JoshSundquist

Here it is…my brand spankin new music video:

If you like it, please share it with your friends using this button:

I ran across this old footage today and put it on YouTube.

Enjoy.

The happy family. Top row: Me, Luke, Matt. Bottom Row: Grandma, Dad, Mom, Anna

One of the most remarkable characteristics of my parents is that they are basically perfect. Not what a young child or teenager would describe as perfect parents, mind you, but perfect in a moral sense. The last recorded incident of either of them sinning was some fifteen years ago when Dad got mad about us kids complaining too much and proceeded to punch a hole in the wall. We hung a framed diagram of the family tree over the hole and it’s pretty much been smooth sailing ever since.

I mention this business of perfection with the caveat that I don’t count the quality of the gifts given to one’s children at Christmas as a moral issue. Although my parents are supremely generous with love, this generosity has never extended itself into the exchange of material goods on Christmas morning. Growing up, they explained it to us this way: We could expect to receive better presents on our birthdays and lesser presents at Christmas because Christmas was in fact Jesus’ birthday, not ours. Whether this was a matter of religious fervor or plain old frugality remains a subject of speculation among us children, but suffice to say that our stack of presents has never been in danger of scratches from the pine needles on the lower limbs of the tree.

This year, however, our family took tackiness to a whole new level when Luke, Matt, and me reached into our stockings and each discovered total contents equaling exactly three pieces of foil covered, bite sized candy.

Those who know my family well, or who have read an advance copy of my book, will be aware that growing up in my family, we were only allowed to consume one piece of candy per week. So it could be argued that my parents were actually loading us up with a full three week supply of candy, a generous allotment by any measure. But what’s significant here is not the quantity of items we found when we reached in our stockings, but what happened next. Read More

Matt, Brad, and Daphne struggle through the snow in search of a place to dance.

It’s possible to graduate from the education system in this country without learning several essential life skills. They include the ability to hold a conversation for at least ten minutes with someone you’ve just met, the ability to file a tax return, and the ability to turn a polished wooden floor into a dance party.

That last one is an arena where we Sundquists happen to excel.

Last Saturday night, my brother Matt joined my friends and me on our subway ride downtown to go out dancing. This is what we do every Saturday night: Dance. We are not good dancers, mind you, but fun dancers. The kind of people you want as cousins at your wedding. We have several favorite spots around DC, but on this particular evening most of the city was shut down by the record snowfall earlier in the day. We traipsed through ten blocks of snow covered sidewalks before we finally found one place that had braved the storm. When we kicked the snow off our boots and walked in, however, we were disappointed to find the dance floor covered with tables and chairs. What’s more, there was a group of people eating dinner at one of the tables.

It was hopeless. We would never find a place to dance. Or, at least, that’s what I thought.

Fortunately, we had Matt with us. He’s what you would call an optimist, a real glass is half-full type person. “Let’s start a dance party,” said Matt. I asked him where we would be holding this dance party, and he suggested the space between the rows of tables. It seemed like the chances of this plan resulting in awkwardness (which is exactly the opposite of a dance party) were quite high. On the other hand, there was good music playing, and there appeared to be a bachelorette party on the upper level at the bar. In my experience, convincing a bachelorette party to start dancing is about as difficult as persuading a dog to chase a squirrel, particularly if the music includes “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” or anything early Madonna. So I agreed to give the dance party a chance. Read More