Monthly Archives: October 2013
We are not going to solve Miley’s problems with open letters. It’s not our job to solve her problems either, since we actually know little about her.
Allow me to offer a new definition for indie so perhaps we can better understand TV on the Radio, Spoon, Lorde and Haim: indie is not so much a sonic template as it is a word to describe a cultural economy.
Despair-induced paralysis is a real problem and a primary cause of societal apathy, and while it would be unfair to blame news-blasting, I think it’s safe to say that it doesn’t help.
Alumni Choir has meant a lot to me. It’s been a source of comfort and joy during difficult times. A relief from stress during busy weeks. A chance to spread joy and peace to others.
At the time this post is published I will have jumped up and down with all the fanboy enthusiasm in my 23-year-old body.
Good TV is like good literature. Both forms tell stories. They take you places, let you meet people and hopefully make you feel something.
Joel and I stood in my front yard one afternoon, raking leaves because, as we both knew, mysteries always present themselves to people with crew cuts when they’re either doing yard work or playing tennis.
Why is baseball season so eternal? And why does each game last so long? Give me a narrative, for goodness’ sake. Something engaging I can latch onto.
Since all creation breathes God’s breath and participates in God’s Spirit, there are only sacred places and places that have been desecrated.
After leaving college, I lost my faith in food. Now, food is what I ingest alone, usually, when I’m hungry, bored, or tired from working fifty hours a week.
As a soon-to-be professional triathlete, I have had to work to be more Type A in some areas. My coach, Zane, calls it “attention to detail” or “doing the things that matter.”
The yelling is why I’m glad I chose not to be an elementary-school anything. And the yelling is what showed me, in ways that a phone bill or an empty fridge had failed to do, that I really am an adult now.
I learned the hard way never to say the C word at work. No, it wasn’t that C word, though it may as well have been.
One fateful night during my junior year, I was roaming around on Netflix, hunting for distractions. I’d recently finished watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and I was in the mood for new fantasy adventures. I’d always loved reading stories about dragons and knights,...
On Sunday night, in the bottom of the eighth inning of game two of the American League Champion Series, the Detroit Tigers had a 5-1 lead against the Boston Red Sox in Boston’s historic Fenway Park.
*I Am Mountain* remains Gungor’s crowning jewel and shows a brighter future for them than I ever imagined. Like all great artists, they aren’t afraid to change.
About two years ago, I realized that garage sales were not worth my time. Estate sales were the thing. Estate sales had quality merchandise. Entire walls of blue Mason jars. Complete sets of dishes and silverware.
TO BE (hopefully) DISCONTINUED.
I really hope thirtyandfourtysomethings don’t think I’m a promiscuous, drunk, hopelessly romantic, lazy, clueless, emotional wreck.
How do you teach a classroom of sleepy freshmen that feminism is about equality, not (necessarily) bra-burning? That making fun of someone denotes privilege, not power?
Then one night in April Brett called his own bluff and showed up, straight from an Amish farm, with a puppy.
I’m getting better at b-ball, but it’s in the same way that I’m getting better at kite-boarding, pogo-sticking, goat-milking, or anything else that I never practice.
Another kitchen sunrise in a land of bread but no bagels.
I saw a 1958 Chevy Cameo last weekend. For those who don’t know your classic vehicles (like me), a 1958 Cameo looks like that picture on the left. Old trucks don’t normally get me excited, but this one had exactly 1.3 miles on its odometer. Fifty-five years old, and...
Discernment is hard work. I wish it were as easy as marking off a checklist. The hard part is the careful self-examination, the perseverance, the curiosity, the strain to hear that still, small voice.
A parable offers you truth, but not directly. You have to work for it or, rather, you have to want it and want it as if you were in the story.
In the past month, I have slept in nine different beds, only three of which I consider (or considered) mine. I have traveled by plane, train, and automobile. And bicycle.
Small children are creatures of habit. Having been in the parental mindset for three years now, I’ve learned to stay on this side of sanity’s fine line by joining in (read: giving in) to these routines.
Even the fan mail we receive from young readers seems odd—I’ve never been interested in meeting or corresponding with the writers of books I love.