Thursday, December 30, 2010

I Showed True Grit in Spanish Class Last Year

by Brendan Cavanagh

"Tengo un anuncio." - Trying to organize a futile class trip to a Mexican restaurant

In high school, I had the same teacher for Spanish III Junior Year and Spanish IV Senior Year, much to my then chagrin. I was all about having as many teachers as possible in high school in order to get that fully well-rounded experience. I wanted to meet new knowledgeable adults and not have the same ones several years in a row, like I did in grade school. In Spanish III, I was not exactly met with much strife as Spanish came somewhat naturally for me in school, but I struggled to stay awake and remain enthused in class, which I had first hour at 8:00 a.m. Mostly I went through the basic daily motions- answering monotonous questions, passing frequent vocab quizzes, etc. I did not particularly enjoy my teacher because she was pretty hard on us, stressing retention of vocabulary, pronunciation and a general understanding of Spanish culture, while most of us just wanted to pass the class to get credit that could be applicable to college later on. I used to leave class every day with my head ringing with her much-uttered mantras: "You guys should know this" and "Es la verdad?"

Spanish III - 1st Hour. Awkward, devoid of color and bursting at the seams with future Spanish dropouts.

It wasn't until about the end of junior year that I began to find myself somewhat engaged in class, actively seeking to understand the language and its cultural impact. I even began to side with my teacher when students vied boisterously for easier tests, given less often. I found myself inexplicably drawn to the woman I previously discounted, whose eccentricities and passion grew on me. As a result, during Spanish IV the next year, as I began to grow out of my shell socially, I was able to enjoy learning Spanish, and, yeah, maybe take advantage of my teacher's fondness for me by having a bit of fun in class knowing I wouldn't really be punished. But it was all in good cheer, and my enthusiasm rubbed off on some other students in the class, resulting in a warmer, collective, more engaging class period. Even the lights seemed brighter and the room warmer in comparison to junior year.

Anyway, I learned to apply my zeal and spontaneity to my homework assignments, particularly the infrequently assigned and collectively dreaded essays. One essay, for instance, dictated that we write our own conclusion to a story we read in class, entitled Una Carta a Dios by Gregorio López y Fuentes. I decided to have some fun and stray from the commonly written endings where the main character gets his money and winds up happy with his family, or the main character loses his money or whatever. Instead I opted to write a Coen Brothers-style ending, dealing with issues and themes such as greed, ignorance, lust, betrayal, love, homosexuality, corruption, and murder, fully aware that most of the latter were neither written into the original story itself nor intended to be extracted from the text by readers. My ending will make no sense if you haven't read the short story itself (though it doesn't make very much sense even if you do read the story). I had Google do a quick translation of the story, originally written in Spanish, but Google, like every other online translator, is faulty to a degree, so there are a couple points where the grammar is kind of spotty, but you get the gist of it anyway:

-Una Carta a Dios (A Letter to God) por Gregorio López y Fuentes-

And here's my translated ending to the Spanish folk tale:

"The jefe became angry at Lencho's ignorance, so he and his employee [it's a man, by the way] went to Lencho's house in order to obtain his money. When Lencho saw the two from the post office approaching, he grabbed his gun and went outside, down the long road as it became dark.
-Give me the money! he shouted.
And suddenly, Lencho and the jefe fired their guns at each other. Lencho, with a bad wound, fell to the earth and died. Then the jefe looked at his employee to his left.
-Let's get the money.
But the employee didn't respond. He had a wound in his heart, as a result of Lencho's bullet.
-Employee!! shouted the jefe. But it was too late.
In his depression, the jefe picked up Lencho's gun.
-But for the grace of God, he said to the body of his employee, his lover, while he drew the gun to his temple.
A pair of yellow lizards on a peak near the hill of the house of Lencho, of the starving children, of the waiting old woman, scattered at the sound of the discharge of the gun."

(cut to black, cue credits playing over "Santa-Fe" or "Outlaw Blues" or "When I Paint My Masterpiece" or basically any loud song by Bob Dylan that would fit the mood)

BONUS: If you're Facebook friends with me you can watch me comically stumbling my way through a presentation on Cuban migration to America!!!1!

Spanish IV - 5th Hour. Goofy, vibrant and packed with SCHOOL SPIRIT.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Need some thoughts to think?

I have been way too busy this week to conceive an idea for a blog post.

Here's a list of other things that will leave your head spinning if you try too hard to truly conceive them.


