It’s no secret that I’ve had a thing for pretty much everything Ryan Adams does for quite some time. I own a good handful of his many albums, I read his blog, followed his Twitter, watched him on Tumblr, and wherever else he chose to publish his words, videos and songs for 10 days at a time before deleting it all.

It started when a good friend introduced me to his album Love is Hell — one of the saddest and most beautiful collections of alt. country and piano ballads about heartbreak ever put to tape. It started a snowball effect that has slowed down but I doubt will ever stop until he does. (Coincidentally, he stated a while back that he’s on an indefinite hiatus from making music, so maybe that time has already come.)

So it comes as no surprise to most that I finally got around to reading Infinity Blues, his book of poems that he wrote a year or two ago.

Adams has undergone what seems to be a significant transformation in the last few years, having given up several addictions, getting married and, generally speaking, doing everything he can to shed the asshole image he had created for himself during several years of self-destructive actions on stage and off.

If nothing else, Infinity Blues is a look into the mind of Adams at the age of 33. It’s frantic, thoughtful, funny, sad and all over the map from one moment to the next. He talks candidly — and yet still with a shroud over names and events — about his broken family, lost loves, life in the city, art, faith and everything. In one poem he claims that he wrote anywhere from 3 to 17 poems a day for the book which, knowing his prolific creation schedule, isn’t too surprising.

If you like free verse poetry or watching Adams “find himself by losing himself,” Infinity Blues might be worth a read.

Huston Smith is best known for this, his book The World’s Religions, and a miniseries he hosted that inspired the book, called The Religions of Man. His 90 years of experience and lifelong pursuit of knowledge about the world’s major paths of faith are what he is known for.

This book is perhaps one of the most all-enveloping and well known explorations of the major religions of the world. For me it was highly educational, filling in many of the gaps about what I knew of Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, Judaism, Christianity and others.

But perhaps even more impressive than the sheer facts was that Smith, despite his own upbringing as the child of Christian missionaries, treats each religion with the utmost respect and honor. Apparently he’s taken up multiple faith practices throughout his life and, in so doing, understands multiplicity better than most, and that honoring differences of faith is the perhaps one of the healthiest things we can do in a society that seems to be more splintered day by day.

This is not a book for wimps; it took me a solid two months to read, completely throwing off any reading momentum I’d had up until I started. It’s dense but readable and, if nothing else, is challenging to anyone with preconceived notions about any one religion. Having considered myself to be fairly open-minded until reading this, I’d venture to guess it’s going to be a challenging book for most, but worth reading despite that.

Certainly I have my own struggles with relative and absolute truth, and I have yet to decide if this book helped or harmed in my exploration, but I appreciate all that I learned in the process. If nothing else, it opened me up to more of what humanity as a whole believes (and doesn’t believe) about what is true regarding morals, time, life, death, nature and love. And that is valuable, regardless of the journey.

My girlfriend linked me to the site of Kevin Fanning, who recently wrote How I Learned To Love You From So Far Away: a collection of stories about love & technology. Considering this is the story of my and Erin’s life, it seemed like a fitting addition to our collective library.

It ended up not being quite what either of us expected, but still good. It addresses hypothetical and possibly real relationship situations that intertwine heavily with modern social technology. It isn’t always love stories or hate stories, but always about how we connect with each other in the 21st century. These short stories are happy, sad, beautiful and abrupt and show loads of potential from Kevin Fanning.

If you’re interested, you can also read it on your Kindle if you have one. If nothing else, support a writer with potential. Everyone deserves a chance, and you can help give Fanning his.

Last week, while bouncing from airport to airport on Christmas day, I managed to read The Medium is the Massage in its entirety.

The book is what you might consider “experimental literature.” From page to page, layout, style and meaning change to go along with the ideas being addressed by Marshall McLuhan and Quentin Fiore. The subject matter is the philosophy of print and other types of modern media and how they relate to human psychology, education and the modern development of our society.

I ran through this one so quickly that I don’t have much insight to provide, other than to say that I enjoyed it thoroughly and wish I had written down half the book as quotes. I should probably get my own copy of the book and do that eventually.

I originally read J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye sometime during high school. I remembered loving it then, but couldn’t remember why. I could hardly remember the plot, even. So I read it again.

It didn’t make much more sense the second time, really. I still enjoyed it, but I still don’t entirely know why. A story of a maladjusted teenager with a habit for getting kicked out of boarding schools. No real climax or strong story structure. Just a kid struggling through adolescence.

After I finished reading, I consulted with Wikipedia to see if they had any more information as to why the book is such a widely enjoyed classic, and what made it big in the first place. And it turns out I was already on the right path: the widely accepted purpose of the book was to give an accurate snapshot of adolescent life in America at the time.

If you’ve never read this book, you probably should. It’s one of those that’s easy to read and practically required reading for any educated American, if for nothing else than all the cultural references that followed.

