I spent the late afternoon and early evening at the Chicago Botanical Garden with Laura and Mom and Dad and Pippa. It was quite enjoyable, very low-key, with lots of flowers and waterfalls and bridal parties.

This and more at my Flickr site, and much, much more at Dad's.

Not really sure how I'm feeling right now. Will update later when emotions give way to creative venting. In the meantime, what's running through my head:

Drink with me to days gone by
To the life that used to be
At the shrine of friendship, never say die
Let the wine of friendship never run dry
Here's to you and here's to me

–Les Misérables

Once again, I return to you from the mosh pits of some of today's finest punk bands, moderately unscathed. I shall run through the highlights in chronological order. Noone I knew was starting off, so I went to the nearest stage and heard Hawthorne Heights, who were quite good. Next up was Mest, who played a fun set as always. They threw in a few fun little touches such as medleying Rancid's "Time Bomb" into Mest's own single "Cadillac." Unfotunately, I missed Relient K, who I'd been looking forward to seeing, but they switched the stages around partway through the day so I ended up at the wrong stage. After that, I swung by to see Dropkick Murphys, who played a bunch of classics, like "The Gauntlet" and "Barroom Heroes," as well as a rewrite of "Fields of Athenry" they had put together for a G.I. who died in Iraq. At this point, I took a break to get some food and wander through the merch tents, and it was there that I saw a familiar face.

As you might recall, two years ago I went to an exciting show at Nevin's Live at which I had beer spat down my front and champagne sprayed into my eyes. Duggan (the man with the champagne) and his band the Lost City Angels were playing the Warped Tour. I said hi and after a moment of shocked recognition, we caught up, talked about the past couple years, and he advised me to check out a band I hadn't heard of before, called Gogol Bordello. I took his advice, and with a parting promise to be at his set, made my way to Gogol Bordello's stage. They were still setting up when I arrived, so I sat through the second half of Skindred's show on the next stage over. It was a unique sound, a kind of metallic reggae with a sequencer underneath. But when Gogol Bordello took the stage, the word "unique" took on a whole different meaning. The band refer to themselves as a "Gypsy punk cabaret," and that's the closest description I can come up with. I really don't know how to describe the set. All I can say is, if they're passing through near you, be sure and see them. It's a one-of-a-kind performance. After Gogol Bordello finished up, I went and saw The Transplants, A group of modern-day punk rock legends: Tim Armstrong, "Skinhead Rob" Aston, and Travis Barker. The Transplants made way for The Offspring, who were just plain fun. They played a good mix of old and new, keeping the crowd singing along and jumping all over the place. For the last song ("Self-Esteem"), Dexter Holland pulled a fire hose on stage and doused the crowd in time to one of Atom Willard's drum solos. Almost spent, I made my way through the crowds to my final show: my old pals the Lost City Angels. They came out with a vengeance and turned my "almost spent" into a "just getting started." Their energy and powerful hooks kept my fist pumping and head banging up to the very last note. At last, exhausted, bedraggled, and sore, I made my way home, to a shower and bed. All in all, a day very well spent.

So... not much on the blog front lately. Since the wedding it's really been work, rehearsal, sleep, work, rehearsal, sleep, work, see Laura, read Harry Potter (reeeeeeeeeeeally good), sleep. Today I have an appointment with an occupational therapist about my handwriting problem. Not really sure how that's gonna go. I'm really starting to feel the crunch of stuff that needs to be done before school. Blah. But, I am going to Warped Tour this Saturday, for free, and there shall be much rejoicing.

Last night I found myself (^_^) staying up very late to lock horns with a very, very challenginig task. I had to pick out a list of nine courses that I thought I'd like to take to send in to my academic advisor. Nine. When I first ran through the course list, I marked twentyone as interesting, and I had to narrow that down to nine. And I'm only going to be able to actually TAKE four. College is too interesting. Do I take Intro to Shakespeare or Reading into Novels: 19th Century? Bible and Qur'an or From Ritual to Spectacle? I was up verrrry late.

