Stock Analysis and Opinion: American Tower Corp. (AMT)

The emergence of smartphones as the must-have piece of technology for consumers in the past couple of years have made cell phone manufacturers and service providers more valuable than ever. And while there is fierce competition among providers like Verizon, AT&T, and T-Mobile, and manufacturers such as Apple, RIM, and Palm, there is an under-recognized part of this industry that benefits from and contributes to the growth of the sector regardless of who is winning the battles among carriers and manufacturers: telecommunications infrastructure.

One of the leading companies in this area is American Tower Corp. (AMT). American Tower owns, leases, rents, maintains, and develops wireless communication towers in America and overseas. According to Yahoo! Finance, as of November 3, 2009 American Tower owns and operates about 26,700 tower sites in the US, Mexico, Brazil, the UK, and India. It is the largest of its main competitors, and while it’s competitors have seen rising stock prices in 2009, it is the only one of the bunch that has actually been profitable this year (http://finance.yahoo.com/q/co?s=AMT). This tells me that AMT has solid management even during economically difficult times. With a presence in the massive markets of Brazil and India, they are also poised to take advantage of the explosive growth that is happening in these countries.

Since I first started researching AMT a couple of weeks ago, Jim Cramer of CNBC’s Mad Money has mentioned the stock in his “Lightning Round” as a promising stock in 2010. The prevailing analyst opinion is calling AMT a buy, with many analysts expecting the stock to outperform the rest of its sector in coming quarters. The company has earned $.67 per share in the past year, and is trading at an P/E multiple of 64.58. This is further proof of the company’s profitability, and while the P/E is a bit high, this tells me that the market expects American Tower to continue its growth and profitability. The company is not currently paying a dividend, a signal that it is plowing profits back into the business. While the company is currently trading near its 52-week high (last trade: $43.40), I think this growth will continue as the industry grows both here and abroad.

The Lord’s Prayer

He came to consciousness slowly, shaken by his mother’s hand. He had fallen asleep on her lap again, in front of the TV.

“It’s time for bed, Zach. Go brush your teeth.” He grumbled and rose from the couch, still groggy, and staggered to the bathroom to get ready for bed. After donning his PJs, he climbed onto the top bunk of his bed (a funny bed for an only child) and wiggled under the covers to get comfortable. Awake now, he waited for Mom and Dad to come say his nightly prayers with him. This was a nightly tradition which he didn’t really understand but which he enjoyed, nonetheless. They entered the dark bedroom as silhouettes from the bright, lighted hallway and approached the bed, both of them smiling.

“Ready for prayers?” Dad asked, reaching to muss his child’s hair.

“Yes,” Zach replied, as he put his hands together and closed his eyes. Together they chanted, more of a lullaby than a prayer: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Zach opened his eyes with a smile, the subtle morbidity of the prayer completely lost on his young mind. He reached for a kiss from his mom, but she stopped him.

“We have a new prayer for you tonight, Zach. That was the last time you’ll say that one. That is a prayer for kids. Tonight we’ll teach you the prayer that adults say.” Zach was wide awake now, and nervous. This prayer had been a tradition for as long as he could remember, and now it would be over. And not only that, it would be replaced by an adult prayer. This seemed momentous, and he couldn’t think of the reason why this change should happen tonight, of all nights. He was scared for reasons he could not define, but his father, sensing his trepidation, eased his mind.

“Your mom and I will say the prayer together first, slowly. Pay attention, so you can remember it. Then we’ll say it again, all three of us together,” he glanced at his wife, then began in a more somber tone, “it goes like this: ‘Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy Name. Thy Kingdom come, thy Will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from Evil. For thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory, forever and ever. Amen.’ ” Zach sat silent, awed by the tone of his parents’ voices and trying in vain to understand their words, let alone remember them. He had  never heard his parents speak in such terms before. Good and Evil, the Kingdom, the Glory. He didn’t understand the part about debts at all, in fact had only a vague idea of what a debt might be, and it would be years before he understood the full message of the prayer; long after he had stopped saying it.