As you may have picked up on by now, I am fascinated by death. The fact is, it's the source of a majority of human fear. Being scared for your life is never a fun experience and one that a person should only have to go through once (or twice, if you're a thrillseeker). In addition to the fact that it's the source of most fears, everybody experiences it. Everybody dies. I'm not being pessimistic or a Debby downer, it's just true. At some point, you get cut off from life, and you have to pass on. And it's the most hollowing thing to think about, slash the scariest, but it's also damn interesting. First off, what's it like not living? Do you have a conscience at that point or a soul? Part of why I like to think about this is because nobody knows. It's not being kept from anybody, it's just one of the most important things that we as alive people will never know. What happens to us when we die?

My personal theory? Irrelevant. Create your own.


Is big. Really big. Bigger than any thing that a human could hope to discover in their life ever. Looking at the stars is a really cheesy thing to do. But without a doubt it sure makes you feel useless. What lies in space? Everything that exists. I like to think that everything any human has ever thought of exists. Somewhere. Why not? Space is boundless? There's not room for 8 billion people on this planet, but there is room for everything 8 billion people could ever think of in space. The notion that human life only exists on planet earth is both ridiculous but ridiculously plausible. The fact that we get to be one of these human beings and watch cable television is absolutely astonishing if you think about all the times and lives and planets, galaxies that have passed by when we weren't (as far as we know) in existence. And all the life out there now, in the endless void of stars and shit that is space, that we have no clue about? And how often or not-so-often a survivable atmosphere and ecosystem comes along? That shit is stupid unfathomable.


Speaking of unfathomable things. There are so many things that are caused by chance. Figure out the odds on this bit and you will be staring at a 1 and a number so large, you'll need a full college-ruled 80 page spiral notebook to write it down. Ariel Smith-sized handwriting too. If I'm ever out of town and run into someone I know, my mind explodes. Every car accident that's ever happened could have been avoided if someone took an extra three seconds to do something. We're so heavily immersed in the world of chance that we take it for granted and become acclimated to the ridiculous unlikelihood of anything ever happening. But nonetheless, it's something that should be respected.


The ability to see and hear things. The ability to taste food and smell things and (shit what's the other one? Oh yeah...) feel textures. Amazing. There are animals who lack all five of humankind's vital senses. Imagine if you couldn't see colors. Imagine if you couldn't hear music. Imagine if you felt food in your mouth and didn't taste it. One thing I personally enjoy is when my hand goes numb or something like that. Then I just feel it with my other hand. What's my hand feel like? You don't know because you perceive it differently when you can feel it too. But for a brief thirty seconds, I can just touch my hand. And it will feel like it has to every person who has ever touched my hand throughout my 18 years of living. It's a rare experience, and one I relish.


Proof that life isn't a video game. Everything that is must make sense. If you were the first person on earth, it would just exist. You wouldn't know why. You wouldn't think to figure it out. Science impresses the shit out of me. Who the hell has time to figure out everything that is and then figure out a way to make it relevant to life or easy (..difficult) to understand? Of life's mysteries, this sort of encompasses all of them. How do things work? (Side note: I'm taking a class called “How Things Work” next semester, so I'll be able to answer all these questions in about five months.) How and why does everything happen? Flowers are pretty? Well we figured out every single fucking thing about flowers and now we know why they're pretty. Nifty, but to me it kinda ruins the wonder of it all. But to those people out there who fucking hate wondering about things and not knowing them, I salute you (and also find you slightly annoying), and this post is for you.

6-The Human Body

(This goes along with science I know, but eff that)

You have never once stopped moving. There is always things going on in you. Your body is a factory producing you. It's always running, no power outages, and will continue running until you number one. Blood has ran through your body for years, and spilled every so often. But it's weird to think about ourselves in the inside-out sense. Turns out we're more than water balloons made of skin. We're a ton of bones and, my God, brains. Brains are retarded. Synapses firing to give you thoughts, thousands of millions of thoughts a day, everything you do is verified in your brain. Everything you've ever done. Everything you'll ever do. Ahh. Also my heart has GOT to be tired. I mean, Jesus, it's been beating evenly for every waking and non-waking moment of my life. Sure it speeds and slows, but it hasn't gone three seconds without beating ever. Good work, heart! Keep it up, please?