I've also been cleaning my room (a fairly Herculean task), and indexing my album cover art in the breaks (most of the way into S now). And on that note... does ANYone know who REALLY does the comedy routine "History and Usage of the word F***"? It's always credited to George Carlin or Denis Leary or the like, but it doesn't show up in their catalogs.

And now, I have to pack, as the day after tomorrow shall be someone else's dancing day-- a couple of specific someones. Justin and Mae are getting married, and there shall be much rejoicing (yaaay).

Tunes: "When You're In Love," The Proclaimers (iTMS).

The birds sing. Sunlight glows and makes my room painfully bright. Eyes still half closed, I roll over in an effort to prolong this semblance of unconsciousness before I have to face the day. I start to curl up into a ball, and that's when it starts. I am suddenly aware of my calf, and know what is about to happen even though I cannot stop it. In slow motion, I feel my muscles tense and clench, sending a massive wave of pain through my lower leg. I reach down to touch it, and encounter rock hard muscle, tight and rigid. Biting my lip to keep from crying out, I rub my swollen calf, feeling the solid mass of flesh slowly begin to melt beneath my touch. After a while, my leg is once again soft and flexible, but still sensitive and tender. I lie beneath the covers, wishing in vain that I did not have to rise and face the rest of the day.

Tunes: "Between Angels and Insects," Papa Roach (iTMS); "Art is Hard," Cursive (iTMS).

I'm just plain fried.

I've been working a lot, and taking time with my friends when I can, but I'm really glad tonight to be able to just sit back with my laptop and not have to do anything. I've been making progress on my album cover art updates (I'm halfway through "D" now), chatted with friends, and uploaded a couple new pictures to Flickr. The Flickr thing concerns me, however. The new pictures I've put up are far better than anything I can ever remember having taken before-- and these shots were taken from a cell phone within a moving train. I feel like somewhere across the world a tree fell on someone's house, just to maintain a sense of order and balance in the universe.

Sorry, who/wherever you are.

So many new and special things!

First, I made my big technology purchases for school: a 12" iBook G4, a 30gb iPod Photo, and a printer. I am having LOTS of fun with my new babies.

Second, I have been flickrized! Check me out here.

Third... OK, so two new and special things. But I'm having fun anyway.

Tunes: "Goody Two Shoes," Adam Ant (iTMS); "Star 69," R.E.M. (iTMS).

A thief, vanishing into a faceless crowd.

A holiday, celebrated long ago with friends and strangers.

A house, whose aged wood breathes with a life of its own.

A car, cruising along through countryside.

Last night I put up a few links to "news" headlines and tacked on some snarky and cynical barbs. Sometime later that night, either I felt guilty about insulting the runaway bride and went back and deleted the post (unlikely) or Leo DiCaprio's people found out and hacked into my admin interface to remove it (very slightly more likely). Or, y'know, maybe I just messed something up in Blogware. Anyone who knows more than I do about this sorta thing have any ideas of where it got to?

The night is cool, a sharp contrast from the humid heat that the day had been. He stands at an intersection, waiting. A broken beer bottle catches his eye, glinting in the glow of the streetlights. Its pieces are scattered, its original shape nothing but a transparent memory told by the label that still holds some few shards in its embrace. He pauses, reflecting on this piece of litter, and its symbolism, before pushing the thought out of his mind and kicking the fragments away, leaving no sign of their prior existence except a light scratch on a rubber shoe sole. Still he waits, and still that scratch stays.

Tunes: "Nobody Likes You When You're Dead," Zombina and the Skeletones; "Baby, I'm An Anarchist," Against Me!.