“Do you think you can remember all that?” Mom asked.

“I’ll try,” he said.

“Good. Try hard.” And together the three members of this small family repeated the prayer, the child stumbling and forgetting the words, but never losing the somber tone which he had copied from his parents. When they finished, he was still nervous, but his parents’ smiles calmed him. 

“That’s called The Lord’s Prayer,” Mom said, “It comes straight from the Bible. It’s the prayer that all Christians say, and it’s the prayer that we’ll say at night from now on. You’re getting older now, and we thought it was time you learn it. What do you think?”

He blushed, “I don’t know, I guess I like it.” His father grinned and gave him a hug.

“Good. Sleep tight, buddy, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

” ‘Night Dad.”

His mother bent down and kissed him on the forehead, “Goodnight, Zach. We love you.”

“Love you too, Mom. ‘Night.”

As his parents left the room and shut the door, Zach’s mind raced with all that had just happened. He repeated the words of the new prayer over and over in his head, still uncomprehending. He wondered what it meant, that he was Growing Up. He wondered if things would be different now, and how. He grew drowsy as he thought of all the possibilities, and eventually fell into a deep sleep. He was ten years old, innocent and naive to a fault. He’s still naive, though no longer so innocent.

Home.

I’m sitting outside of my new house–really, an old house with lots of old memories–watching and listening to the rain. Already, this house feels like a home. I have lived for the past 2 1/2 years by myself in a one-bedroom apartment. It feels good to live with people again. As I have told my roommates, I’m used to talking to just my cat, Oatmeal. He is a great listener, but not much of a conversationalist. And my roommates are great. Time will tell how well we really get along, but I foresee no problems.

It’s funny the kinds of things you have to get used to when you move in to a new house with new people: little things, like how to arrange dirty dishes in an unfamiliar dishwasher, and when you are allowed to use said dishwasher (and laundry machines) to take advantage of the off-peak energy prices. It’s also interesting to see how other people live. I think we all wonder sometimes whether our living habits are “normal,” and if other people follow practices that we consider to be common sense. I find that I am enjoying immensely the process of integrating my lifestyle with theirs. On many levels we are much different, but on others we are much the same. My roommates are deeply and fundamentally appreciative of the arts and of exploring the possibilities of their own unique contributions to the artistic community. Mike is a musician and the owner of a record label, and Chellise is a photographer. I am a Finance major. We all love beer. We are all now working at a local beer bar. Mike and Chellise are struggling with the challenges of managing the business side of their arts careers; the management of which, by definition, limits the time they have available to spend on the creative aspects of their work. I am trying to find a way to apply the skill sets I have obtained in college to further the development of my own passions. In reality, I am struggling to define what my passions might be. I do not have a natural ear for music, as does Mike, or a natural eye for photography, as does Chellise (as well as my budding photographer friend, Nick), but I find that I do have a mind for words and for numbers which, given the proper direction and the requisite energies, I can use to create for myself a fulfilling career. (For example, not to toot my own horn, as they say, I know few people who could craft the previous sentence as fully and succinctly as I just did. Read it again, it’s pretty good.) I don’t know how I will eventually use my skills to make my living, but I think that surrounding myself with impassioned people is a good start to finding my own passions.

I feel incredibly lucky to have found myself among a group of people who value so highly the process of developing creativity. We tend to think that artists are touched with a gift to simply create profound art. The same way we think that Lebron James is simply gifted with an ability to play basketball at a level unparalleled by anyone else. But we, or I, forget, or maybe never realize, how much work is really involved. Natural talent means nothing without the effort required to develop it. I am stunned, even in just a few days, at how hard my roommates work at their art. While I am wandering around doing chores, or reading, or talking to the cats, Mike is in his office, headphones on, working on his music or his promotions. Chellise is on her computer working with her photos. They spend an incredible amount of their very limited free time working on their art. We could all learn from their example.

My other roommate, Ryan, just came outside to hang out, so I am finished for now. In the meantime, work on your work and surround yourself with good people.

