in their rows. It’s louder in here but it’s a good loud, the kind you can feel in your chest, the kind that moves emotion, kindles imagination and maybe even pricks a stinging trickle of joyful tears. The rails on all sides make this square feel like the Giant Tortoise yard at Reptile Gardens in Rapid City, South Dakota but it’s not the kind of place you should feel uncomfortable about, it just is what it is. The hard work is done and there’s something about the Black Hills that soothes the mind. Dinosaur Park perched over the skyline. I just like thinking about it.

And so men and women sit on slouched couches pressed against every wall in the room and the ceiling lights are never that good but that doesn’t matter because we’re merely visitors and don’t intend to stay until shortly after dark. My voice always seems to split down the middle like a hairline fracture and I remember hearing a pretty girl whisper in my ear, “Aw, listen to your tired little voice!”, but that was a long time ago and I’d rather forget it. Friends enter and leave the room all the time but that’s what I like about it, it’s bustling with life but it’s busy in a good way. I’ve never been into parties or receptions or functions or ANY social affairs AT ALL for that matter, but there’s something different about these hot summer nights. There’s a kind of camaraderie, a mutual trust among people who spend a lot of time together — and I’ve grown fond of that because it feels right and good and pure and honest. Unlike a strange wedding reception I obviously don’t belong at, I feel like I’m supposed to be here, and that’s a comforting thing.

Curtains are closing by themselves now. Lights are switching off, tires are singing their nightly songs and my eyelids are filled to the brim with liquid iron. I met a lot of nice people tonight and it was lovely because this was my first time in the mountains and I wasn’t under the weather. Gone now are the sad sounds of the disappointed city, so full of unhappy people, the watchman’s wristwatch, the tired taxi crawl, the sirens that make me wince with their sharp echoes that never seem to land. Here now are the sounds of slumber and stillness and comfort and whimsy and dreams and dust and reverie.

I could never in my wildest dreams have imagined the summer weather in New York. A pretty girl in a white dress told me she thought I was cute and I blushed all the way home.

Twelve years ago my parents gave me a Bible for Christmas and over the course of the past decade, wherever I’ve gone, it’s gone with me. The tattered pages are dog-eared and a latticework of highlighter and handwriting cover most of the book itself, a tangled network of discoveries, convictions, confessions, thoughts and questions.

It’s a devotional Bible with bits and pieces of insight written by Max Lucado before and after each chapter. A few nights ago I was snuggled into my bunk on the tour bus about to begin the book of 2 John when Lucado’s well-worded preface sparked a new flicker of perspective like a kitchen match in a dark room.

Here’s what he wrote:

The single most difficult pursuit is truth and love.

Truth and love. Love and truth. Never one without the other. To pursue both is our singular task.

A compelling notion but one I’ve never thought too deeply about until now; the idea that truth and love must walk hand-in-hand. Everyone strives to love by all capacities the word includes, and naturally that’s an beautifully admirable thing to pursue, BUT how powerless is love without TRUTH? Applicable to my own life: how often do I worry about living a pure life of love if/when I’m not living the way God has commanded me as a follower of Christ? By all means, I am guilty.

So often I’ve heard quoted something cliche and melodramatic like, “all you need is love” in response to so many of life’s toughest questions and hardest struggles, but sometimes it’s easy to lose focus of that truth-shaped hole, that essential missing puzzle piece that’s required in order to glimpse the bigger picture which demands both love and truth, the latter being life lived as God has commanded.

I spent the night tossing over it and it seems all roads lead to one conclusion. Ultimately, my prayer is that Jesus continue His ever-present work in my heart, change me from the inside out, unearth and kill off those roots of sin, doubt and immorality so that I may better reflect Christ, so that I may better serve Him, so that I may better understand and live the life of love He’s called me to live via truth.

I’m so excited about this.

To Him be glory, greatness and power.

“I ask you that we all love each other. And love means living the way God commanded us to live. As you have heard form the beginning, God’s command is this: Live a life of love.”

2 John 5-6

I’ll bet a sleepy girl somewhere in the world closed her eyes last night and suddenly found herself twirling.

Twirling hand-in-hand, ballroom dancing with the love of her life. Instead of the old tank top and sweatpants she’d put on before bed, she gasped to find herself draped in the most elegant, exquisite evening gown she’d ever laid eyes upon. With a humble inward smile, she secretly felt like the most beautiful girl in the room… and believe me, it’s because she was.

She was slightly hesitant at first because everything felt a bit fuzzy and she wasn’t exactly sure who this mysterious admirer was dancing opposite her, but it was both unmistakable and innately obvious that this handsome boy in his striking tuxedo was the ONE. She couldn’t explain it but deep down she KNEW she was dancing with the man of her dreams. He smiled down at her and her knees instantly went weak as a myriad of butterflies threatened to explode from her chest. She couldn’t explain what was happening, she could only feel it. The atmosphere was glistening and the moment was so enchanting, she didn’t even try not to blush.