This week's mantra:

I will not kill/maim/otherwise smite my castmates.
I will not run screaming into the street.
I will not hang myself with my blanket.
(repeat)

Yes, this week is Tech (Hell) week, with 4+ hour rehearsals daily for the upcoming show: You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown. Please do come and see it. Support youth theater. Support homeschooling. Support me (as Linus Van Pelt), and possibly (if you're lucky) see the exact moment when I snap, rend my garments, and swing away on a microphone cord.

Seriously, though, please do come, this Friday and Saturday, at 2pm and 7pm each day. $3 tickets at the door, at the Edge of the Woods Theater, 6376 N. Loleta Ave. Yes, past shows have been free, but we had to pay royalties on this one, so please come and bring lots of friends so the difference doesn't have to come out of my pocket.

Tunes: "Life In A Northern Town," Dream Academy (iTMS).

Imagine, if you will, me as a twelve-year-old boy. Hardly the dashingly handsome young man that stands before you, I was the same weight I am now, but a good foot shorter, with crisply parted hair and glasses that covered the vast majority of my chipmunk-cheeked face. I had arrived in town just in time for a Wednesday afternoon rehearsal, where I was greeted warmly-- for the most part. Will, the current head boy, led me over to a spot next to him so he could show me how they did things at St. Luke’s, so I settled in and started looking over the music I’d been handed. Right about then I received a sudden blow to my side, and heard someone say “Hey! Out of my spot!” I was already nervous, being the new guy, and this assault by an invisible chorister was almost more than I could handle, until I looked down and saw a boy who came up to about my elbow. I made a mental note to avoid him from then on out. His name, I later learned, was Mark Shuldiner. Most of you know how well THAT resolution turned out.

There really is a point to that story, aside from an attempt at humor. I was extremely insecure at that point in my life. I had just uprooted and moved not only to a different time zone, but miles and miles away from the East Coast, which had been my lifelong home, into the strange and unknown lands called the Midwest. Yet in the midst of all this uncertainty, I was dropped off in front of that beautiful neo-gothic sanctuary we know so well, and I was immediately embraced into a community of people united in Christ through a common passion. St. Luke’s made Evanston my home that day, and the choir and parish became a very real family for me, even those among you who I didn’t start off on the right foot with.

We’ve shared many amazing experiences over the years, most of which are hard to name. Whether we were at Six Flags or St. Paul’s Cathedral, playing hacky sack and dying our hair or singing Parry or Howells or Bairstow or whomever, the joy came not from the location or activity, but from the company. Playing Frisbee in the hail wouldn’t have been the same if the boys hadn’t roughed it through and kept on going. It wouldn’t have been as fun to ram someone else with a go-kart instead of Friedland. There’s a song I've listened to and enjoyed since I was a child whose chorus goes: “It’s not the pot that grows the flower/It’s not the clock that slows the hour/The definition’s plain for anyone to see/Love is all it takes to make a family.” Many from my St. Lukes family are here tonight. Many others are not, having graduated themselves or moved away or joined other parishes. But present or not, they and you will always be remembered as my family, and I can’t think of a higher compliment I can give.

Yours truly is now employed for the summer. And not just any old summer job, something that I'm uniquely suited for.

That's right. I'm the newest member of Apple Computer, Inc.

So hey, if you're ever wandering the Mag Mile, poke your head into the cool square building and ask for Si. I'll show you the wares, and try to sell you a shiny new G5 alongside a 30" display. ^_^

Tunes: "Feel Good Inc.," Gorillaz (iTMS); "Jerk It Out," Caesars (iTMS).

Today started well, with the Pan-Seabury softball game. Lots of fun and fellowship and so on and so forth. Then I got home, and was confronted with the allegations (already reported by Dad) that the American Boychoir School, where I spent many summers, has been the site of extensive child molestation and sexual abuse over a very long period of time, even up to the past few years. The memories of having slept in those beds and lived in those halls where such horrific actions allegedly took place literally sickens me, and even more sickening are the concerns that people I know and care about were victims of similar atrocities, or turned a blind eye. Albemarle (the campus) had been the site of many happy memories for me, memories that have now been tainted by the lurking presence of the pain and suffering that I had been unaware of during my stay. My heart goes out to all who have been hurt, and I continue to pray for all involved.

