blogging from birmingham

Five years. That's how long it's been since I was last home for Christmas. Hard to know what to expect outside of my Richmond Christmas routine.

Scout and I got into Birmingham late Friday night after a drive of nearly 11 hours. Leslie showed up Saturday morning delerious from three hours of sleep and an early-morning flight. And, as she is wont to do, she immediately slips into her terribly un-PC imitation of an Indian immigrant, announcing a Merry Christmas to all with the holiday promise of "Uncle Ghandi's goat ball stew." We decide to give our parents a break and make a trip to the nearest mall with every intention of picking up last-minute gifts to round out our Christmas shopping. We actually waltz into Parisian and buy one of the first bracelets we see, a perfect Grandmother gift. Christmas shopping never felt so easy or so smooth.

But then we get sucked in by the sale at Banana Republic. Not so much for other people - mostly for ourselves.

Chris: Hey. I need your opinion. Do you like this sweater?
Leslie: Yeah. Is it on sale?
Chris: Used to be $70, on sale for $45.
Leslie: Sweet. Give it to me - I still need to get you a present. Merry Christmas. Act surprised when you open it.

After shopping, a leisurely mid-afternoon catch-up lunch with my friend Charles (of Jamaican wedding fame) turns into a delightful two hour affair involving as much drinking as eating. Fun though it is, this puts me and Leslie in the precarious position of having polished off two bottles of wine before dropping by to visit our grandmother. We find this situation strangely hilarious, and we call to tell Grandmother we'll be by to see her momentarily. In the retirement home parking lot, Leslie can't stop laughing - she gets out of the car red-eyed, dancing like a monkey, snorting uncontrollably. This is not abnormal behavior for my sister, though perhaps it is not the ideal time for such antics. In a move to stall for time and gain some semblence of decorum and composure, I open the trunk and stand there staring into it, trying to stop laughing myself. "What are you doing?" Les asks. "We're not taking any presents inside." "I know," I answer, "I'm trying to kill a little time so that woman by the front door will walk away...I don't want her to see us and think we're crazy." Needless to say, this only exacerbates Leslie's behavior.

Saturday night we go to a party thrown by a high school friend of ours. Some drinks are had. We decide it's time to go home when Les glances in the mirror and is faced with the result of too little sleep and too much wine: deep-seated black circles under her eyes that look like smeared mascara. The ensuing hangover on Sunday morning - Christmas Eve morning - goes something like this:

[7:30 A.M. on Sunday. Leslie and I are sleeping on the twin beds in the guest room.]
Leslie: Ow.
Chris: What's up?
Leslie: My head. I need Alka Seltzer.
Chris: Why not Advil?
Leslie: Do you have Advil?
Chris: No.
Leslie: Alka Seltzer. Headache, stomach, all in one. I'm calling Mom.
Chris: What?
Leslie [picking up her cell phone]: I'm calling Mom.
Chris: I'm sorry, what? Upstairs? That's ridiculous. Just walk upstairs and find some.
[15 seconds of silence. A phone starts ringing upstairs.]
Chris: Dude, tell me you're NOT calling Mom.
[silence, followed by a second ring upstairs]
Unbelievable.
Leslie [into the phone]: Hi. Merry Christmas! [pause] I know, but it IS Chrismas Eve. [pause] Um...do you have any Alka Seltzer? I have a headache the size of Montana.

Leslie eventually goes back to sleep. Dad slips out to Walgreens and leaves a box of extra strength Alka Seltzer on the bedside table so Les will see it when she wakes up. Sure enough, she opens her eyes and acts as if someone has left her a small fortune, a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. She drops two tablets into her water and says, "Plop plop fizz fizz...it's like a snowstorm in my glass." She smiles and waves at the glass the way an awe-struck kid at Disney World stares and waves at Mickey Mouse. "Hi Alka Seltzer."

I spend Christmas Eve afternoon catching up with a few friends. A long-overdue, much-needed lunch with Baldwin (who always maintains great perspective), an afternoon beer with Ashley, Jay, and James. Mom makes a great Christmas Eve dinner, a sequel to Thanksgiving every bit as good as the original (think The Godfather and The Godfather II). My grandmother stays in our guest bedroom on Christmas Eve and is terrified that we will wake up before her in the morning and open our stockings without her. She stays behind as we leave for midnight mass around 10:00 p.m. I try to explain to her that she is going to bed now, and we will be roughly four hours behind her - there's no way we're waking up before she does. But this does little to assuage her fear of missing out on the Christmas morning party.