April Update

I was recently told that my blog sucks (thanks Brit) and so I feel obligated to post an update for those of you who have actually been reading. First, thank you for reading. I realize it has been nearly three months since I have posted anything. One of the reasons I have not recently updated is that I feel the need, when I do post, to write something of substance. I don’t like the idea of writing empty words simply for the sake of updating. I think that up to this point, I have lived up to that standard, and I wouldn’t want to tarnish it now. The other reason I haven’t posted is simple laziness. I have no other excuse. I can say that I’ve been busy, and I have, but not that busy. The truth is, I have had a number of ideas which I have wanted to set down in the past few months but I have found other things to divert me from the task. I plan to share some of these ideas with you in the coming weeks. The fact is, though, that writing like this is hard. It takes a surprising amount of mental energy and focus to set one’s ideas down on paper accurately and precisely. Precision of language is something I pride myself on, especially in my writing, but it takes every bit of my energy to search my (vast) vocabulary for the correct words. Lately, I have just not felt up to putting in the effort. I hope that eventually this process becomes easier (as I suppose it must for most writers) and that in the future I will not feel so daunted by the prospect of telling my story. Let’s hope this is so.

But for now, I will not get into anything too deep. Just a short (ha) update on my life for those of you whom I don’t get to see on a regular basis. As you know, I graduated from ASU in December and have not begun looking for a Real Job. And I don’t think I will anytime soon. I work as a server at a Japanese restaurant in Scottsdale and as a bartender at a great beer bar. My typical day consists of working out, laying by the pool, reading, cleaning my apartment, watching TV, playing with the cat, going to work, and drinking beer. Usually all in the same day, and usually in that order. Obviously, with a life like this I have made little effort to change anything. Life is good, and it is exceedingly easy. Call it weakness, call it lack of ambition; both would be accurate. But life is good and I intend to enjoy it.

I have made a few decisions lately that have been a long time coming. First among these is that I have decided I will be staying in Phoenix indefinitely. Throughout my last semester of college I told myself (and many of you) that I was ready to move back home and that I would likely return to Colorado as soon as I finished school. But now that I’m done, I find that I have built a life here in the past five years and that it would be nearly impossible, let alone desirable, to simply pack up and leave. I have it good here, and I have no wish to change. At least not yet. So, as much as I miss Colorado, I will be staying in Phoenix for the time being.

As for the future… well, for better or for worse I’m not thinking too much about it. In the immediate future I will be moving out of my apartment and into a house with some good friends who I hope will turn into close friends. I am a little nervous about having roommates after 2 1/2 years of living by myself, but I am also excited. My roommates are good people, artsy, clever, and open-minded, and I think this will be a good move for me. I will also be saving a ton of money. I am going on a two-week trip through California and Napa Valley with my brother Nick in June, and I am looking forward to this more than anything. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about this trip. I have also begun the initial steps to get certified as a substitute teacher in Arizona. There are a couple of school districts in the valley that are actually hiring teachers for the upcoming year when most districts are on a hiring freeze, and I feel confident that I will be able to get into at least one of them. I like the idea of being able to work with kids, even as a substitute, and to contribute to their education. Also, this would be a great way for me to earn extra money during the day without sacrificing my jobs at night. Finally, I hope to buy a motorcycle by the end of the summer with all of the money that I will have saved from the move and from the extra work. These are the extent of my immediate plans.

As far as my more distant future, a number of thoughts are competing for prominence. The idea of teaching English overseas for a year or so is still very much in my mind, but I am also now considering going back to school for a Master’s degree in Accounting. The latter seems more likely, but I am not ruling either possibility out. Also, I would like to run the full marathon at next year’s P.F. Chang’s Rock N’ Roll race.

So there you go, folks. An update on the blog and on my life. It’s not much, but it did feel good to write again. Thanks, Brit, for antagonizing me. Please keep reading and leaving comments. They really do mean a lot.

