Monthly Archives: December 2015
But there are some things I hold dear that you just can’t get in the greatest city in the world. And that’s where the stars come in.
Maybe my faith will grow strong, strong enough to have the message of Christ’s victory over death ring just as true and feel just as real as the body in the casket.
Now we’re approaching New Year’s Eve. This is my favorite holiday, in spite of the fact that every year it disappoints.
We are addicts to magnificence and depravity. If we can’t be the best we will compete to be the worst. If we can’t start the morning with the best cup of coffee, we begin the day with the worst.
The litany ends and we sing a few carols. Aunt Jackie sings the loudest and there’s a kind of hope pulling at the corner of her voice that makes you think that everything, all of it, is true.
Suddenly, I heard Kevin gasp. We stumbled blindly toward his voice until echolocation led us to a vine-covered mausoleum. The script was crumbling, but the names were unmistakable.
Sometimes, I grow tired of people pretending they do know. I grow tired of people claiming the time to kill, the time to give up, the time to throw away.
An emotional massacre is really what I wanted, leaving happiness as the only feeling left standing. It’s what made the most sense at the time, but it doesn’t anymore.
I took a train every morning in Budapest to a little café called Budapest Bagel: a bar and a bagel shop where I somehow received college credit to write short stories and read novels following a longstanding expatriate tradition.
When we are constantly being bombarded by how terrible the world is, it is easy to overlook the bright spots. This post is dedicated to some of the things in the world worth celebrating.
Tina: Good evening, I’m Tina Fey…
Amy: …and I’m Amy Poehler.
Tina: Welcome everyone to the 26th annual Golden Gabe awards.
But I have not yet figured out how to be happy in a world that is torn apart every day by war and hate, by hunger and sickness, by itself. I’ve learned this semester that being a social worker necessarily means knowing that there is more fallenness in this world than we can bear.
Recently, my wife and I watched all six Star Wars movies in preparation for The Force Awakens—a feat I hadn’t done in years—and I remember my vaguely alarmed reaction during the credit-crawl for A New Hope.
Stanton has a massive platform, and he stands on it with poise and humility. In an online world that screeches with hostility and self-aggrandizement, Stanton is the most elusive and vital kind of storyteller.
After the first time we played, Christoph sent me this video of the Qatar Classic 2015 and said, “Whatever it was that we played last week, it wasn’t squash.”
“Can’t you feel that?” Pastor said one Sunday. “Can’t you feel that breeze?” I could. I was pretty sure it was the air conditioning kicking in.
This year I’ll sleep in a guest room, maybe on an air mattress. It will be a normal night of sleep. I won’t be waiting for the rumble of the Polar Express, watching for its headlight to flood the walls of my room in a gold glow.
In a world overwhelmed by possibility, sometimes it sounds really great to have someone else make your choices for you and put them in a neat little box.
Maybe it’s a sign of our times that I was waiting for this genuine and heartwarming scene to turn ironic, but it just didn’t ring true.
Euchre has very little variation. Sentinels of the Multiverse, on the other hand, has somewhere between 14 million to 230 million different game scenarios. That’s cool. Really. But those 230 different scenarios have a price-tag of roughly the same amount of rules.
It seems odd to speak of the limits of human intimacy when anticipating our reunion; to record for the world the untold stories which are themselves just fragments of a billowing moment already passed away, to promise that I will fail again to share them fully.
We like Tony C. because he was good, but we love him because he could have been great. We love him for his potential. We love him because we can imagine what he could have been. 100 home runs by twenty-two? He could have been the best player who ever lived.
I have never been good at writing poetry. I don’t have the wit to write metaphysical poetry like Donne. I could never capture the sylvan landscape like Frost. What I am good at is doodling.
I am having a conversation in broken English outside a bar with a man named Matthieu. He brought up the attacks before I did, which is good, because I was terrified to bring it up, and not even sure if I should. “You are from New York, so you understand,” he explained.
D.A.R.E. to explore the unexplored. Here be monsters and suddenly we’re the first ones, wading through myth and legend and finding freedom, happiness, and warmth. We don’t see dragons or lose our grades. We don’t get pregnant. We aren’t shoving suppositories up our asses à la Trainspotting or whoring à la Requiem for a Dream. It’s just nice. Warm and cozy and soft. One of us uses the word “underwhelming.”
“I think Advent is my favorite season, but by the time I’ve finished all of the work and grading, Christmas is here and I never really got to enjoy it.”
I have a “thing” about hair, and it may to seem strange to you. But let’s be honest, you have your things too.
My pastor slipped up this past Sunday, saying “Lent” instead of “Advent,” as she sent us into this new season. How appropriate, actually, for these two periods of waiting mirror each other: repetition with a difference.
6. Bribes are more than okay. I’ve trained my kids to think that tic-tacs are the holiest of grails in terms of possible rewards for good behavior.