Christmas Day is a whirlwind. Sure enough, my grandmother is awake, showered, dressed, and packed by the time we get up about 8:30...and she's surprised we haven't been up for hours already. Apparently she has temporarily forgotten that we're not 7 and thus don't wake up at 6:00 a.m. on Christmas anymore. But all is well as we unpack our stockings and open presents and eat our traditional Christmas brunch late in the morning. It's stress-free and everyone is happy.

I crash out about 12:30 in the afternoon and sleep for an hour or so. It gives me just enough energy to make the evening rounds catching up with folks: the Abele/Hall's, then the Smith's party (a 29-year Christmas Night tradition!), followed by dinner at the Moore's before Leslie and I go back to the Smith's and on to the Abele/Hall's again. We get home at 1:00-something in the morning to a very enthusiastic Scout, who has eaten most of the ham bone I gave her before we left earlier in the night. As we start turning off lights and locking up the house, Leslie says, "Your dog was manic when we got in. Should I give her a Lexapro?"

I tell her I can only think that's a bad idea.

Here's the thing: It's not the same Christmas I've grown accustomed to over the past five years. It's not even the same Christmas that I knew as a kid - my parents live in a townhouse now; there's no Christmas Eve party at my aunt and uncle's house; there are fewer of us on Christmas morning (a mere 5-person gathering). But it's Christmas nonetheless. Not quite like any other one that's come before it...but Christmas nonetheless. And, in some ways, maybe even better than the old ones.

Wherever you are, I hope your Christmas has been a happy one....or, at the very least, eventful and memorable.

Merry Christmas!
(And happy Boxing Day/St. Stephen's Day.)

the anomaly of drinking pina coladas in december

I am under no illusion that the "resort" Jamaica I experienced last weekend is the real Jamaica. I know that much of rural Jamaica is poor and not tourist-friendly (though the topography seems to be stunning no matter where you are). For what it was, though - a three night stay in a 5-star Jamaican resort - the trip was phenomenal. A tropical vacation in December makes it hard to remember that Christmas is only a couple of weeks away.

Half Moon Resort in Rose Hall (just outside of Montego Bay) sprawls over 400 acres along the Jamaican coast. The amazing thing is that this land spreads out horizontally to give the resort two miles of beachfront property. The occasion for the trip was a destination wedding of a good friend of mine from high school. He and his fiance booked a room in the main resort building on the beach. The rest of us stayed in villas near the east end of the property a couple of hundred yards up the road from the beach.

In my mind, a tropical "villa" conjures images of quaint hut-like structures with beach decor. Roomy, but humble. Maybe a grass thatched roof. Not so. The villas are 5, 6, or 7 bedroom white colonial manor houses, each with a private pool and two golf carts for driving around the resort. The only photo I have of our villa is below. Despite the darkness, I think it's still apparent that these were pretty posh accommodations.


As if this weren't enough, each villa is staffed with a cook, a butler, and a housekeeper. We took our butler shopping with us to help us get food on the first afternoon. Our cook, Paula, prepared and served meals that we requested at times appointed by us. We would leave little notes on the stove top at night that read something like this:

"Paula,
We would love to have breakfast around 9 a.m. - eggs, bacon, sausage, and french toast.
Thanks - see you in the morning!"

How is one supposed to feel about such an opulent luxury? Grateful? Guilty? It seems presumptuous, but at the same time it feels perfectly natural given the setting. In reality, is it over-the-top? Decadent? Oh yeah. But did we love it? Absolutely. I thought of my own squalid kitchen, still messy when I left it at 5:00 a.m. last Friday...and I laughed when I imagined transposing this waitstaff scenario to my own house in Richmond, leaving a note for my roommate:

"Colin,
I have to be at work at 9:00. Eggs and bacon would be nice, perhaps with a side of cereal. Save the buttermilk pancakes for later in the week.
8:15 would be perfect.
Thanks."

Preposterous.

The wedding itself was beautiful, despite a rain shower two hours before the ceremony that threatened to dampen more than just wedding-day spirits. With about 50 people in attendance and the sun falling toward the horizon at 4:30, it was everything a destination wedding is supposed to be.

