Smokin with Paula

So, my first day of real-life, big boy college is tomorrow. And I'm starting to really question my decision. I mean, what was I thinking signing up for 8 AM Macro Economics? Was I high in my adviser meeting? Was she high? At about the hour mark, we did stray from academic conversation to her wondering aloud, "Did we really walk on the moon?"

This was just before she said (about her son coming home with the autograph of a particular ill-received former baseball player), "And that son-of-a-bitch came home with Pete Rose's autograph!" Her name is Paula. She gave me her cell-phone number. I love her.

Well, I would LOVE to tell the story of yesterday, of how Ross up and decided to drive to Western, hop in my car and ride shotgun all the way to dang Lexington to see Laura. I would love to tell of how we somehow entered a time warp and it took us an ungodly amount of time to get to Laura's apartment. I would love to tell of how we waltzed into Room 310, just like Laura said, and excitedly waved hello to...Laura? Who were those girls? Apparently, there were several buildings that had Room 310s. Oh.

I would love to tell you of how we hung out with all of Laura's wonderful friends deep into the night. I would love to tell you of Laura and Caitlin and Ashley and Emily and Emily and Thomas and Margaret and Lizzie and the guy with the sweet hair and white shirt and pants and Tim and later Mallori and how we played Scattergories and some wild game that Lizzie apparently invented. I would love to tell you of how Ross and I slept comfortably on Laura's tiny--but cute--bed but I can't because I did not sleep comfortably with Ross on Laura's bed. I would love to tell you of how me and BD moved my crap permanently (hopefully) into Southwest, the sweetest dorm on campus. I would love to tell you of how I met my roomie, my best one yet. I would love to tell you of the time when Laine and Jackelyn came to my room and we looked at my senior scrapbook. But that would take way to long. I'm hittin the sack, bro. I've got effin Macro in the morning.

PS - I hope that all the entertaining and I-really-hope-these-people

-like-me game is over. Its draining. I know its gay, but the last few days I've put a lot of pressure on myself to be appealing to others. That's stupid, I know. Tomorrow, I want to have some real conversations.

an ode to dan

i want to smell your lovely-smelling hair...that is no longer there.
you may notice i'm no longer at lipscomb, and you'd ask, "where?"
western kentucky, for lipscomb's tuition is just not fair
and so i leave brittany, leslie, justin mcclain, and kevin harris in your care
but you can come and visit me, do you dare?
you could run like a hare
to my dorm room, my crib, my lair
you could ride on a bear
or ride on a mare
we could eat peaches, prunes, or pears
truly, a friend like you is rare
with your stunning looks, your catching stare
you always knew what to wear
to make your shirt sleeves look as if they were about to tear
because of your huge biceps

Omaha boys (you know who you are) will enjoy this...

This was written immediately after I got home, obviously over two years ago, so...

Cancun or Ohama? That was the question.

In the fall, when the leaves were still orange, Senor Frogs wasn't hoppin', and long before the rolling hills of Nebraska echoed with cheers for "HUSKER! POWER!" Chris Lowe and I had a decision to make.

Not known for being hardcore partiers, Lowe and I quickly dismissed the notion of traveling to Cancun, where the beer flows like wine and the women flock like the salmon of Capistrano. Instead, we opted for Nebraska, where the Cokes flow like wine and thousands of sleepless cornheaded Husker fans flock to the General Admission hill like sheep.

After months of waiting, wondering, talking, planning, waiting, planning, ordering, canceling, wondering and inviting, this dream of a senior trip became a reality when the Fed-Ex man brought me my shrink-wrapped, overnight-shipped book of College World Series tickets. I remain amazed that I had to pay $15 to have these Fed-Exed to me. By comparison, I could've had 15 double cheeseburgers at McDonald's and got my tickets in two weeks like everyone else. But no, convenience is very important to me.

Now when Lowe and I sat down to carefully discuss and plan this trip (Read: When Lowe and I made passing remarks about the trip while playing MYP on the Ps2) it was decided that only a select, elite group would be invited to the Land of Corn. Our master plans were foiled, however, when Edward, despite our finger-over-mouth, dont'-say-anything gesture, loudly asked, "So who all's goin to Omaha?"