A Story Untold

I recently finished reading Stephen King’s On Writing, a sort of autobiography/aspiring fiction writer’s manual. In it, King writes that it is the fiction writer’s duty to be truthful. The story may be fictional, but it must reflect the truth of how we act, and speak, and live our lives. This duty is in line with what I have always thought about art in general: that it ought to reflect some sort of deeper truth about life which is not easily expressible in words. Of course, King is a wordsmith. His truth must be expressible in words, or he is out of a job. This line of reasoning is well and good for the fiction writer, but what about for the writer of non-fiction? This question arises because I have been reading a fair amount of autobiography lately, and because I have recently started this blog. Of course, the writer of history books need not be concerned about the effect that brutal honesty may have on his/her reputation; in fact, the more objective and honest a history writer is, the greater also is his/her credibility. But what about one who chooses to write about his/her own life? The truth is, if most of us were to write about our own lives with the same dispassionate honesty with which many have written about historical horrors (the Spanish Inquisition, the reign of the Nazi Regime, the persecution of minorities in our own country) we would be considered sociopaths with no regard for the conventions of common morality. Although few of us have committed such serious crimes as these, it would be considered in very poor taste to air even our relatively modest failings in public. In doing so, we would tarnish not only our own reputation, but the reputations of those with whom we associate. 

I suppose it is appropriate to ask why anyone would want to tell the world about everything they have done wrong in the first place? We have all done things we are not proud of, so isn’t it best to forget about them and move on? I think part of the reason is the same that those of us who choose to write about ourselves do so at all: simple vanity. But it is more than that. For me, writing about myself in an honest way is a cleansing experience. Much like confessing one’s sins to a priest, it is spiritually cleansing to be honest with someone else about the reality of things. The difference, of course, is that confessing to a priest keeps our sins private. Perhaps this is best. No, it is certainly best. It comes down to the fact that none of us has the right to implicate others, in public, of our shared misdeeds. 

Still, I feel that there must be some merit in this need to express truth. This belief is not unprecedented. The best example I know of is Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist. In his youth Joyce slept with prostitutes on a regular basis and, largely as a result of his strictly religious upbringing, he felt great shame in his actions. He also felt the need to express his actions as well as his shame publicly if he were to produce an honest autobiography (it should be noted that Joyce was heavily censored for his decision to do so). And this autobiography was later celebrated. Now, I am no James Joyce. But I feel a kinship with the man in our shared desire to be truthful about our vices as well as our virtues. The obvious implication in this discussion is that neither of us would be faced with this moral dilemma if we would simply stop being such unabashed sinners. But this seems unlikely.

The irony that I am really trying to point out is that the fiction writer has more freedom to explore truth than does the writer of non-fiction. This strikes me as something of a paradox. Perhaps this is why we tend to know little of the personal lives of historians, while novelists have the freedom to expose their own souls in the guise of their characters. Unfortunately for me, I have never been much of a storyteller. The only story I could ever really articulate is my own and, because of the  consequences it could pose for those I know and love (let alone myself), it seems that this will always be a story untold.

A Strange Introduction

We’re at Shady’s, as usual. It’s been a long night at work, we’ve both made some money, and we’re ready for a drink. I drink beer, she has a vodka and something. We both like to take shots of tequila. Patron. We have a couple. We smoke cigarettes, pick out a few songs on the jukebox, and laugh about all the crazy shit we just saw at the restaurant. It is a pretty typical saturday night. No work the next day, so no worries about getting up early. We get to relax and enjoy ourselves.

