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The Real Problem of Rush Limbaugh vs. The Rams (and Oprah/Palin)

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 16:16:00 GMT

The biggest “controversy” in the news (since balloon boy got old sometime mid-Monday) is that the players union pretty much blocked conservative talk show host Rush Limbaugh from being part of a group to buy the St. Louis Rams.

Elsewhere, Americans are up in arms because Oprah dares bring Sarah Palin on her show. (Apparently, a fluff talk show host talking to a FORMER politician is a threat to our national security that we all need to weigh in on).

Turn on your AM radio tomorrow, or any of our three 24 hour “news” radio stations, and I guarantee you’ll hear one of those two stories being hotly, passionately, and angrily debated.

Angry. About whether or not an NFL team they probably don’t like will be bought by a guy they may or may not like. (Keep in mind, whether or not Limbaugh owns the team has very little to no impact on the players, or the fans. The sodas at the stadium aren’t going to become half as big if Limbaugh gets the team. He won’t change the colors to pink and orange or make an 11-year-old quarterback).

Here’s the real problem with both of these situations. We’re watching it all go down as a distraction from the things we don’t want to face in our own lives. Rush Limbaugh is not my problem. Oprah is not your problem. I am my problem. You are your problem.

I have been very convicted lately, as to how most of my choices arne’t good vs. evil (will I speak at an abstinence event this weekend, or will I shoot up heroine under a bridge?), but good vs. trivial.

You and I both have access to almost any book on the planet (good), but it’s easier to just flop on the couch and flip through the stations (trivial). If you live in the Chicagoland area, you have access to any adventure you can imagine--skydiving, indoor rock climbing, even “surfing” on manmade waves in lake Michigan (good), but 99% of us stay in on the weekends, and often get our “taste of adventure” by watching Man vs. Wild on DVR (trivial).

The more I analyze my day-to-day life, the more I realize that the danger to myself isn’t that I’ll suddenly join a street gang or start smuggling guns from Canada. The biggest danger I present to me is that I’ll stay in, play video games, order pizza, and ignore the beautiful (Chicago Art Institute), the authentic (punk rock record stores on the north side), and the tragic which calls out for me to something…anything at all (the murder of Darian Albert.)

I’m not saying that watching a movie; vegging on the couch or taking a day to just chill is bad. What I am saying is that a life defined by avoiding hard things will either wind up a completely meaningless one (sometime, go to a video game store, and listen to the clerks share “memories” of playing games with their “friends”), or one in which I act out, trying to add some danger and excitement to my life (casual sex, drinking, drugs, etc).

I suppose that in a way, Rush Limbaugh (and Al Franken and Glenn Beck and Shawn Hannity) is the problem. And so is Oprah. And so is that chick from Grey’s Anatomy (never seen the show, so just pick one). Because they shout out opinions so we can feel empowered without reading about current events in the world, because they talk so we can feel “improved” without taking action. Because they act so we can feel the “thrill” of romance without the risk of a broken heart, the “authenticity” of friendships and brotherhood without the inconvenience of another human being.

I say this in love, to you, and to me. Go. Today. If you and I get wrapped up in something bigger than ourselves, then we don’t need to smash our TV to bits (or whatever it is that distracts us), because the shows, opinions, and yes, advertisements we used to be so defined by will fade to the background, and eventually won’t matter.

Eventually, the mortality rate always hits 100%. Dying a little each day is pretty easy. Your body will do it automatically. It’s the living that demands intentional choice.

Confessions of an Unemployed Writer

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 16:21:50 GMT

My fingers would stick together, as I peeled the top white sticker off. The one containing the band’s name, along with the album title. In those pre-ipod days, I would lay across my bed, pop the disc into a portable CD player, stare up at the ceiling fan. Headphones on. Cue track one. A moment of anticipation.

I can still see the progression of albums, almost in the order I bought them. MxPx’s Slowly Going the Way of the Buffalo. Five Iron Frenzy-Live. P.O.D.’s Fundamental Elements of Southtown. Local group CR33.
And then, my year at Jr. College. I remember a guy who’s hoodie read “Death Cab for Cutie,” a band that would blow up three years later with the indie-rock classic Transatlantasism (and it would be another three years after that before I discovered that album). I got really into Blindside’s Silence record that year, as well as the underground hip-hop sounds of Mars ILL. I remember the guys on my basketball team bumping Jay-Z’s Blueprint CD in the locker room after practice.

Often, these albums would be experienced along with the printed word. I’d devour the latest issue of Rolling Stone, burn through the Chronicles of Narnia for the seventh time, pick up Tale of Two Cities and say the words softly aloud. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”

After transferring to a four-year school, I remembered the joy of loading all my music onto the hard drive of my Dell (I had not yet been enlightened about Apple), flipping through my library of thousands of songs. Sleeping at Last opened for Switchfoot, and my friends and I braved the crowded CTA (there was also a Cubs playoff game going on) to see two of our favorite bands at the Metro, arguably Chicago’s finest music venue. It was one of my first trip to the city that without parents or teachers watching over me, and I reveled in the freedom of my nineteen years. It was on that night that I met my friend Matt Dally, bass player for Superchick. Our lives were running parallel. He was in a newly signed band, wide-eyed at the possibility of making a living off of music. I had just started my first “real” radio show on Shine.FM, wide-eyed at the possibility that this could be a real career. Matt would come down to the studio for my night show, and we’d talk about hip hop, prank call Superchick’s drummer and put it on the air, dream aloud as to where all this might take us. (Note: it took him to the Grammy’s.)

We must all come of age somehow, and in our own unique ways; some of us at 16 because of the pressure life holds, others when when we turn 22 and get a real job, others…later still (and there’s a price to be paid for the delay).

Now that I am a few years past those magically turbulent times, I look back at the major events: leaving home, blowing out my knee, losing my first girl, giving up the basketball dream, finding radio, seeing my parents marriage collapse, seeing hope in the eyes of an impoverished South American child, and those events are always tied to some kind of media that accompanied the journey.

Sitting out late at night, I’d stare up at a sky that wasn’t my own (for there are different stars in the South American night), heart hurting from the poverty I’d seen. I’d just keep hitting the back button on my iPod, listening to Sleeping at Last’s song “Needle and Thread” over and over again.

