Saturday, January 23, 2010
The party was a really amazing experience because of the wide range people who were there–family, high school friends, college friends, even my doctor from fifteen years ago when I had cancer. Everyone.
Usually you have to wait for your wedding or your funeral to assemble a group like that. Luckily, I beat the system by holding a book release party.
The room’s capacity was 150. We exceeded that. Between nine and ten it was so crowded you could barely move.
The first thing they teach you in motivational speaker school is how to turn any piece of furniture into a makeshift stage.
You may recognize both of these guys from their hilarious cameos in my new video, The Amputee Rap.
Left to right, John (my childhood neighbor and now friend here in DC), me (sporting the Mr. Rogers look) and Brad (my roommate since college).
Friday, January 22, 2010
I am writing this post from the second floor balcony of Barnes and Noble, where I am spying on people browsing the new arrivals table downstairs.
This is the first time I’ve seen the book in a bookstore. Very exciting.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Photos (from top down): Middle school, high school, Amanda shows off her “Feed Mill” shirt…it’s the closest thing Franklin has to fast food!
Gotta go to Bethel for McDonald’s, right guys?
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
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
Thursday, December 24, 2009
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
Monday, December 21, 2009
If you don’t have any large bowls in your bachelor pad kitchen, you will be forced to serve eggnog in a cooking pot and Chex Mix in Tupperware containers intended for covering cakes.
Don’t be deceived. “Pre-Cooked” doesn’t mean the same thing as “fast.” The instructions on this ham said it would take ninety minutes to heat. Unfortunately, we didn’t read said instructions until after the guests arrived. We were, however, able to beat the system by peeling off and heating a few slices at the time.
If you invite your brother Matthew, expect that he will try to persuade other guests to take photos with him in cheesy poses not seen since high school prom.
Other than last week’s ugly sweater party, this is the only time all year when you are allowed to wear this vest.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The hotel in question. (Credit: Christiana L)
“If you ever get kidnapped, make sure you leave your cell phone on,” he said. “That way, we can track you.”
I was having dinner this past Monday with a friend who works for the FBI. He has a trait I’ve observed to be common among members of the law enforcement community. Namely, threads of ordinary conversation will remind him of something that happened on the job, and he’ll immediately interject some loosely related piece of safety advice.
You stop at a red light, maybe, and he starts teaching you evasive driving maneuvers, or you’re at a restaurant and he wants you to identify the patron at the bar most likely to be concealing an unlicensed firearm. The kidnapping advice popped into his mind during my demonstration of the features on my new cell phone. Cell phone, GPS tracking, kidnapping. A reasonably linear thought process, I suppose.
After my FBI friend and I parted ways, I drove two hours north to Pennsylvania, where I’d be speaking the next morning at a nearby high school. My hotel was listed on my travel itinerary as “The Yorktowne Hotel,” which I figured must be a typo since the city itself was simply called “York.” But when I arrived, I discovered a one-hundred-year-old building with “The Yorktowne Hotel” written on the marquee. Why, I wondered, had the hotel’s original management felt “The York Hotel” to be an inadequate name? Did they think “The Yorktowne Hotel” sounded more expensive due to it’s additional five letters, including the silent “e” tacked gratuitously on the end? Were they perhaps envious of New York City when compared to their more feebly named municipality, York?
It was already close to midnight, but I can never sleep the night before a speech, so after checking into my room I departed for a walk through downtown York. About half an hour later, I found myself in a distinctly different sort of neighborhood than the one where I’d begun. Blades of grass peaked through cracks in the sidewalk and most of the ground floor windows in the row houses lining the street were covered by sheets of naked plywood. Read More