Pretty soon, we have both had one too many. Melissa called, and wants to hang out. She’s with her boyfriend. I don’t know either of them, they’re her friends. It’s time to go. She lives close by, so we walk. We both know better than to drive at 2 AM. It’s dark, we’re talking loudly and laughing, keeping each other up. She stops suddenly, as a car with bright lights shoots by. I hear a soft scream, and at first I don’t know its source. Then I see where she is pointing. It is a cat, surely a stray, in the middle of the road. The poor creature is crying, pulling itself by its front paws. It has been hit. She immediately starts crying and says we have to do something. I agree. We walk to the middle of the road and she grabs the animal, me by her side watching for traffic. We run back to the sidewalk. The cat is hurt badly. She is holding it, crying, telling the cat that everything will be OK. She has never been given such reassurance herself, but feels that it is the right thing to say. I feel like we’re doing something good and we might be able to save this animal. I tell her to go home and to find an old towel in which to wrap the cat. I run to the gas station and buy some canned cat food and a small container of milk. We have been given this animal in strange circumstances, and I feel we must do whatever we can to save it. I run back across the street to her apartment and she is petting the cat, crying. She also has a small trickle of blood running from her cheek. The cat scratched her. This doesn’t seem to bother her, but immediately worries me. When I walk in the door, I poor some milk and some food into a couple of bowls and tell her to clean her face. She is drunk and bawling at this point, but manages to clean herself anyway. I am no less drunk, but am trying to contain the situation. Finally, we are both with the whimpering cat; petting it as it laps the milk and softly cries in pain. The cat is breathing with difficulty. Its breaths come in short, painful fits. It coughs one last time and is silent. Its claws, which have been extended, finally relax as the animal goes limp. She screams, spills the bowl of milk, and begins sobbing uncontrollably. I can do nothing but cover the cat and try to calm her by moving her to the couch, out of view of the towel covering the corpse. Suddenly, a loud knock at the door.

She jumps up to answer the door. It is Melissa and her boyfriend (I quickly learn his name is Dave). They obviously have no idea of the ordeal we have been through with this stray cat, and both are startled by my bawling girlfriend. We have never met, but I quickly explain the situation and Dave helps me wrap the cat in the towel and get it out of the house. Meanwhile, I am calling Animal Control to see what the hell you are supposed to do with a dead cat. I don’t get much information from the operator: in fact, he tells me that if the cat is not left on public property, then Animal Control is not allowed to pick it up. He says that our best bet is to leave the animal next to the dumpster for the city to pick up. This we do, reluctantly. I also ask him what my girlfriend should do with her scratched cheek. He recommends a rabies shot. As we leave the cat I say a quick prayer and hope to my personal god that I am doing the right thing.

As we get back to the apartment Melissa has managed to calm her substantially. Apparently Melissa has two cats, one of which is about to give birth to a litter. She suggests that my girlfriend takes one of these kittens as her own. This episode is surely a sign that she should have a cat of her own to take care of. I am strongly in favor of this idea (really any idea that will calm my girlfriend down), and she agrees. Fortunately, Melissa brought some pot and we are all able to smoke and talk and decompress from this bizarre episode.

A few weeks later, she has her own kitten and is immediately in love.

A few months later I have my own kitten, from the same mother, whom I love.

We are no longer together, but we both still have our cats. Funny how things work out.

January

I have found that my best writing tends to come after a couple of beers, or a bottle of wine, or a bottle of wine and a couple of beers. And that my best thoughts emerge when I come to the typewriter with no definite thoughts. I can listen to some soft music, and simply enjoy the sound of my fingers tapping the keys. That is surely one of the most simple joys of life. Listening to your own thoughts hitting the page. Eyes closed. Mistakes intact. They call this type of writing stream-of-consciousness. I have a feeling that it is more likely stream-of-semiconsciousness. The founder was James Joyce. Was he sober, recording the pure thoughts of his overly stimulated brain? Doubtful. He dealt with the same issues we all do, questioning why he was here and wondering whether that girl he liked really knew who he was. Seriously, although few paragraphs are intended specifically for her, his thoughts are constantly surrounding his feelings toward the mystery girl. 