Later, I laid on the beach in Puerto Rico for two days straight, tearing through Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, and then pulled out my tattered copy of Miles to Cross, a memoir of travel across Europe and America. And I knew, somewhere close to my bones, that I had to keep moving. When I finally got to northern California in the summer of 2008, I’d already been there four or five times, circa 1953, with a young Kerouac, following him, word for word, as he quit his college football team and rejected the white picket fence life for days of adventure.

Four weeks ago, I stepped down from my duties at Relevant Magazine, after realizing that I couldn’t do that and try to write a book. One dream had to die for the other to have breath. So here I am, a now-unemployed writer sitting in my old Levis at the kitchen table.

There are moments when I feel stupid for even thinking I can take on a project this big. One of the biggest secrets of every person working professionally in the arts is that we all hear the voice that says “what if it’s all been a fluke so far. What if this time, everyone will see that I have no talent.”

It’s usually art that pulls me back. Last night, my friend Ryan from the band Sleeping at Last sent me three live songs we’re going to use on the show. The songs brought tears to my eyes. Ryan is one of those songwriters, alongside a short list that includes Brian Fallon of The Gaslight Anthem, Johnny Cash, and a handful of others, who create music that changes my perspective.

It only took a three-minute song to help me discover why I’m chasing this.

So, this is my confession, as an unemployed writer: because I wouldn’t be me without those books and albums when I was 16, 19, 23…I’ve got to take my chance at risking to create something that might change another’s perspective. Whether it’s courage or folly depends on if I get a book deal or not. If I do, it will be soon…and then I’ll share more with you.

Seth

P.S. Sleeping at Last plays at Park West next Saturday. Their new album is called “storyboards” and they will be on my show a week from today. I hope you check them out.

wrapped in chords and melody

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 14:50:14 GMT

Yesterday was a day of union. One of my groups of college friends gathered in Eureka, Illinois for my friend Cathy’s wedding. On the way there, I got a text from my friend Stephanie that another group of our college friends would be in Indianapolis for a wedding.

Cathy’s wedding was evenly split between people from the Shaumburg area (northern Chicago suburbs) and the “downstate crowd,” which is what the Shaumburg natives call anyone south of I-80 (even though part of Orland Park is south of I-80, but that’s another discussion).

At one point during the reception, I grabbed the mic and told the Schaumburg crowd that we would be dancing to “America’s real national anthem.” Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama” blasted through the speakers.
A few minutes later, “Here’s to the Night” played. I grabbed a pretty girl, and slowly encircled the dance floor.
The funny thing is, I wasn’t just in that room when those songs played. Lynyrd Skynyrd took me back to the farm, a hundred memories crowded my mind. Sweet Home Alabama played in a wedding reception or airport or through my white earbuds as I stare up at the stars in my own backyard, will always take me back home. Four wheelers. Cousins. A place called on the McGee Creek called Wilson’s Fjord.

And “Here’s to the Night.” Senior year. Late May. Just driving with my friend Michael, realizing that everything was about to change. The cool night wind whipping through our open windows, night as darks as the unknown we were walking into. And we didn’t know what was ahead. Sure, we knew that we were going off to school and our friends were all headed in different directions, and we knew graduation was eight days away. But those were just the stats, the bullet points. The real ones were “will I find my place in the world?” “Who am I, really?” “What if I fail?” “Will I Find someone to love?”

We didn’t have any answers, but we had some songs. So we cranked up the speakers and let the our favorite bands say the things we couldn’t get past our lips. “Here’s to the night we felt alive/here’s to tears you knew you’d cry/Here’s to goodbye/tomorrow’s gonna come too soon.”

Eight years later, I’m a different version of myself than 18-year-old-Seth who was looking for the answers. I’ve found a number of them. I’ve traded in my chuck taylors and punk rock t-shirts for a j crew polo and pair of patent leather slip ons. I’ve got a career, world travel experience, six triathlons under my belt. I’m wiser, more experienced, with a few more scars and tattoos (and, dare I say it, wrinkles) than that high school graduate. But I’ve become a little more jaded too, burned a few too many times.

The point is this. Whenever Eve 6 comes on, the song takes me to a pivotal point where I once stood, but will always need. I feel 18-year-old-Seth inside of me. Today, I need him. I need his sense of wonder, his fresh eyes on the world. Every single “Sweet Home Alabama” graces a pair of speakers, I connect with 14-year-old-Seth, the quiet dreamer, the skinny basketball player, with a hungry heart to break away and see what’s out there. And I still need his energy, his boundless enthusiasm for what may lay over behind the next sunrise.

I stayed at my grandmother’s house in Peoria last night (she’s in South Carolina at the moment, so I was there alone). As I was eating breakfast, I flipped on the TV, since the house was so quiet. The final few minutes of the 90’s teen comedy “Can’t Hardly Wait” was playing. Sitting at the breakfast table, I mouthed every single line. “That’s when I realized, there is such a thing as fate. But it only takes you so far, and then it’s up to you to make it happen,” the movie character and I say together.

I turned off the movie and wept. And I don’t mean I wiped away a single tear. Wept. I wept because I watched that movie with my high school friends piled onto couches. I wept because those same people are now spread throughout the country, and we’ll probably never be in the same room again. I wept because they loved me, and we needed each other, because I would have never become me if it wasn’t for them.

This is why I love media. Because media, if it’s truly inspired, will always help us see truth. What’s labeled as mere nostalgia is often a window into something far deeper. Helps us see where we’ve been, or maybe a glimpse of where we’re going. Helps us feel how fragile life really is. Or, as the the wedding program read “This is how you truly love something. As if you could lose it at any moment.”

Songs, and books, and films, and the occasional episode of Scrubs, help me see the different stages of my life. Three minute pop songs remind me of the blessings poured over me, and how quickly the times fade away.

So this is my prayer for you today. As you go through school and try new things, as you weep over the first broken heart that we must all endure, as a date becomes a relationship and then a left handed ring, as you lose your heart to a with a child, don’t forget to take some songs with you. And then share them with your date, fiancee, spouse, blast them late at night with your friends, put them on and explain to your children who and where you were when these songs first played.