The only unfortunate piece to the whole trip was that I didn't bring my camera. Or, more accurately, I thought I had lost it before we left. At 5:00 in the morning, I couldn't find it at my house, and Erin and I even stopped by my office on the way to the airport thinking it might be there. It turns out it was in the mud room off of my back porch (NO idea how it got there), so I'm having to rely on pictures from others. I am really bummed to have missed such an incredible photo opportunity...but at the same time, not having a camera in my hands all the time really allowed me to enjoy the experience fully.

A few pictures are included below, and perhaps I can post a few more when/if I get them...

on the road again

It is currently 4:30 in the morning.

By mid-afternoon, I will be here:



Half Moon Resort. Montego Bay, Jamaica.

Pictures, stories, and the long-overdue catch-up after I get back on Monday...

a little square of heaven

Nancy made brownies for me, Erin, and Colin on Tuesday night. Arguably one of the best things that's happened all week. Not only did she go out and buy all the ingredients, she did all the work making them. And these are no ordinary brownies: they have cut up Reese's cups on top of them. This is excellent for two reasons:

1. The salt of the peanut butter contrasts nicely with the sweetness of the chocolate, making an already-fantastic brownie even more delicious.

2. Since Colin doesn't like peanut butter...more for the rest of us.

The only downside is that I keep cutting little pieces and grazing all day long...especially since today was my day off. Someone please come over here and eat some of these before I finish them off myself.

Thanks Nancy - you can bake at our place anytime!

whatever you do, don't lend it to me

I've come to the terrible conclusion that I have evolved into something that I never wanted to be: a bad borrower. Too often of late I've found myself making the mental note, "Oh yeah, I need to give _______ back to ______ . I've had it for too long." I've decided that I need to quantify this trend, to unveil the extent of my "bad borrowing" in empirical terms rather than perpetuating my denial via abstract admissions (e.g., "I have a lot of stuff that I need to return to some people").

After a brief attempt at closing my eyes and making a mental list, I began walking through the house with a pad and pencil like a health inspector in a restaurant kitchen. I became increasingly embarassed as I spotted borrowed items in almost every room.

So, as a public confession, I'm publishing a list of items that are currently on loan to me. I fear that this is by no means an exhaustive list. In fact, it really only covers books and movies at the moment and completely ignores the fact that my next door neighbor's lawn mower is still sitting in my shed. It also does not take into account the old Gibson bass guitar that I borrowed from Patrick Sweeney in 1994 or the Birmingham Baron's baseball bat that I borrowed from Mark Erdberg for our Mountain Brook High School production of "Damn Yankees" my senior year.

Anyway, you're likely to spot something of yours on here. Or maybe you're expecting to see a book you lent me two years ago and it's not on the list. If that's the case, please leave a comment or send me an email and let me know. My goal is to start returning these items in the near future (ah! another vague abstraction! I probably promised to return these "in the near future" the first time around, too, didn't I?). Here's what I've got...and yes, I remember who owns each item - I'm just not posting it:

MOVIES
Monty Python and the Holy Grail
Monty Python's The Meaning of Life
Annie Hall
Lost, Season 1
Freaks and Geeks, The Complete Series

BOOKS
The Omnivore's Dilemma
The Spiral Staircase
God's Funeral
The Irrational Season
Middlesex
Assassination Vacation
The Partly Cloudy Patriot
Take the Cannoli
Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim
Barrel Fever
The Shadow of the Wind
Early Christianity
Showing Mary
The Secret Life of Bees
The Solace of Leaving Early
The Known World
Clapton's Guitar: Watching Wayne Henderson Build the Perfect Instrument

(note: I did return a copy of Tom Robbins' "Skinny Legs and All" to its rightful owner a couple of weeks ago, but the return was offset by the fact that it had been almost a decade since I borrowed it.)

i love a good soapbox as much as the next guy

I was awake this morning by 6:00 a.m. As is the case every Tuesday, I rise early to get to the church shortly after 7:00 to prepare for our weekly young men's Bible study breakfast. But today is Election Day...so the early start allowed me to stop by my polling place (I vote at the retirement home about a block away from my house) before I headed out for work. I dropped in around 6:20 a.m. Voter #36 at this particular poll.