The fact remains that Joyce lived in a different world than do we, both geographically and temporally. The world of the 21st century is as different from the world of the 20th century as is the automobile different from the horse and carriage. We confront similar issues, but our solutions are incredibly different. While Joyce may have chosen to go to a school many miles away to get away from his problems, I am considering moving to a different continent to get away from mine. The thing that sticks with me is that I know already that the problems I will face overseas are identical to the problems I face here. People are the same wherever you go. We think we are different, but we’re not. What one really learns when one travels is that the human experience is a singular experience. At least in our culture. I have no idea of the experiences of the Bushmen of the Kalahari. Living that kind of life might give me a whole other perspective on life, but I really have no desire to live that life. So I’m stuck with the experiences possessed by myself and my compatriots. 

OK, so my best writing doesn’t come after a few drinks. My most rambling writing comes after a few drinks. Regardless, I don’t write much without the lubrication of alcohol, so what I come up with now is as valuable a product as I have to offer. I have recently started to think about auditioning for a part in a theatrical play. It has been quite some time since I have had this itch, but I have a little bit of time right now and I certainly have the desire. I even have a monologue with which to audition. From the film Good Will Hunting. Robin Williams’ character gives a speech about what Will really knows: only that which he has gleaned from books. Much like myself. I’m not sure if I actually have the time to rehearse for a play, but I know that I have not felt what could be called a passion for anything since I left the theater. So here I am, thinking about the future and having no idea how to deal with it. At least I’m happy. That is much more than most people can say in my position. Cheers. Wish me luck…

2:30 AM – 3:30 AM

I mentioned in my first post that I intended to use this page to some extent as a personal journal. I don’t expect anyone (not that I think anyone is actually reading this) to find these personal entries particularly interesting, but I find it extremely therapeutic to write my thoughts down every one in a while.

I’ve been in a strange position since my graduation in December. I have been planning on moving back home to Colorado for months, but now I am not sure that this is the right thing to do. For starters, I have no money. And in my industry (waiting tables), I will likely make significantly more money in Scottsdale than I could in Ft. Collins. Also, I like it here. I am having fun. And if I do move back to Colorado in the near future, I think it will be short-lived. What I really want to do right now is travel. I would like to get out of Phoenix before it gets really hot, but I don’t know where to go. I am in the unique position of having no ties to my current residence and of having the freedom to really pursue any opportunity that presents itself. As of now, few are, but I haven’t really been looking. I would like to go overseas, particularly to Korea or Japan, to teach English, and I still consider this a distinct possibility, but if something else came up I would not be opposed to exploring the idea. 

In the meantime, I find that I am, in the current moment, extremely happy. I find myself operating almost with a sense of euphoria every day. I still get pissed off and frustrated by ordinary irritants, but on the whole I am almost gleeful with the joy of life. I feel like I stand at the top of a mountain just laden with fresh snow, and I am about to carve my path down it. I will get only one try, but the possibilities presented by this untouched mountain are such that I could scarcely find an unpleasant route. I possess the absolute best equipment: an eager, agile mind, an able body, a willingness to work (if not to settle), and, of course, a degree. Right now I am sitting at the lodge at the top of this mountain, drinking a beer. Figuring out which route would be the best. And, for better or for worse, I see no reason to rush this decision.

While I am taking this time pondering my path, I am reading a great deal. And doing so much reading has made me want to make a list of the books that have shaped the person I have become. Because, as an only child and a generally introverted person, books truly have shaped me. I have educated myself much more thoroughly through my own reading than my public education could have hoped to, and I have always made it a point to actually think about whatever it is I am reading. As a result, there are a number of authors who I have never and surely will never meet who have made as enduring an impact on my life as have my best friends, teachers, and even my parents.

So, for your enjoyment, here are ten (or so) books which have changed my life and which I strongly encourage you to read as well:

(in order of recollection, if not importance)

1. Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand. This book persuaded me to become a business major and to truly value the contribution I may give to society. It taught me to value my own work and the work of other men. And, importantly, it taught me not to fear, but to respect those who make it their goal to make money. Money is not the root of all evil. Money can be a source of great good. Evil intentions exist regardless of the presence of money. And money supports families, so as a family-oriented guy I can’t justifiably condemn capitalists.