The other day my friend Brett wrote in defense of using violence in a last-resort situation to solve problem. He addressed it in a mature way that I completely understand and, while I am writing to support pure pacifism instead, it’s not meant to be in opposition to him directly (and not the least bit personal), but more of a devil’s advocate response. Well, sort of. I currently haven’t decided exactly where I stand when it comes to violent measures “when necessary.” So I’m partially writing to get an idea out that’s been bouncing around my head, too.

First off, this argument is founded on general Christian ideology, so if that’s not how you swing, read on only for your own entertainment.

In America, Christians glorify the martyrs of the faith in other parts of the world. We stand in awe of those willing to stand up for their faith and die for it, then sit comfortably and question why it is that American Christians rarely die for theirs. It’s because it isn’t threatened here, in the land of free worship. But I argue that it is still threatened, albeit indirectly.

There is a fair amount to support the idea that Jesus taught pure pacifism. Not an idea closed to reasonable debate, but it’s a substantial point made in the New Testament. If that side is taken, then we should, ideally, not cause harm others when our safety and the safety of those around us is threatened. Instead, we should take the “third way” (as Shane Claiborne calls it in Jesus for President [see my review]) and respond unexpectedly, however that may be.

When we talk about peacemaking and the “third way of Jesus,” people inevitably ask bizarre situational questions like, “If someone broke into your house and was raping your grandmother, what would you do?” We can’t exhaustively troubleshoot every situation with nonviolent “strategy,” but what we can do is internalize the character and spirit of Jesus. We can meditate daily on the fruit of the Spirit and pray that they take root in us. Then we can trust that when we encounter a bad situation, we will act like Jesus.

At one festival, I was asked after a talk, “What would you do if you lived in Darfur and had a gang of young men running at you with machetes?” I though such a strange question deserved an equally far-out answer, so I said, “I’d take off my clothes and run around like a chicken, squawking wildly and pecking at the ground with my mouth.” I figure the chicken response is about as likely to disarm a mob of young hooligans as my trying to fight them. Either response would be ugly, but I’d opt for the former. I’ve already decided that the next time I get jumped, I’m going to turn some backflips and act like a ninja. Or I might just get on my knees and start speaking in tongues. Either seems as likely to hold promising results. At any rate, these aren’t solutions for the tragic situations of brothers and sisters in areas like the Sudan. Without a doubt, protecting the innocent is one of the strongest arguments for redemptive violence. A bunch of folks running around like naked chickens is not a solution to the crisis there. But the story of my friend Celestin [who continued to teach forgiveness and reconciliation, to eye-opening results, after militant Rwandans killed many in his church family] is. After all, Jesus didn’t say, “Greater love has no one than this, to kill to protect the innocent.”

The end idea is this: if we truly believe Christ’s teachings, and it is true that he asked for our peace and pacifism, we are martyrs if we stand up for that belief in any situation where our physical safety is threatened by another person.

Is this easy to do? No, not at all. But I’d wager that, if a nonviolent movement of Christians were to rise in this country, someone would take notice and perhaps see something in our faith that hasn’t been seen in quite some time through the inevitably martyrdom that would occur, even if not in great numbers. Something that goes beyond lots of words and cheesy attempts at evangelism and actually gets at the core of our faith and our humanity.

Defensive violence makes sense in a logical world where our own survival is of the highest value. But if our faith is what defines us, then it is for it that we should be willing to die, even when given the opportunity to fight back.

Søren Kierkegaard is an irate, spiritual philosopher who had some issues with the way the Christian community was doing their thing in his day. So basically a more prominent, more vocal version of me. And from Denmark.

Provocations is a collection of his spiritual writings put together some time back. I somehow came across the book as a free PDF and, knowing what I did of Kierkegaard’s work, decided it’d be good to at least be aware of what he was saying.

The book covers a lot of territory, so it was helpful to get an idea from the start what he was standing for. His main arguing points are for a very subjective faith. That is, he believes faith to be a very personal thing, that no expansion of knowledge about one’s set of beliefs helps save them, that faith is the foundation and everything else is secondary.

He takes these ideas to extreme ends, but they are ends that should be explored. He does so with a fair amount of attitude and calling-out of bad Christian habits. He also comes to conclude that the “Christianization” of our world creates an environment where “everyone is a Christian, so no one is a Christian.”

Today’s martyrs will not bleed, as formerly, because they are Christians – yes, it is almost insane! They will be put to death because they are not “Christians.” Frightful drama! And how alone the martyr will stand!

I recommend Provocations for anyone who enjoys philosophical discussions on faith and wants to take faith to its necessary ends in order to see what the Christian life might look like without a need for arguments over doctrine and theology or a “Christian elite,” as he might call it were he to see the state of modern church life.

To be clear, though: I do not entirely agree with everything Kierkegaard has to say, but enough of it that this was an encouraging and growth-inducing read. I firmly believe that we should have no fear of any question, and Kierkegaard challenges those ideas of where the ends of the earth lie. I respect his life’s work much for that alone.

John Dies at the End is a book about the end of the world. But not how you think, cause obviously you’d know John died at the end if it was really about the end of the world.