I have to admit, this election has gotten so much press that I even dreamed about it this morning before the alarm went off. People may disagree on which policies are best for running our country. People may argue and debate and discuss and argue some more. But one thing holds true universally, cliched though it may be: it is an immense blessing that we are allowed to have a voice in our own governance - however small that voice may be individually - and we should not take it for granted. I would rather have someone whose views are diametrically opposed to mine go out and vote than to have someone who agrees wholeheartedly with me sit at home. I feel more and more strongly about this every time I cast a ballot. It is our responsibility to educate ourselves about issues and candidates in order to facilitate an informed decision that we are allowed to voice on Election Day.

So if you've voted today, I hope you feel good about having participated in the political process, regardless of whether your candidate wins. And if you haven't voted yet, I hope you will before the day is out.

a day of sloth

It seems as if my day-to-day pace has been in high gear for months now. Even the summer didn't feel terribly slow, and it certainly wasn't any sort of "break." Both weekdays and weekends have been packed full since early September when the program year started at the church. Upon realizing last week that Saturday, Nov. 4, was a day with nothing on the calendar, Erin and I decided to plan a "day of sloth": a sabbath (little "s") day of utterly useless, unproductive lounging around and eating. Kind of like Jabba the Hut.

The day's activities - and I use that word in its laziest, least "active" sense - included reading, movie watching, napping, cooking, and putting a fire in the fireplace. The big one, though, was cooking. We messed up and cleaned up the kitchen at least three times. It went down something like this:

Breakfast - homemade buttermilk pancakes

Post-breakfast cooking - (1) Erin made a chocolate cake (more like a torte - really thick) for after dinner, and (2) I made a Thai curry paste to be used with dinner

Lunch - I picked the remainder of the tomatoes from my garden before the Friday night freeze, so we sliced them to make fried green tomatoes. Actually, we made fried green tomato sandwiches on ciabatta rolls with homemade pesto mayonnaise that was made from the basil in my garden. Delicious - probably my favorite meal all day. See picture above.

Dinner - Thai Vegetable Curry over brown Basmati rice, a recipe from one of the Moosewood cookbooks. Aforementioned chocolate cake for dessert.

And I wonder why I never get in any better shape...

remembering the saints

Today is All Saints Day. It's the day we remember all of those who came before us, those people whose lives have provided the generational foundations which undergird our own. It's not just about the saint saints, those untouchable "superstars" who have been officially canonized by the church - it's about the people who struggle daily to live good lives by sharing their spirit of love with us. Parents. Grandparents. Siblings and friends.

Last year, we ("we" meaning "the St. James's staff") decided to set up a microphone on the front steps of the church and read the full names and ages of all the U.S. soldiers who had been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan since the inception of the war. There were about 2,200 names, and it took us about two and a half hours. This year, we felt it would only be right to do the same for those killed since All Saints Day last year. Sadly, we still had a list of more than 900 names to read. The median age in this list of departed was around 21.

From the portico of the church, those attending the noon Eucharist service took turns reading names from a multi-page printout. I read a series of fifty names somewhere in the mid-400s. By odd coincidence, two of the first three names were Christophers. Another couple of Christophers showed up later in my list. Almost every name I read was younger than I by several years.

This service is a powerful experience, but not always in the way you might expect. Yes, it is shocking when the first few names are followed by numbers like "20" or "22" - even some that end in "-teen". Yes, it is awe-inspiring and awful that a list of young dead takes an hour to read aloud. But the thing I was most mortified about was how un-personal the whole experience became somewhere in the middle. After a certain number of names and ages, the wave of sound became blurry and abstract. I couldn't imagine faces with names anymore. It felt fuzzy and run-together. It's the same mechanism that allows someone to fall asleep in the midst of loud music: as long as the sound is constant, it can be tuned out, ignored. White noise. I realized this as I stood listening and trying to make each name personal to me, to attach meanings to them. Instead, it was like a photo negative of what I should have felt. Blankness where there should have been...something. And I think it's mostly due to the sheer number: too many to keep up with.