Good question. The terrific three, as decided on by me and Lowe, were Shaw, McLaughlin, and Clay. Five, we thought, was a solid number. Just enough to ride uncomfortably in an Expedition and for some unlucky soul to have to sleep on the floor.

It was all final. Hotels were booked. Vehicles were confirmed. Heck, even Clay was in.

Then Will spoke up. He claimed to have been in the initial group along with Tice, and refused to accept despite illness and near death, watching the CWS in ESPNHD.

This became a problem. Sure, Joshua marched around Jericho seven times and the greatest switch-hitter of all time, Mickey Mantle, sported the big 7, but there was absolutely no way seven people were going in one car twelve hours to Omaha.

Now, you've heard of addition by subtraction, but have you ever heard of subtraction by addition? Here's how it works: to rid ourselves of the bumming ways of Will and Austin, we invited more pilgrims on our cross-country trek. Well-behaved and good-natured buddies Ben Scott and Weston Langdon were invited to join the seven, giving us nine, the exact number of companions in the Fellowship of the Ring. By adding a tenth, initial recruit Edward Porter, we formed the "Fellowship of the PING."

Day One

Our experience of a lifetime would begin precisely at the beginning of Day One, the very stroke of midnight, when we began packing Lowe's Expedition, collecting gas and parking money, and taking our BEFORE Omaha picture.

When Group Two arrived at 1, late, as usual, and without the bed-ridden Cripps, we finally set out for Barbecueville, or, so we had heard. Lowe was behind the wheel, while I rode shotgun, as we held the coveted all-night driving shift. Shaw and Clay, obviously energized about the journey, stayed conscious and we laughed the night away. McLaughlin was asleep before we put the keys in the ignition.

See you, Friends.

On Sunday morning, July 22nd, my alarm went off and I got up and went to Connect group, Long Hollow's college-age 'Sunday School.' That fact that I even wrote that sentence is a testament to how often THAT happens.

Here, while I sat between Chuck Woosley and Dillon Heath, I heard the awesome stories from the mission trip to Canada, how they were able to see life change in their own hearts and among the Indians there, and how they posed for pictures with NBA No. 1 pick Greg Oden in the Minneapolis airport.

I sat with Dillon later that morning in worship. We chuckled for the duration of Brother David's lesson on...what was it on?

I remember, as a kid, feeling very very ashamed and less of a Christian if I couldn't recall the preacher's sermon title, Scripture references, and three points.

After service, an army of us virtually took over Hendersonville's El Puente, whose facilities took the cake over Mazatlan's but whose chicken nachos left me longing for the days of free Jim's Nachos.

On my way here, I got a phone call from Brittany Williams, who had a challenge for me. I had no idea what it could be.

Well I have no clue where Brittany came up with this, but the game was to see how long one could go without saying an "I-statement." Or, talk about yourself. She suggested I try the whole day. I suggested lunch.

Before Pedro had even brought the drinks back, I was fidgeting in my chair. I wish I could've enjoyed it, enjoyed asking people about their thoughts, their feelings, their lives, but this restriction, this PRISON was killing me!

I lasted 30 minutes. Well, technically, 10. But I'm saying 30. Somebody ASKED me about my plans for the fall! What was I supposed to do, respond in kind, "Better question: what are your plans for the fall?"

It was somewhere between the chicken nachos and the cheese dip when I broke down.

"I get to go to LA this fall! I get to stay there the whole weekend! I get to go to a USC game because I graduated with Patrick Turner, their best receiver!" I rambled on about this and other irrelevant things that only I cared about until the checks came.

The more I think about this day, the more apparent it becomes that this was probably the most eventful day of my life.

A week before, Ross and I, bored with our traditional nightly entertainment, MVP Baseball 2005 for the PlayStation 2, decided to spice things up a bit. We would draft our own dream teams and play a series. Best-of-seven. Loser buys dinner (Read: Wendy's Dollar Menu nuggets and fries, a Frosty if you're lucky).