I hope have some leaving, and some coming home again. But whichever way the road is pointing right now, crank up the speakers and build a soundscape for your experiences. Because life is crowded, and the human mind will lose some of the details that make us alive. But I’ve often found those precious details, those treasured pieces again, wrapped up in chords and melody.

20 things I learned from the first half of my 20's

Wed, 17 Jun 2009 18:01:57 GMT

Twenty things I’ve learned in the first half of my twenties.

I was thinking about this on my 30+ mile bike ride. Bike rides are either the best or worse thing to happen to me. I come up with my best ideas…but I also narrowly avoid wreckless truck drivers and suck down a slime like goo for calories. Here’s what I was thinking about today.

1. A lot of the stuff that seems really fun in high school/college has SERIOUS repercussions later in life. To be blunt: drinking excessively kills your liver. Sleeping around kills a piece of your heart. Smoking kills your lungs, and makes your car nearly unsellable if you want to get rid of it.

2. The best thing that’s ever happened to me is Jesus. Without knowing God who came to earth, the first half of my twenties would have been a vain search for meaning.

3. Life isn’t just about what can make you feel good right now. The successful people I’ve met are also the ones who are disciplined.

4. Cancer is to the body as reality TV is to the brain (particularly any dating show, or anything on VH1).

5. While we’re on the topic, I have become much more at peace when I made the commitment to NOT watch TV news. Ever since the 90’s ALL of it has been sensationalist. Find out the current information another way.

6. A good pair of jeans really are worth the money.

7. After a breakup, show respect. Do that by quietly walking away from the relationship, and never talking to the other person again. All of this “let’s be friends” nonsense should be left in high school. Most people get married in their twenties. You don’t need a bunch of exes emailing you to “catch up” when you’re in your next relationship, and neither does that person. Shut the door, and move on.

8. Find people with great lives, and watch what they do. Whenver I’m around TobyMac, I shut my mouth and listen (unless I’m doing an interview, in which case, I need to ask a question or two). Toby’s at the place I want to be in my forties. Five kids, his own company, still skateboarding, playing bball, and video games once a week. Every time I’m around him or people like him, school is in session.

9. Read. As much as you can. If you don’t now, start.

10. Money comes and goes, but time leaves and we can never grasp it again. One of the best decisions I’ve made in my life is to value my time to have experiences more than money.

11. The older you become, the more your family will mean to you. If you’ve still got grandparents, call them twice a week.

12. The one thing that’s essential for your survival through the first half of your twenties is a group of friends who love you, and love you enough to call you out on your garbage. Assemble them carefully, and hold onto them tightly.

13. Seek wisdom. I listen to 3-5 sermons each week while doing mundane life chores (grocery shopping, laundry, etc). It redeems the time, and has given me a more broad understanding of scripture. The podcasts I listen to weekly are: Mars Hill Seattle (Mark Driscoll), Mars Hill Grand Rapids (Rob Bell), National Community Church (Mark Batterson), Christ Community Church-St. Charles (Jim something-or-other), Parkview Church Orland Park. All are free on itunes.

14. Texting while driving=owing your roommate $600 for the bumper you just smashed. And that’s a bad way to spend your 26th birthday.

15. Spend less time on Facebook. You’ll be happier.

16. Realize how fleeting most of your 20’s experiences are. I did an Emmy-winning TV show for four seasons, and it was over quickly.

17. Chew on these words by Rob Bell “God, help us see that history is going somewhere. That all this is not just a series of random events.”

18. Don’t be a jerk. Tip at least 20% unless the service is horrendous.

19. Learn to like Bob Dylan. Even if it takes you awhile to get past the terrible singing, he'll eventually enhance your life.

20. The easiest thing in the whole world is to just coast through your day, week, year. Shake things up. Do something scary. Drink deeply from great books, albums. Ask out a girl who’s way out of your league, even though you’ll probably get turned down. Ride a skateboard down a hill. Sign up for a triathlon, even though you’re not sure if you can do it. There’s a great advantage to pain…it reminds you to get off of autopilot and be alive.

Reading List 2009...with an angry rant at the end!

Tue, 26 May 2009 03:38:44 GMT

Wolverine was fun, Star Trek was flashy, and Terminator was philosophical. But Adventureland was hands down the best movie I’ve seen this year. Set in the recession of 1982, the film follows a recent college grad who must forgo his trip to Europe in order to work at a local theme park in hopes of raising money for grad school.

Money is only one of his problems. The other problem is that whenever he gets a date, he rambles on about books (“Dickens was a travel writer. He just traveled to insane asylums and slums”) until the girl loses all interest in him.
I sat there, and realized that I spent most of my time between the ages of 16 and 22 as that guy. Cash strapped, and burning through stacks of books each summer.

These days, I’m less broke, but I still burn through stacks of books. If you’re looking for a summer reading list, here’s what I’ve read so far in 2009.

The Catcher in the Rye-This is considered a classic, and something you may have been assigned to read in high school. I hated it. One problem was that I thought the book was about baseball (as in, a baseball catcher who chases a foul ball into the rye). It’s not. It’s about a rich kid at boarding school in New York. He brags about a lot of things. The end.

One Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible-A.J. Jacobs. The agnositc editor of Esquire Magazine decides to follow every rule in the Bible. Hilarious, and insightful read. There are things I learned about the Old Testament that I've never learned in church. Highly reccomended.

Love is a Mixtape-Rob Sheffield. The memoir of a Rolling Stone writer who loses his wife suddenly to a blood clot...and looks back on their relationship through a series of mix cassette tapes, and later CDs, that they made for each other. This is the 2nd time I've read it in six months. One of my top 10 books of all time. Just read it.

Lessons From San Quentin: Everything I Need to Know About Life I Learned in Priosn-Bill Dallas. Bigwig lawyer goes away for a white collar crime, and gets stuck in America's worst prison. While he's there, he meets Jesus, and learns to cut away the all the useless garbage our society values.

The Everlasting Stream-Walt Harrington. A white man’s touching memoir about hunting rabbits with his black relatives in Kentucky. One of the best books I’ve read.