There was something delightfully familiar about this moonlighter’s duet, this prince and princess swirling and swaying in time with the orchestra. The place was packed and the spiraling motions coated her peripheral vision in a vivid blur of brilliant light and color, but she only had eyes for her boy, and she couldn’t bring herself to unlock her gaze from his. They waltzed and whirled for hours it seemed until she observed a roguish grin sweep across his face before he winked and swept her through an empty doorway and out into the night air. What a stud. She found herself on an open courtyard balcony overlooking a lush green countryside which stretched out for miles in all directions. This was definitely NOT the city she fell asleep in. This was a palace, an old stone castle built right into the rocky bluffs and craggy cliffs of the Alpine Mountains. She could barely catch her breath. What was happening? Was she in a fairytale?

Twilight approached swiftly as the stars beat down on the old stone veranda and formed pools of light that seemed to shimmer and ripple like tiny oceans. The mysterious boy took her by the hand and led her down a secret staircase that steered them down into the deep evergreen darkness below. The forest reached out to embrace the duo as as a nightly procession of crickets and tree frogs struck up a gentle chorus and serenaded the two lovers deeper into the enchanting arboreal realm. Only the sharpest of eyes peering down from the balcony above could glimpse their silent silhouettes steal through the flower garden, skirt past the goldfish pond, and then disappear into a heavy thicket of blue spruce and white pine.

The eventide deepened and yet she couldn’t brush aside whatever uncanny familiarity this dark, handsome stranger seemed to embody. What was it about this mystery boy? Had she known him before? There was something about his eyes… something enigmatic but beautiful. Was he a stranger from a distant dream? Was he a long-since forgotten acquaintance she’d met long ago? A giddy pang of adrenaline pulsed through her veins. This was beyond words. She marveled silently as they crept through the shadows like thieves, tunneling under the heavy evening hush that hung suspended above the treetops. Her pulse pounded like rising thunder and her eyes grew wide. Suddenly a strange sensation cascaded over her. She felt as though she were made for this moment. This dashing boy, this sense of romance and wonder all around her, this dreamlike reality. She squeezed the boy’s hand and felt him squeeze back.

She’d never felt so alive.

They pressed on into the thick undergrowth until at last the forest seemed to step aside and there in the center of a small clearing, they beheld the yawning mouth of a crystal cavern. The sudden sight struck her with goosebumps but not the kind you get when something frightens you… for this was real, genuine exhilaration. Her cheeks flushed with excitement. The jagged halo of rocks protruding from the hillside reminded her of a skeletal shark mouth, something you’d find in a museum or a high school science room. What was in this cavern? What was it doing here? How deep did it plunge? Where did it lead?

Suddenly the boy turned and smiled at her as if to say “shall we?” before motioning to the cave. Before she could answer, he leaned down and kissed her and in that instant, everything slowed down and she felt as though she could hear the stars overhead flicker and pop with supercharged electricity. The cloudy overcast pulled back and an endless celestial sky opened up above them. The world seemed to burst with energy and light. Still too surprised to utter a word, the tall handsome boy again took her by the hand in the darkness and whispered five words into her ear:

This is not a dream.

A then, hand-in-hand, they stepped into the black unknown, ready for anything. The ground heaved and gave way as the mighty sound of rushing wings split the silence like thunder and suddenly they were falling. She felt as though she’d stepped into another world in which gravity had no grip over her. The forest above, the castle in the bluffs, and the deep green countryside all seemed to uproot and plunge into the blackness after them as the great shark’s mouth swallowed them whole. She felt like screaming but not from panic or foreboding, rather a joyful giddy shout of pure bliss. Everything was beautiful and she was perfectly happy in this frozen moment, lost in an unknown world where above all else, she felt what it was like to experience total and overwhelming joy. She closed her eyes and tasted the moment. So this was what falling in love felt like.

When she opened her eyes again, she found herself back at home in her bedroom, everything exactly as she’d left it except for the wide smile on her face and the racing of her heartbeat.

I recently stumbled across a blog written by Carl King about the phenomenon known as the introverted human being and it struck a major chord with me. After each bullet, I felt like standing up and shouting “YESSSSSSSSS!” at the top of my lungs because these points (made by author Marti Laney, Psy.D) are total home runs. As an extreme introvert, this is like sweet manna from heaven.

I was lucky enough to discover a book called, The Introvert Advantage (How To Thrive in an Extrovert World), by Marti Laney, Psy.D. I feel like someone has written an encyclopedia entry on a rare race of people to which I belong. Not only has it explained many of my eccentricities, it helps me to redefine my entire life in a new and positive context.

Sure, anyone who knows me would say, “Duh! Why did it take you so long to realize you’re an Introvert?” It’s not that simple. The problem is that labeling someone as an Introvert is a very shallow assessment, full of common misconceptions. It’s more complex than that. (Since Carl King is talking about it, it has to be.)