It was a comfortably cool Spring night, the kind of cool that isn't cold enough to notice unless the wind picks up. I'd had a long day and needed some time away, so I wandered down to the lakefront, which is where I saw her. She was dancing– no, frolicking up and down the edge of the shore, kicking up a light spray of sand behind her moving feet. She spun and leapt, seeming not to know what movement would come next, but letting her body swing freely through the evening air. Her head tossed, sending her hair in a wave over her shoulder, and I caught a glimpse of her face. That picture is stuck in my memory, and I don't think anything, even the steady erosion of time, will ever fade that image. Her pale face was spread in a smile that was simply radiant. I watched in awe, wondering what could have given her this joy. She was so happy, she was almost glowing. With a start, I blinked in disbelief as I realized that she actually WAS glowing: there was a soft pale light surrounding her. Her face, arms, and the feet pointing out from under her dress were almost white with luminescence. Gradually, she grew brighter and brighter, until her features became indistinct behind the silvery sheen and it became hard to look directly at her. I raised my arm to cover my face, and the instant I could not see her the light vanished. I dropped my arm suddenly, and looked all about, but she was nowhere to be found. She was gone without a trace except for the footprints in the sand, and a light melodic laugh that echoed in the night wind.

Tunes: "I've Been High," R.E.M. (iTMS)

Some people have waaaaaay too much time on their hands.

I've tried my hand at poetry a fair few times, and while I think that I've got a good feel for rhyming schemes and patterns of emphasis, I still feel a total amateur when faced with works of such bizarre flowing whatever as what I read from Lewis Carroll. His poetry was ever-present in my childhood: I memorized Jabberwocky for a talent show at a young age, and Dad would read to my brother and me from The Hunting of the Snark (those of you who have heard Dad preach or lecture can probably imagine what a fabulous experience that was). Dad and Pippa got me a copy of The Annotated Alice the other day from the library booksale, which thrills me especially because it contains the original John Tenniel illustrations, the same ones that were in the books I first read from.

I would love to be able to converse with Lewis Carroll at length about his poetry, because so much of its meaning is left open. I wonder if The Walrus and the Carpenter really is "an indictment of organized religion," as they say in Dogma, or whether he simply wrote it for the sake of writing it, or if there was another meaning hitherto unexplained. Robert Frost, when asked about the ulterior meaning of The Road Less Traveled, simply said, "Oh, I was just talking about the two roads there in Boston." I'm realy not sure what to make of Carroll's works, or if I should even try. But I do know that I'll be keeping and rereading this book for a very, very long time.

Tunes: "Hey Leonardo (She Likes Me)," Blessid Union of Souls; "Good Old A Cappella," The Bandersnatchers.

I held out for a while, but this meme was just too far up my alley for me to ignore.

First 10 shuffle on iPod:

1. Lost & Gone - Lost City Angels
2. Learning To Fly - Tom Petty
3. Danny Boy - Black 47
4. Closer - Nine Inch Nails
5. Turning Japanese - Incubus
6. Cyclops Rock - They Might Be Giants
7. Prince Of Darkness - Indigo Girls
8. Vengeance And Fashion - Electric Six
9. What A Wonderful World - Louis Armstrong
10. Johnny's Room - The Bobs

(That's a great run... It's being unusually cooperative. Normally my iPod's shuffle displays a rather sadistic streak seemingly bent on aggravating whatever mood I'm in.)

and now, with iTunes:

1. There's A Fine, Fine Line - Avenue Q Soundtrack
2. Zombie - Screeching Weasel
3. The Reason - Hoobastank
4. Ticket To Ride - The Beatles
5. Dragula (Hot Rod Herman remix) - Rob Zombie
6. Waiting Room - Fugazi
7. The Set Up (You Need This) - Reel Big Fish
8. The First Noel (I Like Christmas) - Eve 6
9. Für Elise (Techno Dance Remix) - ?Unknown?
10. How The West Was Won And Where It Got Us - R.E.M.