The final one I'll bore (slash BLOW your FUCKING MIND) with today. But time has two main facets I want to get to. First off, it passes. Evenly, supposedly. It ages things. Everything. All things have been aged by none other than time. Time is always going, more so than your body. Time goes after your body gives up. Time can't ever stop, even if everything else on this list ceased to exist, time would pass. Second thing, what if we lived in the non-present? How the hell would you guys read my blog posts if this was 1858? Well you sure wouldn't be doing it if you were black, THAT'S for sure. (Hooray for figuring out civil rights!) I mean, what will life be like 40 years from now? What will video games be like? We better still have controllers, dammit. And, supposedly, we'll get there eventually. But we'll only make it so far. And after that, time will continue. Things will continue. There's a chance we won't get to know. There's a huge chance that we'll forget we were ever curious. However, undeniably, the future holds many things, including number one and PLENTY of number three. Whatever the future holds, whatever the past held, I don't know. But it all happened. It will all happen. Fate? Chance? Who knows. Fuck. Shit's heavy.

At some point you have to throw your hands up and give up trying to figure these things out. You won't succeed. You will come up short of knowing everything. It will be less than fulfilling. I wish we could know everything about these seven concepts, but we don't. We don't know what it's like being blind unless we are blind (or what if colors were different colors? When I saw red you saw blue and that was red to you? Holy crap.) We will never finish science. We can try, but uh, good luck. I will never know what it's like to be Osmosis Jones inside of the human body. We will never catch up to the ever-expanding Universe. We will never outsmart chance, and we will not know what death is like until we do it.

Damn. My brain hurts. Have a good day.

--Eliot Sill

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

No, YOUR post was desperate.

Single White Female age 18 seeking Single Male ages 15 to 35 and a half.

Bio: Freshmen at University of Illinois with no current future plans. Skilled at piano, math and cutting people down. Good throwing arm.

Work Experience: Abercrombie Kids employee (EDIT- recently received a merit raise from 8.25 to 8.75 (EDIT- sells jeggings like its her job)).

Interests: walking, soccer balls, looking, seeing, candy, ghouls, boyz, hairz, bookz, antique scissors, jumping, landing, Miley, the movie Brink, weed, children, inhibitionz

Dislikes: packing things in boxes, college, music in cars (EDIT- annoying), talking, listening, hearing, dudes named Magnus, my childhood, your childhood (SEE- Dislikes: listening), ripe bananas, blogging, single moms

Application Requirements: None

Deal Breakers: blindness, excessive kindness, uppity, Catholic, good at flute, bad at gunz, Conor O'Brien, emotions

Contact Information: Classic Brian (EDIT- Tuesdays)

Monday, December 27, 2010

Nick - Running Out Of Ink

You couldn't really call it a town. "Desolate collection of huts" would be a more apt description. Surrounded on all sides by vast plains, it was literally not on any maps. The town I grew up in. Where my story begins and ends.

No one ever visited or left. There could be no travel, no contact with anyone; we were more than a week's walk from the nearest town. My parents had taught me from childhood that I couldn't safely leave; that I would have to stay and take over my father's farm as he aged. And that was fine with me. I was a timid child, vying for my parents' approval and I was born without a lust for adventure.

Everyone knew everyone, although the only other children my age were my best friend Kuuzon and a loud girl named Odessa, both of whom I saw very often due to the closeness of the families here.

From youth, the only real entertainment I had besides farm work was playing with Kuuzon, by which I mean wrestling and fighting with sticks. Kuuzon, although two years younger than me, was naturally better than me at everything we tried. Rarely would I win in any of our competitions; but it didn't matter to me. I was timid, and more than happy to leave the glory to him.

Odessa I never had a close relationship with. I had a crush on her starting in my early teens. Timid as I was, I never acted on it.

Oblivious to the world, I did what I did best: coexisted. Did farm work. Lost to Kuuzon in wrestling matches. I existed in this state for a very long time, but I gradually began to gain a sense of awareness of the people around me near the age of 18. Kuuzon was very clearly the dominant personality in our relationship; he was the leader, and I the follower. And it became clear to me over time that he was starting to get a little bored of me.

My father, too, I began to notice more acutely. And I could see for the first time in my life that he was disappointed. Not angry, upset, or sad, just shrouded in a dim cloud of disappointment that he had long ago resigned himself to. He had come to terms with the complacent and unimpressive nature of his son, and was no longer bothered by it.

None of this was terribly troubling to me until the day my father went to ask Kuuzon's father for a deal; Kuuzon would take over working on my father's farm, and I would help his family with their cows. I knew that I was weak. And I knew that this work would be better for me; that I would be better suited to tending livestock. But the impact of seeing my own father acknowledge my inadequacy changed something inside of me.

I went on a walk to think about things. I knew that I had no ambition, and that, physically, I was lacking for a farm hand. But I had always done my best to be compassionate and understanding. To be there for my family. And as I was thinking all of this, I ran into Odessa, who joined me on my walk. And she asked if anything was wrong.