A section of Laney’s book maps out the human brain and explains how neuro-transmitters follow different dominant paths in the nervous systems of Introverts and Extroverts. If the science behind the book is correct, it turns out that Introverts are people who are over-sensitive to Dopamine, so too much external stimulation overdoses and exhausts them. Conversely, Extroverts can’t get enough Dopamine, and they require Adrenaline for their brains to create it. Extroverts also have a shorter pathway and less blood-flow to the brain. The messages of an Extrovert’s nervous system mostly bypass the Broca’s area in the frontal lobe, which is where a large portion of contemplation takes place.

Unfortunately, according to the book, only about 25% of people are Introverts. There are even fewer that are as extreme as I am. This leads to a lot of misunderstandings, since society doesn’t have very much experience with my people. (I love being able to say that.)

So here are a few common misconceptions about Introverts (I put this list together myself, some of them are things I actually believed):

Myth #1 – Introverts don’t like to talk.

This is not true. Introverts just don’t talk unless they have something to say. They hate small talk. Get an introvert talking about something they are interested in, and they won’t shut up for days.

Myth #2 – Introverts are shy.

Shyness has nothing to do with being an Introvert. Introverts are not necessarily afraid of people. What they need is a reason to interact. They don’t interact for the sake of interacting. If you want to talk to an Introvert, just start talking. Don’t worry about being polite.

Myth #3 – Introverts are rude.

Introverts often don’t see a reason for beating around the bush with social pleasantries. They want everyone to just be real and honest. Unfortunately, this is not acceptable in most settings, so Introverts can feel a lot of pressure to fit in, which they find exhausting.

Myth #4 – Introverts don’t like people.

On the contrary, Introverts intensely value the few friends they have. They can count their close friends on one hand. If you are lucky enough for an introvert to consider you a friend, you probably have a loyal ally for life. Once you have earned their respect as being a person of substance, you’re in.

Myth #5 – Introverts don’t like to go out in public.

Nonsense. Introverts just don’t like to go out in public FOR AS LONG. They also like to avoid the complications that are involved in public activities. They take in data and experiences very quickly, and as a result, don’t need to be there for long to “get it.” They’re ready to go home, recharge, and process it all. In fact, recharging is absolutely crucial for Introverts.

Myth #6 – Introverts always want to be alone.

Introverts are perfectly comfortable with their own thoughts. They think a lot. They daydream. They like to have problems to work on, puzzles to solve. But they can also get incredibly lonely if they don’t have anyone to share their discoveries with. They crave an authentic and sincere connection with ONE PERSON at a time.

Myth #7 – Introverts are weird.

Introverts are often individualists. They don’t follow the crowd. They’d prefer to be valued for their novel ways of living. They think for themselves and because of that, they often challenge the norm. They don’t make most decisions based on what is popular or trendy.

Myth #8 – Introverts are aloof nerds.

Introverts are people who primarily look inward, paying close attention to their thoughts and emotions. It’s not that they are incapable of paying attention to what is going on around them, it’s just that their inner world is much more stimulating and rewarding to them.

Myth #9 – Introverts don’t know how to relax and have fun.

Introverts typically relax at home or in nature, not in busy public places. Introverts are not thrill seekers and adrenaline junkies. If there is too much talking and noise going on, they shut down. Their brains are too sensitive to the neurotransmitter called Dopamine. Introverts and Extroverts have different dominant neuro-pathways. Just look it up.

Myth #10 – Introverts can fix themselves and become Extroverts.

A world without Introverts would be a world with few scientists, musicians, artists, poets, filmmakers, doctors, mathematicians, writers, and philosophers. That being said, there are still plenty of techniques an Extrovert can learn in order to interact with Introverts. (Yes, I reversed these two terms on purpose to show you how biased our society is.) Introverts cannot “fix themselves” and deserve respect for their natural temperament and contributions to the human race. In fact, one study (Silverman, 1986) showed that the percentage of Introverts increases with IQ.

It can be terribly destructive for an Introvert to deny themselves in order to get along in an Extrovert-Dominant World. Like other minorities, Introverts can end up hating themselves and others because of the differences. If you think you are an Introvert, I recommend you research the topic and seek out other Introverts to compare notes. The burden is not entirely on Introverts to try and become “normal.” Extroverts need to recognize and respect us, and we also need to respect ourselves.

-Carl

Right now I’m tucked snugly into my bunk on the tour bus as a sleepy chorus of tires on blacktop sweetly serenades me through the night. My eyelids are growing heavy. Our fearless driver is at the helm, a great courageous captain of the moonlit open road. It’s 2:34 AM and we’re skirting the east coast, stealing through the night, trekking from Baltimore to Montreal. A rich scent of evergreen hangs heavy in the air as our landlocked cruise ship pitches and reels over wave after wave of rolling coniferous hilltops.

A dear fan gave me a beautiful letter after my show a few nights ago and she wrote a verse on the inside cover.

Whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him. (Colossians 3:17)

I’m sure I must’ve read this verse fifty times before, but tonight it struck me in a new way. I spend so much time DOING… in whatever capacity the definition of the word DO includes. I, as a mortal human being, would go nuts if I wasn’t always DOING whatever it is I DO… and of course not all of it is BAD per se, because all of it just IS and sometimes I don’t pay any attention to it. I wake up, I do stuff, I fall sleep, I repeat. The conviction here is the fact that I so often forget to do whatever it is I do… in the name of the Lord Jesus, not because I’m willfully trying to be a greedy little monster (despite the classic nature of the flesh) but because sometimes it just doesn’t cross my mind. I stood onstage the other night during the encore and felt the Lord suddenly say, “You don’t have to be afraid to trust me. I’ve got you.” Everything in me wanted to cry out and say, “Yes, but I’m such a helpless sinner! What good can I do?!” Later that night I found myself reading 2 Peter chapter 3, and there was my answer… the fact that my wonderful Savior is ALIVE, and He is going to return for His own. Despite my many flaws, despite my endless list of weaknesses, Christ is so much BIGGER than all of that… my prayer is only that He grant me the strength required to finish this race, to fight the good fight, to remain steadfast, to further the Kingdom, and to grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ… for it is painfully obvious that without Him, I am absolutely nothing. I deeply desire more than anything to make Him proud, that by my life or death, His name may be glorified.

Sometimes the good fight feels impossible, but I for one, am NOT giving up.

Jesus Will Come Again

My friends, this is the second letter I have written you to help your honest minds remember. I want you to think about the words the holy prophets spoke in the past, and remember the command our Lord and Savior gave us through your apostles. It is most important for you to understand what will happen in the last days. People will laugh at you. They will live doing the evil things they want to do. They will say, “Jesus promised to come again. Where is he? Our fathers have died, but the world continues the way it has been since it was made.” But they do not want to remember what happened long ago. By the word of God heaven was made, and the earth was made from water and with water. Then the world was flooded and destroyed with water. And that same word of God is keeping heaven and earth that we now have in order to be destroyed by fire. They are being kept for the Judgment Day and the destruction of all who are against God.

2 Peter 3

Hi.

As a very humbled artist who can’t even believe this is real life (let alone reality), right now is an exciting moment for me because my brand new audio recording entitled,“All Things Bright and Beautiful” comes out TOMORROW.

I always forget how much work it takes to make a record, and for one guy alone in a basement, it unfailingly takes forever. But despite the blood, sweat and tears, the art of making an album never quite feels like “work” for a grateful artist who remains unbelievably thankful for the job he’s been given.

It’s an exciting emotion when the final mixed/mastered collection of songs goes out the door and there’s always a giddy pang of anticipation mixed with adrenaline that pulses in time with the ticking countdown to release day. For me, that day is TOMORROW and I just want to go on record and personally thank you for sticking with me for so long. I am filled with more gratitude than my fingers can type into words for you to read on a computer screen. I am blessed beyond imagination and I really truly treasure your willingness to listen.

So what I’m saying is thank you!

I appreciate you. I really do.

Adam

I live alone in a big house on a cozy street in a small town. It’s quiet and quaint but that’s the way I prefer it. Sometimes I pace back and forth at 2 AM and try not to think about things.

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Sometimes my computer beats me at chess but it’s no match for me at kick boxing. The same goes for my long lost brother Lionel and his Nintendo 64 whenever he plays FIFA ’98.

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I saw the autumn leaves peel up off the street, take wing on the balmy breeze and sweep you off your feet. You blushed as they scooped you up on sugar maple wings, to gaze down on the city below, ablaze with wondrous things.

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You cringe at each creak on the old warped stairs but that doesn’t sway your determination to reach the second floor. Your gaze is fixed on the top rotten step as you endure the climb. The walls watch. Things crawl under your skin.

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Always hilarious.

Got myself some new studio gear.

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My buddy John is the owner of a notorious domesticated carnivorous mammal with a renowned neighborhood reputation. His name is Deuteronomy but everyone calls him “Dude” for short. Most new acquaintances take one horrified look at Dude before taking a few steps back and muttering, “Ugh, are you serious…”

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Due to a series of extremely unfortunate events, I underwent a surgery several days ago that will render me hors de combat for the next six weeks. I spent the first day out of the hospital lying on the couch watching Jacques Cousteau documentaries and writing on my laptop, drifting in and out of dizzy states of consciousness as the morphine weakened and slowly wore off. No thanks to an incredible amount of pain and a vertiginous mix of Vicodin and Ambien, I typed furiously away all night and cooked up an incredibly bizarre batch of words of which I have no recollection of actually writing. Read the rest of this entry »

I spent the last five days in southeastern California shooting at the Salton Sea and the surrounding area. It’s a fascinating place with an eerily beautiful atmosphere.

I took a lot of photos:

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I’ve never really been the type of guy to plan everything in advance because I usually opt to take things a day at a time. Be that as it may, things have suddenly changed:

For currently I plan to tour unceasingly, as though it’s literally going out of business, between the forthcoming months of June and January, respectively.

I am astronomically excited about this.

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Last week I said goodbye to someone I care about.