Crossings: A White Man’s Journey into Black America. Walt Harrington. An award-winning book about a white man who’s married to a black woman and the father of two bi-racial children who takes off on a road trip across America to understand race, hatred, forgiveness, and reconciliation. I only finished half of it, because it was already drastically overdue to the library.

Nick Hornby’s Long Way Down-Written by guy behind the book/films High Fidelity and How to Be Good, this novel focuses on four people who meet on a rooftop on New Year’s Eve. All are planning to jump. They make an anti-suicide pact for 90 days. Musings on the human condition ensue.

Nick Hornby’s How to Be Good-A fortysomething dr. is cheating on her husband. But instead of leaving her, he decides to stay, and actually live out his beliefs. Since homelessness is terrible and wrong, he brings a homeless teen home to live with them.

Surprised by Joy: The Redemption of a Cynic. Steven W. Simpson. As far as spiritual memoirs go, this one ranks just below Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz and far above most of the other attempts at the genre. If one book has changed my thinking this year, it’s this one.

Making the Climb-John Bowling. The reflections of the President of Olivet Nazarene University, my parent company, on climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro in his late 50’s. A very good, concise read on trying hard, leaning on God, and finding beauty in everything. It’s the only climb in the world that takes you through every climate on planet earth-from the tropics to Arctic temperatures. One day, I hope to follow in his footsteps, all the way to the top of the roof of Africa.

The Beat Generation. An anthology of Jack Kerouac (most famous for the novel On the Road) and his motley band of beat poets. Sick of the white picket fence life of the 1950’s, Kerouac quit college and left behind his football scholarship for life on the open road, hitchhiking, taking odd jobs, and always writing. This collection puts together some of his lesser known writings, as well as the poems of his crew. I haven’t quite finished it yet, but it’s a surprisingly stark commentary on the countercultural worldview at the time. Some of the concepts are decades ahead of their time (early rejection of consumerism), and some don’t make much sense to our modern situation (reflections on just how much the average person feared a Russian Invasion/nuclear war).

The Singlehood Phenomenon. Drs. Tom & Bev. Rogers-These two spoke at an event I was at for work a couple of weeks ago, and we really hit it off. Right now, more women are living in America without a husband than with one. This is a great breakdown of why people aren’t getting married. More than anything, it touched on a topic that I really want to write more about…the immaturity and narcissism of the younger American male. I’m absolutely sick of seeing so many of my peers have moved back in with their parents after college, and continue to receive financial and “life help” (like laundry and cooking). This is inexcusable, and we’re going to pay for a it as a society. Great read, fascinating topic, and two authors I hope to collaborate with in the future.

Hero-Fred Stoeker. While I haven’t read much of Fred, I highly respect him the guy behind the Every Man’s Battle Series. The book, which deals with raising sons who are coming of age, is a little tired in it’s ideas for the first half (borrowing a little too much from John Elderidge…if you’ve read Wild at Heart, you’ve read this), and is absolute garbage on the tail end. The book ends with Fred’s oldest son, who’s never dated, or kissed a girl, meeting a girl at his college. They get married in seven months. He then tells all young guys to go do this, as it is surely God’s plan.

The problem here is that I did the exact same thing, and it fell apart at the seams. I may have “kissed dating goodbye” between my high school relationship and my engagement, but it was unintentional. A number of factors came into play. A rough break up at a young age, my parents divorce, a threefold career (radio, TV, writing) that quickly pulled me in over my head. Sometimes I hurt too much to let girls in, most of the time I was flying through life at a lightening pace, and simply wouldn’t, or couldn’t, slow down.

I met a girl. We got engaged after about 5 months. We were engaged for three weeks.

The theological point here is that just because ONE person did something a certain way and became successful doesn’t mean that it’s God’s universal plan for the rest of us. The “I Kissed Dating Goodbye” phenomenon within the church in the late 1990’s flies in the face of what 90% of research, and the opinions of most Christian counselors, will tell you is reasonable.

If I took the Hero/I Kissed… model and applied to writing a book about God’s plan for your career, this is what the thesis might be.

“Go get an internship in what you love. Within three months, God will promote you to your dream job.”

In reality, this IS what happened to me at the age of 19. It’s a truly beautiful story of how God took an inexperienced teenager from overnights on country radio in Iowa to a major market Christian station. Whatever happens with my career (and any of us, in any field, could be out of work in 6 months in this financial climate), I’ll always be thankful for His hand on me at that critical age.

While it’s my story, there’s no part of the Bible that would support this as being God’s plan for ALL believers. I fact, it wouldn’t even make sense. And in trying to apply it like that, I would rob the beauty from the story of how God worked in my life.

Derek Webb sings “Should I read between the lines/to become handsome, rich and wise/is that really want you want from me?”

I’m not saying that some of the principals in the Bible can’t be applied to having a successful business, marriage, sports team, etc. But that’s not the point of the book. The point is that Jesus was actually God, and that he died. And then he came back. And he loves you and wants you rescue you.

All that to say, be watchful of who’s theology you buy into (if you’re a Christian). If you’re not a Christian, my apologies for some of the terrible ideas that people have wrapped a bit of Jesus around and sold as a product.
Wow, I didn’t mean to get that heated. But anger often shows where our passions are. Expect to hear more on this subject…

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Wed, 20 May 2009 17:42:05 GMT

The summer sun beat down, but the air was unexpectedly cool for early August. There was an aura about the place. It was different than a 5k. Different than a spring triathlon. Different than the Half Aquabike (1.2 mile swim/56 mile bike) that I had placed third in just three weeks earlier.

This. Was. Ironman.

Everyone bared their arms and calves. No one was bulky, but everyone was lean. And tough. Lots of tattoos were visible in the crowd of some of the world’s most elite athletes, as race numbers were picked up, and $10,000 bicycles were inspected for safety.

A year. That’s what I had paid for one day. A year of sleeping too little, riding in the rain, riding in the wind, endless laps in a pool. Skipping social events to turn a century on the bike (100 miles). Dehydration. Sunburn. Once or twice, crying after a ride because I didn’t think I’d make it.

I was walking with my head high. I had earned my place among the best of the best, the Roman Gladiators of this swim/bike/run combination.