Nowadays, when someone questions what we're doing in Iraq in the first place, many people respond with, "Well, we shouldn't worry about why we're there now - we need to worry about how to fix it and get out." We do need to figure out how to fix things and get out. But that first question, the one about why we're there in the first place? I can think of over 900 really good reasons that question deserves an answer.

cranking up the banjo, liturgical style

This morning at the 9:00 service, we played Sufjan Stevens' "All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands" for the anthem at Communion. I'd been looking forward to playing this piece for months - the opportunity to play a song in church that I enjoy listening to anyway (ie, quality singer/songwriter stuff, no cheesy Christian pop) is an event worth noting. I was given the task of writing the Music Notes about the piece for the Sunday bulletin. I know this is two postings in a row in which I've put up something I've written that has to do with church...but please indulge me one more time, as I really feel strongly about this song as a quality piece of writing that achieves in structure what it intends to convey in lyrical theme.

This morning’s anthem at Communion is “All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands” by Episcopalian singer/songwriter Sufjan (pronounced SOOF-yan) Stevens from his album Seven Swans. The title of the song is taken from Isaiah 55:12. More “indie singer/songwriter” than “contemporary Christian pop,” Stevens scrutinizes his own faith in lush soundscapes of unconventional instrumentation and introspective, less-than-overt lyrics that hint at a myriad of emotional responses: doubt, hope, self-consciousness, joy, awe.

“All the Trees…” begins with a simple banjo line that repeats like a meditative mantra beneath the opening question, “If I am alive this time next year / will I have arrived in time to share?” This kind of lyrical tension exists throughout the piece as Stevens alternately notes the joy of God’s kingdom (“I heard from the hills a band was made”) and wonders at his own place within it (“Will I be invited to the sound?”). As the song progresses, musical layers are added in sequence to the banjo foundation. Each part is uncomplicated, but completely different from the others: a piano line, a second banjo, a chorus of women. A declaration of intent comes into focus as Stevens, over the sum of these musical parts, states with purpose, “I am joining all my thoughts to you / and I’m preparing every part for you.” Indeed, the structure of the music itself mirrors the devoted intention of the singer as these seemingly disparate pieces are “joined” and “prepared” in a unified offering of praise to God.

If you aren't familiar with Sufjan Stevens, I highly recommend listening to Seven Swans in its entirety. Even if you're not into music with religious themes, the instrumentation alone warrants a second listen. It is a challenging record that drifts beyond quirky into downright weird at times...but on the whole, I think it's absolutely mesmerizing.

saving the world...one pumpkin at a time

The pumpkin-picking at Ashland Berry Farm last week turned out even better than I expected. It was one of those moments that reminds me why I like my job so much and why I think the kids I work with are so great. The following is an account of the afternoon (with a few visual aids thrown in) that I wrote for St. James's monthly newsletter:


Counting Our Blessings in Pumpkins

St. James’s high school youth group is all about fellowship. Every Sunday evening, we meet to eat dinner together and participate in a fun activity, and we always end up having a good time. But as a part of the parish at large, our youth group is also a means for us to serve, to give thanks for our many blessings by sharing what we have with others.

Emily Steele is a St. James’s parishioner and former youth group volunteer leader of four years. As principal of Fair Oaks Elementary School in Henrico County’s Varina district, Emily needed 30 pumpkins for her school’s third annual Community Day on October 21. As Emily put it, Community Day “celebrates the connection between home and school” with a fun afternoon that includes “an inflatable obstacle course, games, pizza, hay rides and more.” The school needed pumpkins for a pumpkin-painting station, so our youth group offered to take a trip to Ashland Berry Farm to pick pumpkins and donate them to the cause.

Ashland Berry Farm is bustling with people in mid-October, due in large part to the deal they give on pumpkins: all the pumpkins you can carry (and take three steps) for $20. We sat in a line of traffic for 15 minutes just to get into the parking lot and stood in line for another half an hour to hop on the hayride out to the pumpkin patch. Despite the hoops we had to jump through, we found lots of ideal pumpkins once we were out in the field. Our pile grew bigger and bigger until we were uncertain we could carry all that we had amassed.

But there were lots of side comments as we counted and stacked pumpkins. “I picked this one – I’m taking it home.” “This is my favorite, I’m keeping it for myself.” “This one is perfect. It’s mine – I call it.” So we stopped for a moment. We talked about why were taking on this project. We talked about a spirit of giving, about sharing all that we have and not keeping the best for ourselves, about providing for others and trusting God to provide for us. It was quiet for a minute, and then everyone let go – literally and figuratively – of their pumpkins.