It wasn’t “goodbye forever” per se, but that didn’t matter because this was the sort of goodbye that produces dull, persistent, throbbing heartache, the kind that takes a long time to heal. It was the close of a long chapter of life, the kind of conclusion that keeps you awake for days, pacing the house with the lights out and the phone off. This particular sad farewell left a hole in my chest and a bittersweet taste in my mouth, as saying goodbye has a way of doing. It tasted like past romance, a bouquet of indelible memories laced with lost love and confused emotions, the flowery passion and affection of two starry-eyed dreamers, tangled up in the ribbons of a faded fairy tale.

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When I was a small boy, old people used to squat down to my eye level and ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, to which my answer was invariably, “a pirate.” Their stunned silence was always very reassuring.

Thus follows:

A ton of reasons why being a pirate is cool:

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Okay, I admit this is ridiculous but stay with me here.

It’s commonly referred to as the “Choco Taco,” but referred to by many as “manna from heaven,” so before you knock it, allow me to take a deep breath and suggest at the top of my lungs that if you’ve never actually eaten one of these epic little tacos… BABY, YOU HAVEN’T LIVED!

I cleverly refer to it as “the best thing ever.”

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I have a camera and I take a lot of photographs.

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One blustery evening last October, I waited impatiently until the clock tolled midnight and then promptly bought Taylor Swift’s new record on iTunes. I played it in the kitchen, I played it in the car, I played it at the studio, I played it on flights to Japan and back; I just couldn’t keep away from it. Speak Now was the indisputable leader of my “top 5″ record list of 2010, which is slightly ironic because the other four albums were abstract experimental/post-rock/ambient works.

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I am always awake.

An insomniac by definition, I was the kid who fell asleep LAST during slumber parties, not because I wasn’t worn out from the given Saturday’s well-organized neighborhood Nerf war, but because I was naturally cursed with the inability to sleep. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember and the grass stains on my knees never guaranteed me a sound night’s sleep as a kid. Perhaps this was a positive thing during elementary birthday party overnighters because that meant I was always the maestro plotting malicious pranks to play on my sleeping buddies, and was thus never the victim of such antics.

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An idea I was messing around with the other night:

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Pac-Man. The golden age of video arcade games. Chiptune music. The electronic sound of the 80′s.

I made this a few nights ago:

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The 11th hour.

For me, it’s the part of making records that takes longest. The 11th hour requires extreme micro-attention to detail and though it’s often the most stressful and fatiguing piece of the process, it’s during the final finishing brush stokes that dreams finally bloom and come alive. Only then can you disregard perfectionism (or merely attempt to) long enough to take a step back and immerse yourself in what’s been created. You started with a blank canvas, a bare tonal palette, an empty session with no tracks, no melodies, no structure, no arrangement… and after the final mix is agreeably abandoned, you take the deepest, most satisfying breath in a long time and it’s the most fulfilling feeling in the world. You poured yourself 1000% into something, slaved away at it day and night, and finally hung up your brushes with a humble sense of pride.

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Hi.

Let’s talk about curling for a minute.

Perhaps an elusive subject to many folks, the topic of which I speak is above and beyond what girls do to their straight hair with a heated rod. That, of course, is a curling IRON.

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My parents live in a really old house.

Smack in the center of a thriving 1899 farmstead, the house of my youth (and the youth of many others) stands proudly like a lone reed. I find solace in the womblike warmth of its downy plume, and yet, beyond such friendly familiar features, an assortment of peculiarities lurk therein. Might I assume that any 112 year old home is bound to house its fair share of oddities, and of course, my folks’ humble abode is no exception — for it is crammed full of curiosities.

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With the demure hope of earning a few extra shreds of lettuce in high school, I scored a part-time job at an incredibly Midwestern-American grocery store by the name of Hy-Vee. If you are not a product of the Midwest, it is rather improbable that you’ve ever heard of the chain.

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To my friends who read the blog,

Pour yourselves another eggnog ’cause without you, I don’t know where I would be.

Merry comfy cozy Christmas!

From,
Owl City

Merry Christmas (and a pair of cowboy boots),

Adam

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It snowed a lot. I took photos.

Pops snowplowing like nobody’s business:

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Founded in 1992, Boston Dynamics — leading provider of human simulation software and robots that run and maneuver like animals, has manufactured a robot referred to as “BigDog.”

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Aliens.

I must openly admit that the quizzical, mystified, diverted, blog-writing, evil genius in me harbors a dorky (and rather weird) secret appreciation for extraterrestrial beings. This is not an unhealthy intrigue, I assure you. For instance, I cannot watch E.T. and feel anything but disgusting by the time those dudes in creepy chemical radiation suits capture the poor shriveled little prune and plot how they’re going to study it or torture it, or whatever. Read the rest of this entry »

A few nights ago I was thumbing through the pages of a book someone once gave me. Tucked behind the front cover was a small slip of red paper. On it was written the following:

“If ever there is a tomorrow when we’re not together, there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart, I’ll always be with you.”

-Winnie the Pooh

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A few weeks ago I played a show at my old high school.

It’s been five years since I walked the halls of OHS, yet as I wandered around the empty building before soundcheck, I was hit full in the face by an avalanche of memories — some good, some bittersweet.

We were called the Huskies.