2. East of Eden - John Steinbeck. Honestly, I love all of Steinbeck’s work. The dude is a genius. But while comical, somewhat frivolous works such as Cannery Row and brooding, solemn efforts such as Grapes of Wrath show us the breadth of talent the man possessed, only East of Eden stands apart as an epic, philosophical, even spiritual message for the modern American. Steinbeck is the absolute best American author. His message in this novel is “Thou Mayest”: our lives are dependent on our actions, and we alone are responsible for their outcomes. We have all been dealt different hands, but the way we play these hands determines who we become. Gamblers can get bluffed out of full houses. They can also turn an Ace high into a nut straight if they play it right. I have a portrait of Steinbeck hanging in my apartment. I have profound respect for this man.

3. A People’s History of the United States - Howard Zinn. A fascinating history book. There are two, three, four, five sides to every story. I met a guy from Oregon who said this book was used as his high school history book. We would all be better off if we were exposed to this stuff an an early age.

4. Catch-22 - Joseph Heller. A WWII novel about the type of guy you never hear about in war stories. This guy doesn’t want to be there, but finds himself there anyway. Surprisingly comical, a trip to read. The last line gave me chills.

5. The God of Small Things - Arundhati Roy. This book is pure poetry. One of the most beautiful things I have ever read. As a summary, the God of Great Things creates the Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much. But there also exists the God of Small Things…

These next few are less intense in terms of their impact on me personally, but all are fucking great reads.

6. House of Leaves - Mark Z. Danielewski. This book is so trippy it will keep you up at night. It is also an extremely difficult read. On the order of Joyce’s Ulysses (which I have not read) in terms of difficulty. It requires an extreme amount of patience, but is incredibly rewarding. I would probably classify it under Horror.

7. Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Friend – Christopher Moore. I have read this book several times, and it never gets old. It is basically a humorous narrative of the years of Christ’s life between age 12 and age 30, when he was basically nonexistent in the Bible. Great fun.

8. Ender’s Game: Awesome, extremely accessible Sci-Fi. The whole series is great.

9. Ishmael & The Story of B - Daniel Quinn. Philosophy books that will knock you on your head.

10. The Alienist & The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr. Historical Fiction mystery novels of the absolute highest caliber. In fact, I need to read both of these again. They take place in turn-of-the-20th-century New York, with all of the city’s dirty, gritty, violent aspects in full form. Awesome read.

11. Finally, I won’t list particular books for these guys because they have written so many, but if you’re looking for something good, please read anything by Kurt Vonnegut, Tom Robbins, Jack Whyte, Jon Krakauer, MARK FUCKING TWAIN(the second best American author ever), Dave Barry, or Michael Crichton.

12. Special shout out to the Calvin and Hobbes comic strip by Bill Watterson. This guy created probably the best comic of all time. I own every published strip, I read it growing up, and it is beautiful.

13. And, of course, read the classics. I’m still working on these. But The Counte of Monte Cristo, A Tale of Two Cities,  Emma, Jane Eyre, and anything by Shakespeare should be compulsory reading.

14. Oh yeah, Ray Bradbury’s Farenheit 451 should have made my top five. It’s short and easy and powerful. Read it.

15. I think that’s everything.

If anyone has actually made it through this whole damn post, please send me any book recommendations you may have. I am in desperate need of some new influences, and I will actually read the books you suggest if they are worthwhile. Thanks!

A New Year, Happily.

I don’t believe in New Year’s Resolutions. If you don’t think you can improve yourself in late December, what makes January any different? I say wait for the Spring. That’s when the new year really starts anyway. But self-improvement should be a constant effort. It need not be painful (though it sometimes may be), but it should be thorough, relentless, and pursued with as objective a mind as possible. Thorough, in that we should seek improvement in all aspects of our lives: physical, emotional, intellectual, relational, practical, and spiritual. Relentless, in that we ought always to be conscious of the choices we make and how they relate to our improvement. And objective, in that we must be honest in our evaluation of what we need to improve in ourselves.