In this case it’s more of a story about two dropout losers who have a brush with a strange supernatural world of evil from another dimension and then find afterward that they can’t quite go back to the way things were. So they have some adventures with monsters and shadow people from another dimension that nobody else can see. Except when they look through a pair of Scooby Doo 3D glasses.

So I guess this is a comedy too? That was probably apparent by the title, but in case that didn’t clue you off: it’s a comedy.

This was David Wong’s first book, which he wrote and published for free on his website. Then a lot of people liked it enough that he decided to get it published. And now apparently they’re turning it into a movie. If this movie is anything like the book, it’s going to be Bruce Campbell-riffic and full of B horror wonder. There is no way this would be up to snuff as a legit horror film.

I enjoyed this book well enough, but occasionally felt like the plot was dragging or cutting and jumping in too many places. But not bad for a first attempt at fiction, and certainly not your every day scary story by any means.

Long story short, if you are a fan of B horror or scary movie parodies like Shaun of the Dead, this one’s for you. If you are sneaky, you might still be able to find a free, downloadable PDF of the whole book online somewheres.

Nick Hornby’s Songbook isn’t a novel or a story like his other books. It’s more like a loose autobiography via essays that relate somehow to his favorite songs. And it’s absolutely wonderful.

Hornby — who, in case you forgot, wrote High Fidelity (love the book; the movie adaptation is my favorite film) and About a Boy — is a music-lover and always has been. So he figured he would write about songs that stick with him. He devotes a few pages to each song and moves on. Sometimes it’s how the songs make him feel, or memories that he ties them to, and often they become philosophical, psychological or sociological conversations on pop music and its place in our lives. In other words, it’s a book I’d love to write myself someday that, hopefully, wouldn’t end up seeming like a copycat derivative of Songbook.

Hornby writes in such a calm and simple candor that it’s easy to agree with him, or to at least to understand his where he’s coming from. He has a common sense that looks past the divisions that music creates between generations, examining its place in all our lives, reflecting on his own youth as well as his current middle-age, all the moments in between, and how music connects them all.

And with that, I leave you with this quote from a chapter about Röyksopp:

How is it possible to love or connect to music that is as omnipresent as carbon monoxide?

This may partly explain the teenage fondness for the profanities and antisocial attitudes of hip-hop: neither Starbucks nor The Body Shop nor the Hotel Minimalist wishes to assault their valued customers with obscene raps about Uzis and pussy set to beats that attempt to remove part of your skull, thus allowing contemporary youth to bond with their favorite artists in private. I was able to do that with Led Zeppelin because no one else was interested: you never heard “Dazed and Confused” on TV, or in department stores, or in pubs, or even on the radio very often; there was only one TV program dedicated to the music I liked in Britain. (Now there’s probably a “Dazed and Confused” cable channel somewhere that plays the song twenty-four hours a day.) I was therefore able to foster the notion that Zeppelin was something special, a secret between me and my friends. Such is pop music’s current tyranny that it must be almost impossible for kids to think that major artists are speaking directly and intimately to them — how is that possible, when those same artists are speaking to everyone who buys peppermint foot lotion or eats at Pizza Hut? The simplest retort to this ubiquity is to listen to and learn to like music that is essentially dislikable, stuff that would bring the Starbucks compilation people to their knees begging for mercy.

I highly recommend this book to all readers and music fans. As if I needed to say it.

When I came across a memoir wrapped up in a series of mix tapes, I knew I’d found something special. Even though I had other books to read, they had to be paused for Love is a Mix Tape.

Written by Rob Sheffield, a rock journalist and long-time fan of pretty much any good music, Love is a Mix Tape is an autobiography of sorts. Each chapter starts with a mix tape — a listing of songs important to that point in Sheffield’s story. He traces his roots, telling the reader how music has always played an important part of his life. He talks about growing up as a Catholic boy in Boston listening to Zeppelin, a twenty-something listening to Pavement, a thirty year old discovering Missy Elliot. But, most importantly, he tells us how he met Renee, the love of his life.

It’s no spoiler: Rob and Renee aren’t together for long. They got five years before she died suddenly. I knew it was coming, and yet was still surprised when it happened. Halfway through the book, Sheffield’s memoir suddenly transforms into a reflection of how he coped with loss, sometimes through friends and family, but mostly through music.

Perhaps I took this story more to heart than most. After all, as a wannabe music journalist with a girl by my side who has drastically altered the playlist of my life, I get where he’s coming from a bit. Reading what it was like for him to suffer was nearly unbearable for me; I hate hearing what it might be like to lose my other half so quickly and suddenly.

I guess this was a book meant for me. It was encouraging to see that someone else keeps track of what he was listening to, and has found a way to use it to learn and grow and reflect from his own history. I hope I can find a purpose for my own history-recording someday as well, though I’d prefer for it to be a happier experience.

If you feel music, if it helps you to live and love and grow and reflect, Love is a Mix Tape is for you. Call me a sap or an over-dramatic fool, but love and music were meant for each other and this book nails down the idea like none other could.