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My friend Pete has a theory he refers to as “Deep Regret.”

By definition, Deep Regret is the acute anxiety or inevitable apprehension trigged in the average male by the sudden or unexpected appearance of an immensely beautiful girl he innately knows is way out of his league. This girl is so gorgeous, so exquisite, so stunning, he becomes instantly enamored beyond mental functionality and can barely keep his eyes from popping out of his head, let alone bring himself to speak to her. Her beauty and elegance, her feminine mystique are so intoxicating, so staggering, his knees involuntarily go weak, he becomes unreasonably inarticulate, and as a result, just stands there like a n00b with his jaw on the sidewalk. Naturally, she takes zero notice of him and doesn’t even acknowledge his existence as she gracefully strolls away out of sight, and ultimately out of this life forever. It’s not a conscious thing on her part; she’s not being discourteous or mean by any stretch of the imagination, she’s just that sweet, innocent and utterly charming. She simply has no idea.

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I remember when I got my first computer.

I’ll gladly admit, beginning a blog entry with the words, “I remember when I got my first computer” is ten to one, the nerdiest way to begin any entry of any kind, but when the things in life you are most passionate about involve computers from stem to stern, I suppose it’s somewhat permissible. Computers aren’t like bikes or cars or wisdom teeth, and it’s terribly awkward to talk about your first computer as if it were something as sacred as your first kiss, but regardless, the REAL issue of this entry has little to do with my first computer itself, for it goes much “deeper,” shall we say.

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I was up late last night and decided to record a “cover song” of sorts.

Not for anything special, just for fun.

I’m twenty four years old, yet something about this song makes me bawl like a baby. The way the melodies and lyrics swirl together is so poignant and beautiful. If I were to count on one hand, the number of songs that have ever deeply moved me, this one would take the cake. Last night I probably spent more time actually crying at the piano than I did recording it. Such are the secret confessions of a shy boy from Minnesota.

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Most of the leaves have sighed their last and fallen off the big maple in my backyard. The brisk autumn breezes taste of impending winter, and I haven’t shaved my face in two weeks. This is normal, for I am in “studio-mode.”

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Once in high school, I overslept on a Friday morning. When I finally made it to school and stumbled into the middle of Critical Reading, Mr. Fish eyed me suspiciously and asked what I’d been up to the night before.

“I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out,” I replied.

The class inwardly chuckled as a mutual sense of “deep understanding” enveloped the room.

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The leaves were falling from the great oak at the meadow’s edge. They were falling from all the trees. One branch of the oak reached high above the others and stretched far out over the meadow. Two leaves clung to it’s very tip.

“It isn’t the way it used to be,” said one leaf to the other.

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Dizzy.

That’s how you feel when you run into a significant other you haven’t seen in a long time. A bitter avalanche of icy memories plows into your chest at breakneck speed, stealing the very breath from your lungs. Gasping for air, there’s really no use fighting it; the blow is instantaneous and it’s overpowering. Your eyes land on this person, your heart immediately stops dead, your knees go weak and you internally panic. You force yourself to walk over, but before either of you say hello, you’ve already got an endless amount of things you secretly want to say and an equally lengthy list of questions you wish you could ask.

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Whether you love or hate them, airports are captivating places. It seems like waiting is the only thing anyone ever gets done. With nothing to do and nowhere to go before your zone number is called, you either reread last night’s texts or you just sit there like a vegetable and stare. It’s impossible not to notice a million things about those in the crowd of strangers around you and you smile when you happen to glance up and catch someone’s eye. You know the odds are good that you’ll never see any of these people again but you can’t help but wonder where they’re from, where they’ve been, or where they’re going. You feel some kind of deep-rooted respect and reverence because there is so much living going on, so many journeys being taken physically, emotionally, spiritually — and you’re not only in the middle of it, you’re contributing to it.

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I, Icarus

There was a time when I could fly. I swear it.
Perhaps, If I think hard enough for a moment, I can even tell you the year.
My room was on the ground floor at the rear of the house.
My bed faced a window.
Night after night I lay on my bed and willed myself to fly.
It was hard work, I call tell you.
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Sometimes I catch myself wondering if two strangers in two different cities, both fighting insomnia, ever drag out of bed, throw on hoodies, fumble around in the dark for their car keys and tiptoe to the garage. They don’t even bother to tug socks or shoes on, they just leave because the idea of escape is irresistible and driving at night always seems the thing to do whenever your heart is heavy and you need to be alone.

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I am in paradise.

Right now I’m lounging in room 1007 at the Hilton Waikiki in Honolulu. My bare feet are propped up on the desk and the refreshing Pacific sea breeze is gushing in through the open glass patio door, whipping my hair unto an untamed rats nest. Fallin’ For You by Colbie Caillat continues to flow from my laptop speakers on repeat, and despite the fact that I injudiciously neglected to bring along a pair of swimming trunks, I am in seventh heaven.

In the endearing words of little David himself, “Is this real life?” Read the rest of this entry »

Sometimes people ask what inspires me.