Then I saw it. On sale for only $60!

A “Triathlon Backpack.”

My heart skipped a beat like Megan Fox had just walked into the room. I licked my lips. Began my approach.
“You’ll get all your gear in here,” said the white haired man behind the counter. What he was basing this on, I have no idea, as the rather portly gentleman had the look of someone who considers watching The Amazing Race a workout.

I played it cool. “Hmmm,” I moaned, like a college professor unpacking a new theory. “I can get my wetsuit, two pairs of shoes, and a helmet in here.”

In that moment, I morphed from an amateur triathlete into a shopping lion, and this pack was my gazelle. And lions die unless they catch the gazelle.

Pupils. Narrowing. Focus. Sweat.

The same reactions as a REAL race.

My adrenaline was pumping, and my mind was in “negotiation” mode.

“Of course you NEED this,” impulsive Seth said to reasonable Seth. “These are the seasoned athletes. You don’t want anyone to laugh at you with that old duffle bag tomorrow, do you?

“Besides, this is an INVESTMENT. Think of all the gear you have, and how much it would cost to replace. This ensures that you don’t lose anything. It protects the things you need and love.

Impulsive Seth was right. The reason I had trained, sweat, faced my fear, shaved my legs, and hopped a plane to California was for this moment. Fate alone had brought me here, and it had one message for me.
Must. Have. BACKPACK!

It was over. I pulled the wallet out the front pocket of my cutoffs, slapped down three Andrew Jacksons, and grabbed the backpack the way Mel Gibson wielded that oversized sword in Braveheart.

Two hours later, I was back at the hotel. Turns out, the backpack holds my triathlon stuff in the exact same way that my old duffle bag did.

All that excitement for nothing.

Crap.

Usually my blogs have a point. This one doesn’t.

Except, that we've all bought a triathlon backpack in one way or another.

Trophies and Hugs (Will Not Cure the Recession)

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 22:30:01 GMT

It was well over 100 degrees, and the heat radiated back up off the tar. The row of men carrying shovels and pushing wheelbarrows wear sun-scorched skin, beads of sweat dripping down sinewy arms.

A man wobbles, and then falls. He doesn’t get up. Another one jumps up out of the ditch, and grabs his tool. There are twenty more men waiting in the shade, hoping another one will fall.

This is how Illinois Rt. 104 was built through the west-central part of the state. Two crews of men, desperate for work during the depression. For hours of work per crew. No breaks, or water. If a man passed out from the heat, they drug him to the side of the road, and left him. There was always another desperate soul quick to take his place.

This is not a scene from a movie. This is what “work” looked like for my Great Uncle Gerald during the depression. This is one way he the rent got paid and food found it’s way to the table.

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I know that there have been thousands of magazine articles and several books dedicated to our current financial status, and this doesn’t even take into account the hours upon hours of coverage of people yelling at each other over it on CNN and Fox News. They all have complicated theories of what went wrong and how to fix it.

Let me simplify things a bit. This is where this recession came from:

Too many people, buying too much stuff they couldn’t afford, for far too long.

Seriously, that’s it.

Now, I’m not saying you lived this way, and I certainly didn’t either. But the course of nations are not decided by what you and I choose, but by the habits, beliefs, and actions of the majority….of millions.

And millions borrowed lots of money to buy stuff they couldn’t afford, and thought that just because they had been doing it for 10 years, they could do it forever. And that’s why the bottom fell out.

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I know a guy who I call “the 1979 Yugo.” He earned this nickname because you just can’t make him work.

He’s in graduate school, studying to be a pastor. It’s not that he can’t work, that he’ injured or has some other limitation, but simply that he refuses to. Says working fast food would be “below him,” even though he has a wife and a daughter to support.

This is pretty foreign for me, because I was brought up to work. I broke up concrete by hand one summer, picked up hay bales, built fence, burned brush, sold shoes, made a poor attempt at selling knives door to door, cleaned a church, and did various other jobs to get through college. Fortunately, none of that was “beneath me,” or I would have never gone to college, and would not be in radio today.

And none of it was that hard, comparatively. It was my grandparents, my great aunts and uncles, who worked 16 hours days to save their farms from foreclosure. If any of them got a “break” from the labor, it was a 6 week stint known as “basic training” before getting shipped out with the other draftees to fight Germans.

And when they got home, cows still needed to be fed, fences mended, fields seeded. So they got back to work.

And not once do I ever recall someone refusing to drive a post or carry a 90lb. bale or look for a lost cow in a rainstorm because it was it was “beneath them.” Life requires things like food, clothing, soap, medicine, and heat in the winter. And work was how you got those things.

I hope “1979 Yugo” who’s too good to don an apron and fry burgers alongside the people whose souls he will one day try and win, doesn’t spend too much time reading the Bible. Too much stuff in there to make him uncomfortable, like how a man who doesn’t first provide for his family is worse than an unbeliever, or how God uses the tasks we are given to grow us (see: the parable of the talents).

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The root problem of the recession is not inheratantly political.

The real problem is that we have an entire generation of people who believe that they deserve a hug and a trophy just for existing. They expect the world to revolve around them, and they don’t then there is a grown-up temper tantrum coming (to see one of these, go to a local car dealership and watch as a man whines to his wife about why he “needs” a new truck).

In her brilliant book “Generation Me,” sociologist Judith Twinge warns of the dangers of self-esteem for the sake of self-esteem. In most generations and societies, self-esteem is something that develops in children naturally, as they learn, grow, and move forward in the world. They feel good about themselves when they learn an instrument, take on a paper route, or participate in a sport.

Back in the 1980’s we began to try to give kids self-esteem without them doing anything to earn it. Those kids grew up. And once they were out in the workforce, nobody cared that making this particular spreadsheet didn’t make them feel empowered. So they (we) pouted. A lot.

It is the same “I am so special” mentality that drove the banks and auto industries into places of desperation. If you look at the decisions made, like GM telling the federal government that they “didn’t have enough money to stay open for 30 more days,” it’s pretty clear to see how this same outlook on the world is still in place. “Who cares that the company I’m in charge of is in the red, and this has been coming at us for ten years. I am a super-duper special person, and I DESERVE to be bailed out of my mess with other people’s money. I want my trophy and my hug, and I want them NOW before I have to feel bad about something.”