That turn of spirit marked an infectious change in the whole dynamic of the afternoon. The tractor driver of the hayride offered the front shovel of his tractor to carry our pumpkins safely back to the farm. “I’m gonna drive real slow – I don’t want to spill any of these charitable pumpkins,” he said, raising the shovel up as if the pumpkins were a sacred offering. The woman collecting money helped us get all of the pumpkins into four armloads (we had tested it out in five), and then only charged us for three. “It’s for a good cause!” she said.

In all, we gathered almost 50 pumpkins for Fair Oaks’ Community Day and loaded them in the back of Emily’s truck. Emily writes, “Thank you so much to St. James’s and their amazing youth group who have touched lives and provided smiles for an entire community!” The whole experience was a timely reminder for me – and, I hope, for our youth – that we are blessed with much, and sharing those blessings with others is really what it’s all about.

a birthday of sorts

Today is October 15...which means this blog is officially a year old today. Not a terribly strong frequency of postings to show for it of late, but worth noting nonetheless. As was the case this weekend last year, the youth group is off to Ashland Berry Farm shortly to pick pumpkins that will be donated to a local elementary school for their Community Day. And it's the perfect day for it - mid-60s, clear and sunny.

Will try to follow up with photos and a recap of the last couple of weeks in the near future...

where's george?

As if I don't have enough slightly nerdy hobbies and interests already (remind me to tell you about letterboxing sometime if I haven't yet), a new favorite appeared out of nowhere last week after I taught my usual Wednesday mandolin lesson. The $5 bill that was included as part of my payment bore a message stamped in red: "Track this bill @ www.wheresgeorge.com." Curious as to what this meant - and not being one to say "no" when money talks - I logged on.

It turns out that the website wheresgeorge.com allows you to enter the serial number of any U.S. currency and track its progress as it is spent across the country. Theoretically, anyway - tracking depends on those same bills being entered when others come into possession of them. Hence the stamp on the bill - I guess it worked since it caught my attention.

So I entered my $5 bill to see where it had come from. Most bills that receive "hits" do so within a couple of months, on average. My bill had only been entered into the system only once, almost two years ago, by some guy in Tennessee. Since last week, I've been entering lots of bills - especially $1's. Since I don't have a stamp, I've actually been writing the message "track this bill - www.wheresgeorge.com" in red ink on each (yes, THIS is the point where the whole thing becomes exceptionally dorky). No hits yet, but maybe something will turn up.

I'm fascinated by the idea that we, as inhabitants of our community, the country, and the world - or really just by the sheer fact of our human-ness - are all joined together. I love being given little reminders of this interconnectedness: all of us, whether we're rich, poor, black, white, straight, gay, Republican, Democrat, genius, or idiot...we all use common pieces of paper - currency - as a crucial means of interaction. It can be virtually anonymous: you probably won't know the gas station attendant to whom you hand over five bucks to buy a Coke and a bag of chips on your next road trip. Or, it can be incredibly intimate: you give your best friend $100 that she desperately needs without any expectation that she pay you back.

Sometimes we're connected by common friends and acquaintances, sometimes by the work that we do or the activities we enjoy. But in a divisive world in which it has become increasingly difficult to find common ground, peaceful ground, with other segments of society, it's nice to know that we ARE connected to the guy in Tennessee or the banker in New York or the garbage man in Baltimore or the farmer in Idaho...even if the connecting thread is something as small and simple as the fact that each of us has held, for a short time, the same dollar bill.

the gig, part deux

Really, I couldn't have asked for last night to go any better. Though things got started a little later than planned (after 10:30 by the time I took the stage), I thought the show flowed smoothly without any major train wrecks. OK, one flubbed chord in "Apres Moi"...but other than that, I was very happy with the way things turned out. I especially appreciated the enthusiastic and rowdy support of all the friends who showed up - you know who you are!

There were three real highlights for me:

1. Using one of those old-school (or old-school-looking) microphones...especially starting the set with the Jeff Buckley version of "Be Your Husband." The mic was almost identical to the one Buckley is holding on the cover of Grace.

2. Playing a new original - "Camouflaged Again" - for the first time in public, as well as the new revised (and hopefully final?) version of "Eyes on Fire".

3. Having Tully and his drummer sit in on "Rider" to finish out the set.

Fun night - makes me miss the days of doing this full-time. Here's the complete set list if anyone is interested.