That’s a tough question to tackle and I rarely have thick enough shoulder pads to counterattack with a touchdown answer because so much of what I find inspiring is drawn from such a vast assortment of situations, scenarios, environments, daydreams, even things that go bump in the night. I suppose it’s appropriate to answer the question with yet another question and simply ask “inspires me to do what?” and then of course it comes down to one’s own interpretation of the word “inspiration” and now we find ourselves sitting on the dock of the bay prying open a whole new can of worms.

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One of my least favorite things in existence are kidney stones.

I toured Japan last autumn with Mae. Their drummer Jake was recalling the time he got a kidney stone and said something like “Man, it hurt so bad I just collapsed on the ground crying.” I remember secretly thinking “Wow, those things really hurt that bad?” Naturally, I’d heard grapevine stories about kidney stones but they were uncommon freak accidents, old wives’ tales, the sort of thing other people’s dads got, and therefore were nothing to really worry about.

Little did I know I was a ticking time bomb.

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I am attracted to shiny things.

Silver coins, gum wrappers, car keys, sequins, fingernail clippers, marbles, medallions, wedding rings, silverware, hood ornaments, you get the idea. For obvious reasons, I was stricken with the need to change my diapers immediately upon viewing The Bean at Millennium Park in Chicago. Perhaps I am part crow for I indeed bear an uncanny resemblance to “Poe the Crow” (although I do not choose to reside in a Methodist church tower) from 1964 Newbery Honor award-winning Rascal by Sterling North. Should you happen to find yourself rooting around your public library shelves for a quality read, might I suggest it.

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The other day my dad was driving home from the shop when he spied a gangly brown dog clumsily running down the sidewalk a few hundred yards ahead. It was an unusual looking hound, like an enormous skinny puppy, and it ran with an awkward, uncoordinated lope. It was having a significantly difficult time keeping a true course as well, stumbling and half-galloping along, attempting to run in a straight line but not really getting anywhere.

“I wonder what he’s up to,” Pops muttered to himself.

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“A mechanic is only as good as his tools.”

A quote my high school teacher used to pound relentlessly into our innocent little heads. They say hindsight is 20/20 but unfortunately my safety glasses are fogging up and thus, I continue to squint, wistfully peering into the salad days of yore. Perhaps that’s why I got such a bad grade in that class.

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A few months ago I returned home from a longwinded U.S. tour and I’d scored a few precious days to myself before I was scheduled to board a plane bound for the Australian outback. My dear Momma Bear is an elementary school teacher, and by word-of-mouth communication, I was asked to say a few inspired words in front of a five-hundred kid-packed, fun-filled gym assembly on a Friday afternoon. Ironically this was the same elementary school I attended when I was a savage little beast so I ungrudgingly obliged. To make the whole scheme a bit more sneaky, a plan had been formulated in which the kiddies were kept totally unsuspecting… for I was to be a surprise.

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Tomorrow is a milestone. I can scarcely believe it’s already here.

It’s been a year since the release of Ocean Eyes and here I am sitting at my kitchen counter-island-thingy, unable to describe what a marvelous ride the past twelve months has been. I have no words to illustrate the colorful swirl of memories that flash before my eyes but the grin plastered across my face probably paints a pretty obvious picture. I haven’t been able to stop smiling since the day it began.

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To the average scrutinizing eye, I appear the farthest thing from a botanist, and of course the assumption is correct, but I’ve always been reminded the advantages of eating plenty of leguminous plants. Or at least the edible parts of leguminous plants widely regarded and/or consumed as food.

Perhaps what I’m referring to is not obvious.

What I’m talking about are peas.

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Dearest friends,

Where do I even begin?

Though it seems like it happened yesterday, an entire year has passed since I put out Ocean Eyes and I cannot begin to tell you how amazed I am due to all that has happened between then and now. A tremendous amount of asphalt has passed under the tires, a lot of miles put on the odometer and a lot of marvelous memories made along the way. It’s an overwhelming, invigorating feeling that can’t even be put into words. I catch myself thinking about the future often and I truly couldn’t be more excited. I’ve been immensely blessed by each and every opportunity I’ve had via Owl City and your endless support only continues to encourage me. I wholeheartedly cannot thank you enough.

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One time in high school I had a sudden and quite unexpected change of schedule during my 4th period study hall (which I RULED at) and all of a sudden I found myself twirling my salad fingers like a noob in Small Engines class. I still don’t get it.

Yeah, we got to rip apart lawn mowers and wrench on stuff and get grease all over our sweatshirts and blah blah blah. Having never been the small engine type, I was surprisingly okay at it. It was way more fun than Refresher Algebra 3 that’s for sure (which I got a D- in). Read the rest of this entry »

Yesterday, I spent the evening at one of my favorite places in the entire world:

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Wow.

I can’t even believe it. This is absolutely incredible.

After searching high and low, for what seems like a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I’ve finally found one:

A true classic.

There it is sitting in my garage and I still can’t believe it.

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Oh hi.