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Please understand, that I know many people are out of work, and feel terrible each morning because they can’t go out and support their families. This last year has been very, very hard for so many families, and so many good men and women who were working hard and got laid off would like a job but can’t find one. And you and I that are doing ok through all of this need to share with them, love on them, insist on generosity even if they first refuse.

But this recession is a great time to examine our weakness as a culture, as a people. We have the opportunity to see the world and realize that the sun doesn’t rise and set around our individual happiness.

Right now, we have a chance to break away from the model of “amuse me, make me feel special, and do it right now” worldview. This way of living has made us fat from eating takeout, lonely from staying in and watching cable, and, in general, very narcissistic (see: the stuff we twitter. Please note…no one needs to be alerted that you just ordered a milkshake).

Two months ago, I started dancing. Ballet, to be specific, and my class is the best hour of my week. I signed up for lessons after re-watching the Brad Pitt film Troy, and pondering how the ancient Greeks desired to be masters of all things: public speaking, physical fitness, philosophy, math, dance, cooking, warfare, love. These were a people who worked at being great, invested in their children and communities.

And that’s why I dance. Because it’s not something I’m naturally good at, and I needed to be faced with the option that I might fail, and be forced to choke down my ego and humbly try again.

You see, too much leisure, too much mindless amusement, makes the soul sick. If I am not out there working, trying new things, taking risks, then I have no reason to depend on God. I become stale, like water in a pond with no drainage, scum growing on top. I need risk. I need pain, to step out in faith, to truly be alive and growing. I need resistance, because struggle is the only way to become stronger.

So, I believe the recession is a message to you and me: WAKE UP! Quit loafing through life hoping everything will be entertaining. Accept that some things are not fun, hurt for awhile, and are completely necessary. Work hard, even if you hate your job at the moment. Put your heart into it, and use your time outside of work to start looking for something else. Take a risk, sign up for a class, start dancing. Volunteer. Give money and stuff away.

Do whatever it is you will do once you realize that life is short, and most definitely not all about you.

We may be in a recession, but that’s only a bad thing if you and I don’t walk out of it better.

If you need to, work fast food for awhile. But also, dance.

Love & Basketball

Thu, 09 Apr 2009 13:35:58 GMT

“There is always loss in change. Even good change.”
-Rob Bell

Four seniors, and a junior. Two of us are trying to wipe away the hot tears with our white jerseys. I look up at Joe, and we both quickly looked away, our eyes red and swollen like a funeral procession.

My chin rests on my chest. “Temple Christian” the block letters read. “52.” Just four months prior, no one had expected much out of Temple Christian Academy. With two returning starters, and facing a particularly tough conference, the roster didn’t exactly scream “champions!”

But that was November, and this was March. A nearly perfect season, 20-4. Tim McGue at point, with a seemingly unstoppable quickness. Sean Jaques on the wing, grace from the three zone under pressure. Joe Thornburg in at swingman, the fire that turned this team into steel. Daniel Kipper down low, and me planted squarely in the center position.

In those four months, something happened that I had never been a part of before, and have never experienced the same way again. A collective energy, a moment of momentum. I have rushed by so many wonderful times in my life, but I drank this time in. I knew it was special. Things were happening that just shouldn’t have happened. Our team represented a school with only 70 kids, but we were beating pubic schools listed high in the state rankings. The usual nagging injuries that plague every team…just weren’t there. Normally a pretty terrible free throw shooter, I went 100% from the foul line for the whole first half of the season.

There was no “superstar,” which frustrated our opponents to no end. If they shut us down from the three-point line, we’d drop in layup after layup. If they blocked up the lane, we’d get hot from the outside. Every member of the starting five averaged double-digit scoring.

Everything had come down to this: the regional championship. Two quarters ago, we were a favorite to go on to the national tournament. That dream was a ghost fading into the fog, slipping a little further away with each tear that fell down the tip of my nose, onto my jersey.

The door slammed shut. Mr. Olmstead walked in. What could he say at this moment? We’d only been beaten by four teams, and this was one of them. Outside that door, the scoreboard had us down 15 points. Here, in the locker room, we were free to lick our wounds for a few minutes before we went back and faced the truth: we couldn’t beat this team. It was as if our offense had been programmed into them, like they knew where each pass was going before we did. On the other end of the court, they were flawless shooters. Bigger, faster, stronger, and with more experience in tough situations.
Our team synergy, our unmatched hustle, was no match for their size and strength.

Ten years of the game. Six am workouts, Saturday practices. Summers taking shots on the hoop on my barn until the cadence of the dribble, the arc of the shot, practically worked itself into my DNA, became a part of my being. And in 16 minutes and a couple of buzzers later, the game would be over.

Even in our darkest moments, we can’t get away from the little habits ingrained in us. My mom taught me to always respect the coach, so when I heard he deep, gruff voice, I looked up, waiting for the verbal lashing that our poor performance had so clearly earned.

But the voice, though gruff, came out quietly.

“They’re outshooting us, out running us, and out muscling us under the basket. I see how frustrated you all are. The shots aren’t falling, the calls aren’t going our way” he began.

Silence. Like a funeral, or the end of the world.

“But, great teams will find a way to win.” The voice a little stronger now. “This is the greatest team I have ever coached.”

He walked back out.

Those two sentences changed our world, and what happened over the next two quarters would fit well into any movie. We walked back out on the court, facing down the team that had beaten us so badly to kick of the season, the team we just couldn’t win against.

And we held them to three points in the second half.

Before that game, we’d had a magical season. After that game, we went on to place 6th in the nation for Christian schools, our epic run finally ended because of an obscure rule that’s only called when playing in Tennessee. More than the season, more than the bus rides or the national tournament or the game where I pulled 31 rebounds, it’s that half that lives on in my mind. I played the game for 10 years of my life, thousands of shots, hundreds of practices, more road trips and holiday tournaments than I could ever count up. And if I put in all that work for those 16 minutes, then I’m glad for it.

Because for 16 minutes, we were unstoppable.

Three months later--graduation. I gave the valedictorian’s speech, and then started summer workouts with the local junior college, until I blew out my knee, which ended my career that fall.