I was carried early on by my young 3B David Wright, whose Game 1 grand slam and walk-off Game 2 homer gave me a 2-0 series lead. With two wins at home, Ross evened the series at 2-2, heading back to Minnesota (I was the Twins, he the Tigers). In the pivotal Game 5, Johan Santana--my ace and hometown favorite--clung to a shutout and a 1-0 lead with 2 outs in the 9th when Ichiro--freakin Ichiro--hit a game-winning 3-run home run. I still haven't recovered. I stole Game 6 with a big homer from Manny Ramirez and a masterful performance from Jake Peavy.

This forced a seventh game, which went down at 4 P.M. CST at my house. Going into the 8th, with veteran John Smoltz on the mound, I held a promising 4-2 lead, until closer Francisco Rodriguez came in for a six-out save opportunity. He would give up six runs. A tie-breaking Placido Polanco (the series MVP) grand slam gave Ross and the Tigers the final margin, 8-4.

We have no life. And we love it.

That night, Alex Aust and I met Seth Goodwin--who is gay--at Rocketown for August Burns Red, who plays perfect music. Their cd has been in my player for a month straight. They were awesome.

After the show, as Seth, Alex and I walked to our cars, we were approached by two men who, even as they were 30 yards away, we knew were going to stop us. I honestly don't know what this says about us, that we would be apprehensive about two approaching middle-aged black men, but whatever.

"Hey! Guys! I ain't got a gun! All black people ain't bad! I'm a Christian!" one promised as he jogged our way, extending his hand for a shake.

He wasn't homeless. He sported a collared shirt, faded jeans and a ball cap, like his friend. I believed he didn't have a gun.

He said something about dropping his friend off at the bus stop and his car not starting and something about Gallatin and something about money.

Between us, we gave him ten bucks. We were kind of unsure why. After he graciously thanked us and called God's blessings upon us, he and his friend scampered around the corner to their car. Before long, he returned, as we were still lingering at our cars.

"Hey man! You got any cables? We need a jump!"

Seth and I both had cables. We drove down the block to where their car was, in front of a shady, dimly lit building off 6th Avenue.

I saw that Seth and Alex were semi-nervous as the two men fiddled with the cables, and I clutched my cell phone, just in case.

About ten minutes passed, and by this time it was fairly obvious that those guys were not wielding knives or semi-automatic guns of a posse of gang members. Still, their car wouldn't start.

When Alex recommended that we should pray, one of them proclaimed, "Faith of a mustard seed moves mountains!"

Amen brother!

I, for the first time, asked them their names.

"Richard," said the one who'd done all the talking to this point.

"Tony," said Richard's smaller, younger-looking companion.

They took off their hats and bowed and prayed with me. I checked.

It ranked right up there with Edward Porter's "Lord, thanks for the good round uh 'BP' today and let us get uh 'W' tomorrow!" and the Madison Church of Christ elder's "Thank you, Lord, for lettin' us eat hot dogs and hamburgers, for letti'n us shoot off fireworks..." in all-time most hilarious prayers.

"Lord," I petitioned, "start their car."

Jordan Puryear will really appreciate this.

"God," I continued, "just start it. Start their car. Amen."

Tony put his hat on and excitedly turned the key. Nothing.

God was up to something. I knew it. And it made me want to shake my fist at him and go home. That's when Seth blurted out, "You guys need a ride anywhere?"

Richard and Tony, a little surprised themselves, said they had a buddy that lived off Lafayette. Near Mr. Burgers. So we got into Seth's car. Here's how it looked:
Seth Alex

TonyRichardRaleigh

"Where you guys been tonight?" Richard asked.

"Over here at Rocketown," one of us replied, "at a metal show."

"Oh, kinda like AC/DC and Metallica."

Something like that.

"Seth's in a band," I said, pointing to Seth and making convo.

"Whatcha'll called?" Richard did most of the talking.

"The Blood The Glory," Seth responded, "talking about Jesus."

Richard didn't miss a beat, "Oh, like Creed!

I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking
maybe six feet ain't so far down

We were rolling. Somewhere around this time we all formally introduced ourselves, and I asked them if they had any family.