I may need to hire a prison warden or perhaps a ferocious professional wrestler with a great resume and a long brutal history of showing no mercy. Someone to stand guard outside my front door and make certain that I get lots of things done while I’m lounging at home all summer. In beautiful leafy green Minnesota, the weather couldn’t possibly be nicer, it’s ALWAYS tremendously nice outside, and thus, as a result I am far more distracted than usual. Bikes deserve to be ridden, beaches deserve to be sprawled upon, pizza deserves to be eaten and sauce spilled everywhere, vacations deserve to be taken, next door neighbors’ kiddy pools deserve to be swum in, footballs deserve to be kicked over the house and not stuck in the phone lines. Taco Bell deserves to be visited on a regular basis. Frozen french fries deserve to be cooked in the oven and irresponsibly burned to death. Summer deserves to be fun. And fun deserves to be had.

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Oh hi.

I would like to tell you a story.

Today I went to the dentist.

I don’t particularly love the dentist, but I’m sure you know how it is.

I can officially puff out my muscular barrel chest and confidently tell you that my least favorite part about the whole dentistry thing is actually getting into the stupid car and driving across town only to enter an office building crammed full of people in creepy white lab coats who smile through their teeth (oh yeah) and jab at your juicy gums with all manner of evil looking utensils.

Cool.
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Dearest friends,

I have a confession to make.

Today I was gazing out a window at the leafy Pennsylvania countryside, pressed against the glass in the back seat of a fifteen passenger van, suspended over a rushing liquid interstate, serenaded by the soothing rumble and whir of tires on pavement… and it was there that I realized something.

It’s been ages since I’ve written to you!
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01 Music
02 Stargazing
03 Swingsets by the beach
04 Flip flops and designer jeans
05 Blue eyes
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Oh hi,

I need to tell you a story.

This morning I put some marshmallow fluff on a piece of toast and ate it. I’ve never experienced marshmallow fluff on a piece of toast before in my entire life. Today was the first time. Ever.

I’ll be honest, I was a bit scared… you know… of what it might taste like? I had no idea what to expect. It could’ve been absolutely revolting or ridiculously amazing. I could’ve been horrendously disgusted to the point of spitting a mouthful of toast and marshmallow fluff everywhere so that my dog would’ve come joyfully running for the half-chewed up bits of food lying strewn about on the linoleum floor… or… I could’ve taken a big, sweet, indulgent bite of marshmallowy fluffy goodness and felt a humungeous smile spread across my face as I grunted and nodded with tasty approval. Who knows what could’ve happened? There was really no way of knowing. It could’ve been heavenly; it could’ve been a disaster.
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Nothing Works for Me!
(Richard Lederer)

My first job was working in an orange juice factory but I couldn’t concentrate and got canned.

Then I worked in the woods as a lumberjack but I just couldn’t hack it so they gave me the axe.

After that I tried to be a tailor but I just wasn’t suited for it. Mainly because it was a so-so job, de-pleting and de-pressing.
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Accordionated – adj. Being able to drive and refold a road map at the same time.

Aeropalmics – n. The study of wind resistance conducted by holding a cupped hand out the car window.

Mummabolic Chorus – n. When three or more people are singing along to a tune and suddenly discover they are all faking their way through the unintelligible lyrics.

Narcolepulacy – n. The contagious action of yawning, causing everyone in sight to also yawn.

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01. AQUADEXTROUS – adj. Possessing the ability to turn the bathroom faucet on and off with your toes.

02. CARPERPETUATION – n. The act, when vacuuming, of running over a string or a piece of lint at least a dozen times, reaching over and picking it up, examining it, then putting it back down to give the vacuum one more chance.

03. DISCONFECT – v. To sterilize a piece of candy you dropped on the floor by blowing on it, assuming this will somehow “remove” all the germs.

04. ELBONICS – n. The actions of two people maneuvering for one armrest in a movie theater (airplane).

05. FRUST – n. The small line of debris that refuses to be swept onto the dust pan and keep backing a person across the room until he finally decides to give up and sweep it under the rug.
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Oh hi!

Believe it or not, I’ve never been to Seattle before. However, two days ago I packed my bags, drove to the airport and waltzed onto an airplane bound for the great woodsy northwest. Two hours later, I stepped off the plane and into beautiful warm, sunny downtown Seattle. I can remember staring out the window and daydreaming about this place during class when I was a freshmen in high school so needless to say, being here for the first time is indeed a bit surreal for me. And from the little I’ve seen of it thus far, I can safely say it’s enchanting. Plus there are MOUNTAINS out here!!! :)
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In southern Minnesota, the frosty month of December in a rural town can mean only one thing: back problems. If you live anywhere north of Iowa, you know this. Once autumn decides to quit fooling around and the weather engine shifts gears from chilly to freezing, a sad sinking feeling inevitably ensues because everyone knows that once the flakes start falling… the backs start aching. Granted, a fresh blanket of fluffy snow draped softly over thickets of evergreens certainly radiates good cheer, but beware: there is an ominous drawback that surely lurks therein. Allow me to elaborate.

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This could very well be the most amazing thing I’ve thought about since I woke up today.

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