Now please don’t get the wrong impression of me. I certainly don’t mean to set myself up as the paradigm of self-improvement. Anyone who knows me knows that I am anything but. However, I do like to think that I am at least conscious of my mistakes and of my flaws and that I am making some effort to become a better person. So, in that light, I will make some resolutions–no, resolution is too strong a word (in fact, come to think of it, that word may be why so many resolutions fail. If we tell ourselves that we resolve to do something we add a huge weight to the action. And we may feel so badly about breaking the resolution that we don’t bother to continue after our first lapse)–I will instead simply set some goals, some ideals that I shall try to reach, shall try to adhere to, not just in the coming year but throughout my lifetime.

-Honesty: I am, in general, an honest person. But I do some things that are inherently dishonest; both to myself and to others. Most of these are small things: screening calls, answering the question, “How are you?” with a mindless, “Fine.”, etc. And these minor dishonesties I would like to eliminate. But I have caught myself engaging in other dishonest actions which I feel may actually be harmful on some level to myself and to others. I recently had an encounter which I felt warranted some discussion but which, because of my own discomfort, I just let go unresolved. Perhaps it is in the nature of things to go unresolved; certainly not every story can have a neat, happy ending. There will always be loose ends. But I sincerely hate to think that I might cause harm to myself or to my friend simply because I was unwilling to confront the issue with honesty. This is the type of honesty that I am primarily concerned with. So my first goal is to be as honest as I can be in all ways. To make myself uncomfortable if I believe it is the right thing to do; indeed, to pursue that discomfort until it leads me to truth–no matter how uncomfortable or unpleasant that truth may be. Because if I fail to do this, if I fail to seek the truths in my own life, then what am I doing? I’m living a life inhibited by my own weakness. I’m living a life constrained by my own dishonesty. Who knows what heights our lives might reach if only we would have the strength to accept nothing but the truth at all times? Is this what is meant by the saying, “the truth shall set you free”? Perhaps.

 

I was going to write some more “resolutions,” but I think I’ve got to take some time to stew on that one for a while. I suggest you do the same.

I Had Better Get On

I sat at the bus stop, reading. It was a cool, windy day; damp from an early morning rain. Presently, a man on a bicycle pulled to a stop directly in front of me. A man I had seen before.

“That must be an interesting book, eh?”
I glanced up at the man, “Yeah, it is.”
“What’s it called?”
“A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. James Joyce.”
“Is it all about family and stuff?”
“Kind of. It’s a biography, but it’s sort of written like a novel.” The man smiled at me, his dark, weathered face creasing around the eyes.
“You go to the school down there, huh?”
I nodded, and continued looking at the man. I did not remove my sunglasses.
“How many years?”
“I’m done next month. I’ve been there four and a half.”
The man smiled again, a vacant, listless grin, “You keep goin’ to school.”
“I will.”
“I went to school in new Mexico for two years before I got drafted…Vietnam,” the man paused. He glanced away before he continued. I kept looking at his eyes. “Then after Vietnam, I never got back…started drinking…”
“My kids keep telling me to go back, but I’m too old now,” he chuckled. A tired laugh.”You know what they tell me? You’re never too old to learn.”
“They’re right,” I said. The man laughed again. His smile and his laugh were painful–the response of a man who knew no other way to respond. A man who had given up on his mind long ago. Or maybe the other way around. Something told me this man no longer spoke to his children, surely grown now.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“My name is Zach,” I extended my hand to meet his. His hands were large, rough, dry from exposure to this desert climate.
“I’m Ben. Could you spare any money, Zach?” 
I made the obligatory search of my pockets, knowing that I had no money on me, “Not unless you take plastic.”
“No, I don’t want plastic,” his smile faded as he started to ride away, “You finish school. I’ll pray for you when I get up in the morning.”
“Thank you. Take care, Ben.”

I looked back to my book, read a line, closed it. I looked up and watched the traffic pass. I opened the book again, closed it.

As I finally started reading again, the man walked by with his bike from the other direction, a brown paper bag in his hand. As he passed, he said, “The bus is coming.”

So I picked up my bag and got on.