(I like this set too... and R.E.M. got in there, at the last second. Yay! And I could put links through all of those but I'm tired, so look 'em up yourself.)

Many thanks to Nathan (and Tyler) for putting me up and putting up with me.
Thanks to Liz for picking me up from the train and for providing long pauses in conversation.
Thanks to Shannon for raising bizarre theological questions and for displaying her love of babies.
Thanks to Willa for teaching me so much about American presidential history.
Thanks to Sarah for not fixing me something special for dessert this time.
Congratulations and best wishes to Claire and Derek.
Thanks to all the girls from Ell for making St. Olaf as crazy and interesting as it is.

And dedicated to my Laura.

(No animals were harmed in the making of this film. Except maybe the ones in the petting zoo, I dunno about them.)

I gotta go see about a girl.

So recently, the local alt-rock station Q101 has been taking its entire music library and leaving it on shuffle instead of picking and choosing songs, which is way cool. Where else am I likely to hear TMBG's "Birdhouse In Your Soul" followed by Mudvayne's "Happy?" followed by King Missile's classic "Detachable P****"?

And today, Q101 made me very very very happy, because I called them and they gave me free tickets to this year's Van's Warped Tour featuring The Offspring and the Dropkick Murphys and Relient K (of Veggie Tales fame).

Happy Si. Happy happy Si. ^_^

Yesterday I sat on the train for over an hour to stand outside for another four and a half hours in the cold and wind, before I could wait another half hour indoors, to watch a Ben Folds concert for free.

Worth every second. The man is just amazing. He played with accompaniment, just like in the early days, with bass and drums, and it sounded fabulous.

The set list, as I recall it, went something like this:

Jesusland (iTMS)
Bastard (iTMS)
Bitches Ain't S**t (Dr. Dre & Snoop Dogg cover) (iTMS)
Brick (solo piano) (iTMS)
You To Thank (iTMS)
Landed (iTMS)

Medley finale:
Rockin' The Suburbs (iTMS) ->
Philosophy (iTMS) ->
Theme From Dr. Pyser (instrumental) (iTMS)

You rock, Ben.

Ultimate Frisbee in driving hail.

Now THAT'S what I'm talking about.

Not sleepy, but physically tired. The air feels thicker than usual, and requires much more effort to cleave through.

I played in the softball game today. I didn't bat as well as I'd hoped, but fielded pretty well, and pulled off a solo double play. The long, hot shower afterwards felt exquisite.

My brother called me tonight, and we talked for a while. It felt really good to chat with him about what'd been going on and plans for the future.

I can sleep moderately contently tonight.

Tunes: "Shelter Your Needs," Juliette and the Licks (iTMS only); "Mountain Dew," The Clancy Brothers (iTMS).

Thinking a lot tonight about leaving and missing people. I'm going to be around for either three whole months or only three months, depending on what sort of mood I'm in. A sincere thank you to everyone who's been so blatantly honest (and amusing) about the absence I'll leave.

I should not dare to leave my friend,
Because—because if he should die
While I was gone, and I—too late—
Should reach the heart that wanted me;
If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted, hunted so, to see,
And could not bear to shut until
They “noticed” me—they noticed me;
If I should stab the patient faith
So sure I ’d come—so sure I ’d come,
It listening, listening, went to sleep
Telling my tardy name,—  
My heart would wish it broke before,
Since breaking then, since breaking then,
Were useless as next morning’s sun,
Where midnight frosts had lain!