Now all that was seven years ago, though I can still see the laces in our shoes, the cadence of the in-bounds plays in my head. God and life have been good to me since then. I have the job I dreamed of, a national music column, good friends, and privilege of working in something that makes people’s lives better. In every sense of the word, I am happy.

But occasionally, I can’t sleep at night. I’ll get up for a glass of water, read a book, lay on the couch. And sometimes, I’ll flick on my bedside lamp, and reach into my closet, reaching to the very back, for my old basketball jersey. I’ll bury my face in it, run my fingers over the stitching.

I say all this to tell you that Rob Bell is right. All change is loss. Even good change.

It’s been five years since I’ve seen Tim, three since I’ve seen Daniel. Joe is the only one I’m in contact with on a regular basis. But still, I am thankful I have all this stored up, movies preserved in the grey matter of my brain. It’s not that I regret my life now (it’s wonderful), but there are days when I play those movies, if only out of a longing for the simplicity again. Tim at the top of the key, passes left to Joe. The shot goes up…

Five red jerseys, moving as one. Breathing as one. Adrenaline, flowing fire in our veins. In love with the moment. Love for the team. Breathing the beauty of the game.

I hang the jersey back up, knowing I will need it again. For the next time life feels rushed and crowded, and I need simplicity like a drowning man needs air.

For the next time I must return to this place.

Where all that matters is love & basketball.

Dating, Twilight-style

Mon, 16 Mar 2009 02:34:36 GMT

Currently, I’m 0-4 in the dating world. Translated, that means I have asked out four girls in a row that have said “no” to a date. I believe this qualifies as the worst slump of my life. Well, the longest period of being date-free was probably from age 15 to 17, but that’s because I was super shy, and it’s just so tough to get a girlfriend when you don’t actually talk to girls (for further examples on this, hang out at your local comic book shop. Sorry, “graphic novel specialty boutique.”)

Like a baseball player who gets booed every time he steps up to bat, such a slump can really weigh on your confidence, and self esteem. You start to question little things, like a pro who’s afraid this has come on because he switched to a less-dirty cap. Is it my beard? Did I get dates when I was clean shaven? The fact that I have forehead wrinkles at 26? (The morning I woke up and discovered I had those…not so fun). Have I lost the little perceived hipness that I once put up as a front?

After much internal debate, I knew that there was only one thing to do; a single path out this terrible dateless world I had fallen to, like Alice down the rabbit hole. Only one way to make women like me again. I had to go to where the hearts of women reside.

I.

Had.

To.

Read.

Twilight.

So I did it. I went to the natural source for such material. “Hey, can I borrow Twilight,” I mumbled to a co-workers daughter during a work Christmas party, eyes averted like I was buying heroine or handguns to give to kids. I stuck the contraband beneath my jacket and hurried out into the cold without saying goodbye to a single soul.

I pushed myself through the first book, and endured half of the second one. At which point, I just got too bored with the whole thing. I really lost interest in whether a klutzy girl would choose to spend her life with a Vampire or a werewolf. Honestly, I didn’t care if the characters fell in love, broke up, or decided to take classes to become EMTs at the local junior college.

But I didn’t have to LIKE it. I’ve seen how this book has resonated with pretty much every girl from age 13 to 30. I know one otherwise brilliant, focused woman who actually failed one of her CPA tests because she was reading New Moon rather than studying. Therefore, there must be lessons to learn in this world where boring Bella word-vomits her every thought onto the page. So, here is is…the Twilight rules of dating.

Rule #1-Cold skin is in. Edward has the body temperature of a corpse, and for some reason Bella loves it. So guys, soak one hand in a bucket of ice just before your pick your girlfriend up. It’s blue color and total lack of circulation will make you seem mysterious when you slip your fingers into hers [note, overdoing this rule will result in a condition known as “frostbite,” leaving you no fingers to slip through hers].

Rule #2-If you accidentally turn into a werewolf and maul your date, you are morally obligated to marry her. [Seriously, how did we go so many centuries without such a practical maxim on this topic].

Rule #3-If you want a girl to notice you, have great hair, drive an expensive car, and behave in a way that lets the world know you are completely self-absorbed [hey, I saw it work in both high school and college…]

Rule #4-If your date starts flirting with a werewolf; it would be in poor taste to destroy his entire clan out of jealousy.
Rule #5-If you are inflicted with a condition that never allows you to sleep, causes you to thirst for blood, and keeps you in a state of eternal youth, it’s going to be pretty tough to plan out a life with a mortal who’s going to age, can’t read thoughts, and, you know, prefers TGI Friday’s to that O-Positive red-sryupy stuff. [And you thought it was tough to be a Pentecostal Cubs fan with a boyfriend who was raised Baptist and a Sox fan].

So there ya go. I’m now a radio host, writer, triathlete, ballet dancer, and classic romantic who has mastered the essence of the most important works of fiction ever to enter the world of middle class white girls who “Just. LOOOOOVE. Edward.” (As my friend Stephanie puts it “the most perfect man ever.”)

Since I don’t have a cool car or movie star hair, and I’d prefer not to become self-absorbed again (been there, done that, sorry for my cocky phase), and I need sleep, I guess I’ve only got two things about myself that I can “Edward-ify.”

If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be soaking one hand in a bucket of ice to drop it down to vampire-coolness, and reading oh-so-trendy blogs about werewolf trivia.

P.S. Nobody tell my future children about this. Or any girl I might go on a date with. Or any single, attracting 20-something girl in Chicago or Indiana. Or my guy friends. Or my co-workers. Actually, just take this to your grave. I’m secure enough in my identity to enjoy dancing at ballet class, but reading Twilight is the breaking point, even for me.

The Valentine's Day Blog.

Thu, 12 Feb 2009 16:11:36 GMT

I’m hosting this event for Cache Connections on Saturday night (Valentines Day). I’ve got a ten minute monologue to write between now and then (about some of my more zany and hilarious dating escapades).

So here’s a few funny stories, sad stories, and maybe even an insight or two. Happy-Day-Of-Love-That-Was-Invented-For-Marketing-Purposes (I still think we should celebrate it).