Me and Richard's legs were touching. Our arms too. We basically cuddled.

They responded--first nonverbally--to my family question with a look of shame that was, as they began to talk, swallowed up by immense pride. Not the kind of I-bench-press-more-than-yo

u pride but the eye-brightening kind that talking about your kids brings.

"I got three daughters," Richard said, "They live in Knoxville with my ex-wife."

This ex-wife was Richard's third.

"I got two. Girls. 16 and 18," Tony boasted, humbly.

His lived in Hot Springs, Arkansas, with his ex-wife.

"Man, when I was your age," Richard started again, "I won two Golden Gloves in boxing," as he raised his right fist and showed me.

It was f'd up.

"How old are you now?" I asked.

"You won't believe it, but I'm forty," he boasted. He thought he looked younger.

I played along, "Aw, man, you don't look forty!"

Picture a 40-year old black man practically sitting on top of a 20-year old white kid straight from a hardcore show who looks the man in the eye (less than six inches away at this point, mind you), grins, and says in a borderline-flirty tone, "You don't look forty!" and you'll get the humor.

Richard and Tony laughed.

As we approached Mr. Burger, Richard told us to stop, to let them out.

"I don't want you to be in this bad neighborhood, its bad down here, man."

Seconds later, "You guys go to church?" Our prayer had him thinking.

"Yeah."

"Man, I got baptized down there at that Church of Christ over there last year!"

RESPECT, Richard.

They shook our hands.

This was it. See you, friends.

r u up 2 the challenge? lol brb g2g!

The cell phone is off.

After thinking back to my glorious six days at camp without that wretched, clingy GPS tracking device sitting in my lap, I decided to see if I could go a whole week without my dad gum cell phone. When I made this news public yesterday, by way of a mass text message, the responses I got were both encouraging ("That is so great!" and "I'm so proud of you!") and...less encouraging ("You are an idiot." and "That's the gayest thing I've ever heard!" followed by an only slightly different "You're the gayest person I've ever known!".

Here's the point: think of the innumerable distractions that a cell phone causes! When your phone rings to alert you of an incoming call or text, you are inevitably ripped away from whatever it is your doing, whether its a good convo with the parents, a nice episode of Man vs. Wild, a quiet moment with you and God underneath his gorgeous dome of stars...you get the point.

But I don't let it be a distraction! you say. So you multi-task as you barrel down 65, using the steer-with-the-knee technique flawlessly as you type out "Ur gr8! Lol r u goin 2nite?" I've gotta go now...but anyone who'd like to join me in this challenge, let's go. Turn 'em cell phones off and get out and have a real conversation!

splattered thoughts: curious but timely

So it seems like its been so long since I've splattered my thoughts over the Internet for the world to see. Why the heck is that? Even now, as I type, I'm semi-nervous, like when you're hanging out with old friends and the first five minutes or so are always awkward; then things are just as they always were.

OK, I'm good now. God really has put many many things on my heart over these last few weeks. First, there was Long Hollow camp, where for the majority of the week I couldn't get out of this stupid Raleigh-has-got-to-have-a-major-spiritual-encounter-because-its-camp-and-everybody-does rut, until God powerfully used my little brother Alex Aust to wake me up.

As soon as I got back from camp--the VERY MINUTE--I was smothered with 27 billion unread text messages and a thousand unchecked voicemails. Oh the bliss of laying down on my 1-inch thick mattress every night for a week without having to look over and and check my messages one last time or having to type out a crap 'goodnight' text to a girl who I desperately want to like me! I was immediately sucked back in. This past month, despite being without a phone for a WEEK at camp, I paid $150 for going over on my phone minutes. I say this not to confirm that I am popular after all but to point out another of the ridiculous lies Satan has thrown our way. Oh if I could but just throw my effin cell phone out the window...

One of my friends (was it at camp? was it since I returned home? i can't remember...) described this image to me: he sees in his mind the image of a man sitting in a chair, under the guise of relaxation. Really, as you take a closer look, you'll notice his fingers and toes are not really fingers and toes but cords, wires that run all about the room, finding their way into sockets in the wall, into the backs of computers, to lights, to TVs, to iPods, to cell phones. These appliances no longer feed on electricity, but on us. They drain us of any real opportunity to experience wind, beauty, and conversation. With others, with ourselves, with God.