Set List - 9.21.06
Be Your Husband
Oration
Naked As We Came
Winding Wheel
Tangle
Camouflaged Again
Summertime
Eyes On Fire
Apres Moi
Rider

P.S. - I decided it was time for a new look for the blog. Any thoughts??

no freebird...and that's a promise

Tonight I'm playing a solo acoustic set at a club in Richmond for the first time in over a year. Tully's band from Virginia Beach (called The Influence) is headlining at Cary Street Cafe this evening, and they were kind enough to offer me the opening slot. I have to admit, I was flattered that Tully asked, but I was seized immediately by a vague sense of discomfort that swelled nearer to panic as I realized...I have no idea what to play. Most of the solo shows I've played recently have been private parties where people want to hear lots of covers. By contrast, I tend to think of club shows as opportunities to showcase original music - it almost seems expected, as if one would only resort to playing covers if he can't hack it with enough originals. It's a setting where someone might actually be listening to you rather than just allowing you to invade their subconscious from somewhere in the background as they pour another beer and tear into more burgers and ribs. As tonight's set is only 45 minutes, I think I can pull of 5 originals and about 5 tasteful covers. No cheesy stuff. No "fillers." Keep your fingers crossed and hold up your lighters (or cell phones) for the encore...

ready, set...

Tomorrow is Opening Sunday, the first day of the 2006-2007 program year at the church. That means I will undoubtedly sleep badly tonight and have a long day tomorrow...but it will be fun. A service with West Gallery Choir in the morning, a ropes course teambuilding event with the 6th-9th graders during the day, and the parish picnic in the afternoon (where Oak Lane, our bluegrass band, will be playing). A 12 hour day, but it marks definitively the start of my autumn.

And tomorrow also marks 6 months exactly until my 30th birthday...

where to start?

Nancy was just over hanging out at the house chiding me (rightly so) for not having written anything despite the fact that I've been back in the country for over a week. So. Do I start with yet another apology for not having posted in two weeks? Or do I jump straight to pictures? Maybe accounts of the madness and mayhem (not really) that were Alaska and England? Or is it just far too late for a synopsis of any kind at this point?

I'll shoot for the brief overview - with a picture or two for good measure - in the hopes that I can get relatively caught up to the present.

With the help of Erin and Randy (my boss), I ventured into the middle of Alaska with 12 kids during the last week in July. Our goal was to help the Diocese of Alaska continue building a retreat and conference center in Manley Hot Springs, about 150 miles from Fairbanks. In short, it was the best of the youth mission trips that I've been a part of since I started working at St. James's. It was a fantastic group. The kids didn't work terribly hard...but they got along so well as a group that it didn't really matter. My article for St. James's September newsletter (on page 11) has a few more details about the sequence of events.

The next adventure of the summer was the choir trip to England. St. James's Parish Choir was in residence at Canterbury Cathedral for a week singing evensong services each evening. The previous weekend, we sang the Saturday and Sunday services at Westminster Abbey in London. These are arguably the two most well-known churches in Anglican Christendom: Canterbury is considered the heart of the Anglican Communion because it is the seat of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and Westminster Abbey has been the site of the coronations of English monarchs for seven or eight centuries. Several of us attended the Friday evensong service at Westminster Abbey the day that we arrived in London in order to mentally prepare ourselves for our own singing experience the following afternoon. Walking past Big Ben and the houses of parliament to face the Abbey was a little daunting. In our nerdy, choirboy hearts, there was a sense that this was it. This was "the big time" as far as Anglican church gigs go. Remember that scene in Hoosiers where the team makes it to the state championships and, when they walk awestruck into the arena, Gene Hackman's character has them measure the height of the basket and the length of the foul line just to reassure them? It was kind of like that.

More specifics about the trips will surface as autumn progresses and the level of daily excitement in my life slows to a trickle due to work demands. In the meantime, two other pieces of not-so-uplifting news:

1. Nickel Creek is apparently planning to end their run as a band in order to pursue separate paths. I look forward to seeing what comes of this new arrangement musically, but I can't help feeling as if good friends of mine are breaking off a long relationship. It will be sad to see them go.