-Worst question I’ve ever been asked on a date: “What’s your favorite color?” This was tossed my way after I’d asked about music, travel, film, books, theater, stuff to do in downtown Chicago, and the girls family. All of which she seemed terribly uninterested in. I had pretty much given up talking at this point…and she wants to know WHAT COLOR I like. “Umm…blue.” She then rattled on about this subject for a solid three minutes (keep in mind, this is about the shade of crayons in the Crayola box that you got in kindergarten…which is where this topic should have stayed).

-Worst thing anyone has ever said to me on a date: Rant about the horrors of the Irish in Chicago. The girl, raised by her Italian grandparents from Italy, didn’t know my heritage (my great-grandmother got off the boat in Chicago from the Isle of Mann—an island where they still speak Gaelic). Those who grew up on the south side know that when you’re raised Irish, you’re raised VERY Irish. Hearing inaccurate theories about how the Irish in Chicago “oppressed the Italians” does not entice one to ask for a second date. (Side note: how exactly did my people OPPRESS your people when we were working in sub-human conditions in YOUR meat packing plants and shipyards? Yeah, I thought so).

-Worst thing a girl’s parents did to me: Senior year of high school, I asked a girl to my Christian-school-prom (basically, watered down prom, no dancing), mainly just to be a good guy. She didn’t have a date, and I had just broken up with an on-again-off-again (now repeat that 18 times, and you have a summary of that relationship) girlfriend…so why not be noble and ask? When I picked her up, her parents had me pull out my drivers license to prove that I had never been arrested (when you’re arrested, they staple your license, leaving holes). Keep in mind, I never got a detention in high school. I had straight A’s, played two varsity sports, wrote for the paper, was the valedictorian, and went to a school where hardly anyone drank or smoked weed. I was beyond angry at being treated this way. NEVER has anyone looked down on me the way that pastor and his wife did. (Side note, the girl wasn’t very nice either. She talked a lot about being a writer after college. Wonder if she knows I’ve been published more than 40 times in 5 different publications).

-I once went out on a date with a girl that said “costed” three times over the course of the date. As in “it COSTED ten dollars.” A writer simply cannot be in a relationship that involves bad grammar.

-Best book you can read to become a better partner: The Five Love Languages.

-Note: I have love language 5.2. I feel loved when someone listens to my famous mix CD’s. (I make them for all my friends…but if a girl I’m interested in likes one, I melt).

-Love Story I most relate to: Love is a Mixtape, By Rob Sheffield. It’s about a guy who makes mixtapes for a girl, they fall in love. They are madly in love. She falls over dead at 31. It’s a true story, written by an editor of Rolling Stone. Read it.

-Best thing I’ve done to prepare for a relationship while single: asked LOTS of questions of my friends who have great marriages, and trying to observe all I can (Chitwoods, Matt & Hol…this means you guys).

-I’ve been engaged, but never in love. Be very careful…the world, and the church, want to see people live happily ever after. Pressure can cause you to rush in. I have spent the last year dealing with this. That I broke my word. That I treated all my friends bad during this whole ordeal. I came through it, with professional counseling and lots of grace from friends. That is all behind now.

-Question I have yet to answer: Do I have to slow down on some of my crazy stunts when I’m married? At that point, must I give up that which makes me feel most alive (which is often the same as that which can most likely steal life away). I really want to do that triathlon off of Alcatraz Island. There are sharks in the water. And the bike course is so steep that you can crash. And die.

-Statement: Some people are looking for someone to start their life with. Some people are looking for someone to join in. I’m definitely in the second category. I pray that God lets me go up Mt. Kilimanjaro, across Costa Rica by bicycle, down across a reef floor in scuba gear…and an awful lot of places in between.

-Fact: Diamond rings are an invention of the last century. Until Debeers started marketing them as the “marriage ring,” diamond’s weren’t particularly popular.

-Fact: Every real girlfriend I’ve ever had was burnette.

-Fact: As a rule, I’m not overly attracted to blonds.

-Fact: Redheads are hot. I’ve never dated a girl with red hair. When I was in sixth grade, there was a girl with a red bob, and I was too timid to talk to her. I have no idea what her name was…but she’s the one that started the fascination with the hair color.

-Fact: Jenny Lewis (of Rilo Kiley), and singer/songwriter Neko Case are both great songwriters. Both gorgeous. Both redheads.

-Theory: Maybe the whole redhead thing is just Ireland calling me back. The motherland wants me to return.

-Opinion: Nada Surf’s “Always Love” could save a lot of bad marriages. (Addison Road also recorded this song).

-Truth: I can give, at best, half my heart away to a girl. The rest is in Fishhook, IL for safekeeping. And if a potential love wants it, she’s gonna have to dig it out of the soil in my uncle’s field, where I had my 8th birthday party and field dressed my first deer, sift it out of the stream where we took our flock of sheep each summer day, walk and find in on the gravel road that leads to that which is most precious in my life.

She’s going to have to get the rest from cousins and my sister. My grandparents, my mom, The Cooleys, The Kurfmans, the Sabensgy boys, the people who grew my heart, taught me to play ball, taught me to shoot, to ride a fourwheeler, to find turkey signs and deer rubs, to work like a clydsdale, showed me Jesus and grace, who grew my soul.

-Truth: Even if those pieces are all gathered, a few stay buried with my brother Austin, my cousin Lance, my Great Uncle Gerald and Great Aunt Mary Emma. No one can have those pieces. Not a love. Not even me.

-Final word: Who you love is the 2nd biggest decision you will ever make, behind only your belief, in God (or lack thereof, and alternate worldview). It is a decision we obsess over so much that we often rush it. If I’m not married at 30, I believe I will be happy. If I’m married in 18 months, and it’s to someone who makes me better, who makes me more alive, and I do the same thing for her, then I will be happy. But never again will I be in a hurry. If you have to talk yourself into love, it’s not love. If your partner makes you cry now, they’ll make you cry a month from now, and 20 years from now.

But if it’s an adventure, then I believe, with care, it can be an adventure a month from now, and 20 years from now, until one day death comes in and separates the partners in the dance.

But only for awhile. Love like that never dies. I still see hope in the eyes of widows.