--Emily Dickinson

Tunes: "In This Diary," The Ataris (iTMS)

A button fell off of a pile of books on my desk and landed underneath my lamp, sending a ray of searing light into my eyes. Moments later, my eyes had adjusted, and I could see again just fine, but the experience started a train of thought that I'd like to share. It has to do with acceptance. As the story goes, Saul was dead set on finding, persecuting, and killing every follower of Jesus's he could find. That is, until one day God shone a dazzling light onto Saul, blinding him, and instructed him on how he should live his life from then on out. Saul went along with this readily, presumably because he had just received explicit and direct career counseling from the Almighty, in a rather dramatic way. The rest of us tend not to have it so easily. While God does help guide us along our live's paths, our missives from on high tend not to be as clear-cut or have quite the same flair as Saul's. At the times when I can tell that I'm supposed to have my digital ham radio set to "receive" and not "transmit," the messages are either cryptic to the point of being barely decipherable or retrospective. It's hard to be open to God's will in our lives when it's not specifically clear what God's will IS. If it were clear across the board, then there wouldn't be fragmentation or schisms or any sort of division among the fellowship of Christ, because we wouldn't have anything to argue about (on a theological plane, anyway). Instead, we are left with our own interpretations, and must do out best to reconcile our interpretations with one another's, because that is a part of God's will that IS clear and specific: that we should love our neighbor as ourselves. As a phrase, it sounds very simple. But egotistical creatures that we are, it is one of the hardest tasks that we can endeavor to undertake. I'm going to take a step off to one side for a minute to make this analogy. God is like a sports coach. The good, encouraging kind, not the kind that berates you if you don't make a goal/basket/base hit/whatever sport you follow. God is the coach who, even after you miss that crucial kick, cheers for you and congratulates you and takes you out for pizza for giving it your all. We can earn that coach's respect, in a very simple but challenging way: playing nice and doing our best with what we have.

See you out on the field.

Tunes: "God Only Knows," The Beach Boys (iTMS); "Superman," Five For Fighting (iTMS); "I Want To Be A Christian," The Proclaimers (Real Audio stream).

I'm feeling really messed up right now. I'm not sure why, or what, or any of that. I'm just thinking too hard, and then I recognize that I'm thinking too hard and then I don't think at all and let the feelings pull me under until I start thinking about them again. If I knew what I was doing I could make something out of it. Zach Braff took this kind of stuff and made one of the greatest films I've ever seen, "Garden State." Ben Folds took this kind of stuff and made an aural tragedy, "Brick." Mark Tansey took this kind of stuff and made bold statements about humanity, as in "Triumph Over Mastery II." What will I do? Will I make something worthwhile out of my confusion? Or will I simply sit and weather the placid storm?

I remember when I first got to know her three years ago, at a party of Heather's. We were playing CatchPhrase, and her phrase was "call girl." We both turned bright red: she in embarassment, I in sheepish pride for having guessed it so rapidly.

I remember so many nights spent with her and Mark, sitting and talking about anything and nothing and everything in between.

I remember her indignation when she found out that I was spending Easter weekend on my own, and how rapidly she drove the hour-plus commute just to get me and bring me back to her house to decorate eggs with the family.

I remember first encountering Nikita, who at the time was expressing her displeasure with ATLA.

I remember learning just what she meant when she said that watching baseball on TV is "an audience participatory sport."

I remember defining the structure of our bizarre family, cementing very real and close relationships in a physically confusing family tree.

I remember many highs and lows, and I remember much more than she probably wants me to, what with awards night coming up soon. ^_^

Soon I will have new memories, of the beginning of the end for this particular stretch of the road she's traveling. I'm just grateful I've been able to walk with her for so long.

I'm proud of you, Jane.

Si has actually chosen a college! Ladies and gentlemen (and the rest of you), may I have your attention, please:

*drumroll*

He will be studying at Marlboro College in beautiful rural Vermont! Let's give him a big hand, folks!

*APPLAUSE*

Tunes: "You Don't Know," Reel Big Fish (iTMS); "ABC-DEF-GHI," Big Bird (for Susie) (wma stream); and "I'm A Believer," Smash Mouth (iTMS).