2. In even sadder news, it's hard to believe that Steve Irwin (aka, The Crocodile Hunter) has met his untimely demise. The guy wrestled enormous gators and crocs for years. He picked up deadly snakes like they were walking sticks. He swam (albeit often by accident) in piranha-infested waters. And he did it all with the energy and excitement of a ten-year-old. That he died in a chance encounter with a buried stingray while doing a shoot for a children's show instead of filming "The Ocean's Deadliest" is a crushing irony. I probably haven't watched his show in five years, but I miss him already.

from alaska to england

OK, I've never been this bad about posting before, so apologies to those who might actually be keeping up. A brief catch-up, for now: Alaska was amazing, I was home for a couple of weeks, and I'm currently in London with the choir from St. James's to sing weekend services at Westminster Abbey and a week-long choral residency at Canterbury Cathedral next week. We just arrived this morning. I've only slept about 40 minutes in the last 30 hours, but it's been a great trip so far. I suppose I'll need to post lots of pictures - both of Alaska and England - when I return. Probably won't get another chance to post until I get back on the 26th, but will put in a short update along the way if possible. Cheers...

into the interior

Quick post, as I'm leaving for Alaska momentarily. Randy, Erin and I are taking 12 kids to Manley Hot Springs again this summer for the youth mission trip. We meet at the airport in an hour. I hope to have good pictures and good stories when we get back on Aug. 2nd!

Until then...

P.S. - I was thinking about Alaska being called "Seward's Folly" and feeling a little disconcerted that you can rearrange the letters (and add one "d") make it "Edwards's Folly." Yikes.

an inconvenient truth

Erin and I went to go see "An Inconvenient Truth" on Tuesday night. For the uninitiated, this is Al Gore's documentary about global warming and the effects on the planet. It stems from a Power Point presentation that Gore has been giving for years in hundreds of cities around the world.

Yes, it's a movie about a Power Point presentation. Starring Al Gore.

Let me state right off the bat that I'm no huge Al Gore fan. And might this film have a little too much Al Gore talking about Al Gore? Absolutely. Political grandstanding? Yeah, probably. BUT...

This is also the most compelling movie I've seen all year. Maybe in the last couple of years.

This movie includes real - and I would say indisputable - scientific data to back up the claims of global warming. Forget those magazine columnists and political pundits and newspaper folks who write about the problem abstractly...like the ones who say, "Well, it's all just part of a several-thousand-year cycle." No more vague claims: this movies shows empirical data - measurements - that left me speechless. As one conservative remarked in this week's Newsweek article The New Greening of America, "Al Gore can't convince me, but his data can convince me."

In short: GO SEE THIS FILM. Ignore Gore talking about Gore if you want, but GO SEE THIS FILM. Seriously, I don't make recommendations that often. If you and I are friends, do me this favor and go see it. I really do feel that it is our duty as human beings to take an honest - and scientifically sound - look at this problem.

going out with a (head) bang

My 12th grade AP English teacher was arguably the most lenient, least effective, and least favorite of my high school English teachers. However, she did leave us with a little pearl of wisdom on the next-to-last day of high school that has stuck with me for years: "It's never too late to ruin a good reputation."

Watching the final match of the World Cup yesterday, I couldn't help being reminded of this admonition. I love soccer for its grace and perpetual motion, for its requisite athleticism and (more often than not) its sportsmanship. Though Italy had been stalwart throughout the tournament with a defense that did not allow an offensive goal (there was one own-goal scored in the game against the U.S.), I was pulling for France primarily because this was Zinedine Zidane's last run before retiring. He's a fun player to watch, one of the greatest of the age, and his skill in controlling the ball commands immense respect. Frankly, I wanted to see him end his 18-year career with a World Cup win.

So when Zidane was ejected after earning himself a red card for head-butting Materazzi in the chest with ten minutes to go in overtime, all I could think was, "Ten more minutes. Couldn't you have made it ten more minutes?" France had outplayed Italy the whole game, and Zidane would have been France's best chance for a goal in the final minutes (not to mention the penalty kick shootout). I'm sure Materazzi said something that very well may have warranted an ass-kicking, but maybe at another time and place, and in a different manner.

I can only imagine working the same job for almost two decades...and then, at 4:50 p.m. on the last day, walking up to an unsavory coworker and knocking the crap out of them.

This incident doesn't change years of amazing accomplishments throughout Zidane's career. But it does cast them in a different light. They are overshadowed by this final, failing move. People will see him differently because of it. I know I do.