This kind of just came to me, but anyone who's reading this who wants to join me, I'm turning my cell phone off for a week. Just to see what happens. Who wants to join?

All of that was said to say this: before I even had a chance to sport my XL camp T-shirt after it was shrunk in the washer, the Internet and my blinking text message alert had all but sunk any opportunity for a decent 'quiet time.'

So I was as pumped as ever to get to go to Northern Georgia or wherever the heck it was that G. Baines led us to. Let's not say that. Wherever it was that we CHASED the fleeing G. Baines to. That happened to be a wonderful place with a lake and wooden bear statues nestled between the hills of the Blue Mountains (I may have just made that up). Ah! God had me right where he wanted me again! No cell service!

The first morning, as I gazed out over the misty lake and up above the treetops to the infinite gray sky, I started to wonder if I really 'got it.' I mean I know that I have more to learn, that I still have maturing to do, experiences to live; but after thinking about the t-shirts printed that read "What's it all about?" on the front and "Nathan knew! Let's finish what he started!" I seriously thought that I did know what it was all about. But what if I don't know? What if Nathan didn't know? What if the teachers and principals at our Christian schools don't know? What if your church's pastor and my church's pastor and your parents don't know? Itt is a more of a reality than you think it is.

I began to pray that God would reveal to me, that he would SHOW me that my thoughts were not in vain and that there was something more, something deeper and more meaningful than going to church because thats what Christians do and not drinking because, well, drinking's what sinners do and sleepwalking through chapel and Bible every day because what kind of Christian SHOULDN'T be stoked for a 30-minute devo talk every day?!?! God began to show me that it was not about me. At all. I know its simple and overstated. But we don't believe it. Nobody does. We say we do. We don't.

I suppose there's no way to say this without sounding arrogant and prdeful either, but I don't think it matters. During our 'share time,' a lot of the time was spent listening to 'convicted' hearts make hollow vows to 'tell some people about God' or 'start reading the Bible' or to 'stop cussing.' While spiritual discipline is certainly key to maintaining a strong working relationship with Christ (obviously time in the Word is key), this seems so to be such a blatant oversight of what it REALLY is about. Christ and his curious but timely (does that word do it ANY justice?) and amazing death on the cross is to be passionately adored and longed for and wondered about, engulfing our lives until everyday we abandon our own EVERYTHING simply to glorify Christ. Think you'll tell people about Christ if you feel THIS way about him? I bet you'll search the Scriptures like a wild man, too. And it is weird (and supernatural) how God will tame even the wildest tongue if that person is 100% committed to Christ, not to stop from saying 'ass.'

more thoughts to come...oh boy its late.

'did it hurt when you got your coldsore?'

Exactly NONE of you care. I'm telling you anyway.

After sleeping too little on a pillow a little too big--enough to piss you off--I introduced myself, wide-eyed and only semi-conscious, to April the 19th.

I had labored hard on my Youth Ministry project late into the night and the plan was to put the finishing touches on it this morning and get on with my life. "Getting on with my life"--this day at least--meant lacin' up the sneakers (for only the third time since their unwrapping this Christmas) and running on the treadmill, an oft-underrated piece of equipment. Honestly, I love the treadmill. Think about it--you run a mile, IN THE SAME PLACE!

After the run, I did the usual, turning a 15-minute shower break into a two-hour extravaganza. I didn't put on my clothes so much as I eventually acquired them.

OK so I played Guitar Hero and ate breakfast in my underwear.

My "life" resumed around 2 pm when I slipped my freshly-plagiarized project (jk, guys...) under my prof's door. Having that under my belt, I could find nothing better to do than to slip into my V-neck and head to Goodpasture for work, where my lip ring mysteriously assumes the guise of a cold sore beneath heavy bandaging.

Alex Kamer, one of my particularly bright 7th graders, was all over me.

"Did it hurt when you got your 'cold sore'?" she asked, grinning.