I said no. It was a lie, and a terrible one. But my emotions couldn't overcome my nature, and I was shy. We walked the rest of our journey in silence. I escorted her home. I walked into my house and gathered some food and belongings. Nobody noticed.

And then I left.

. . .

I didn't leave in hope of finding anything. I left because I realized there was nothing left to find. It was more akin to suicide than anything else. I fully expected to fade away, out of sight and out of mind.

And I should have died out there. I told myself that every day. I very nearly starved, but I ate weeds and eventually reached a town. I sat in the streets and took what I could find in the garbage. I had never seen anything akin to a large town, but I was never impressed by the sight. My eyes were only half open. I was living, was always living, in the quiet disappointment of my home.

And then a miracle happened. I went from that town to another town. And another one. And I didn't die. And then I killed an animal that attacked me. And I killed some bad men who tried to take my belongings from me. And I got caught up in something so big that it out-scaled anything I could ever be, anyone I could ever know.

I saved the world. I won't bore you with the details, but I rose to the occasion with a strength I didn't and don't have. There was a crisis, there was a plot of such deadly menace that it would have ended everything. And I got caught up in it. I killed people. I fought and won. I saved the world.

And I still, in my head, was stuck in my home. It took an event of such scale as that to put the idea in my mind that I could actually go back. I had to become a hero before I had even considered confronting my shame.

So, the most important times of my life behind me, I headed back home.

. . .

As I walked back into town, the first person I ran into was Odessa. And even she had heard of my feats, here in the middle of nowhere. I was a hero. And inwardly, I basked in the knowledge that I would finally be loved. That maybe now she would see that I am, and had been a hero the whole time.

But she looked at me as if I were new and strange and foreign; as if she were frightened. I was a little perturbed by this, but not surprised. Of course she would be shocked. I was a hero now, I was changed. It would take a little while to sink in. I left her shocked to go home and visit my parents, looking forward to the moment when I would talk to her again.

I entered my parents' house. I walked in triumphantly as my mother and father were eating a meal. I grinned, expecting joy; I raised my arms and gave a loud greeting.

I again see shock written on their faces.

"We had thought you were dead," Dad says repeatedly.

And then, at that moment, Kuuzon walks in. My one and only friend. The one whom I had missed, whom I had looked forward to meeting again. I stretched out my arms, ready to embrace him. Taken aback, he remained motionless and stunned for a moment before returning the gesture. He really was trying to act happy to see me, I could tell.

I asked him to come outside and wrestle with me, for old times' sake; and he did. I pinned him down easily; I had come a long way.

I laughed childishly; this was probably the most joyful I had every been. I was back, and I was better than I had ever been. I had become what everyone had wanted me to be. Kuuzon laughed back, but it was nervous and forced.

He wasn't
happy for me, he was only intimidated. I had left in anger, a meek but compassionate individual, devoid of amibition. I had been gone, dead, but remembered fondly. And now I had returned, changed. No one had wanted me to become a hero. They hadn't wanted anything of me.

I could see it in his eyes. I could see it in everyone's eyes.

They wish it wasn't me.


Sunday, December 26, 2010

Robert - Trix are not for kids. Trix are for borings.

Ballpit + urine = new Trix

Once, our breakfast was stylish. Once, we were not appeased by vapid color displays. There was a time when fruit was for breakfast and grain was for sandwiches. In January of 2007, this all was changed. The executive order was handed down to return Trix to their original, communal, spherical shapes.

What did that mean for kids? Nothing, except the textural death of the former world's greatest cereal (title currently being disputed by Cocoa Pebbles). Now in puff-form, the taste has been diluted from sugary perfection to wholesome blandness. They don't taste anymore. It's like eating colorful sawdust. But with nutrients. I try to avoid both; look at my diet for proof.

Cart24 from said that he likes "the old Trix because they were fruits, not circles." I couldn't agree more. Circles have no edge to them. Other circles: peas, sour grapes, bad donuts, meatballs with gristle in them, tires, bullet wounds.

In addition, the company is gipping us on quantity. The "puff" is, by nature, riddled with air pockets and empty spaces. This means pockets of bacteria waiting to attack and destroy our immune systems, punishing us for our weak breakfast purchases. There is no bang for our buck.

Trix cereal is now baby-friendly, able to be broken down with the slightest contact. It once took talent, strength, and raw endurance to chew through the dense pieces of sugarbreadfruit, especially when you ate through the tall sides of the ones that were shaped like bananas because bananas are long. Hunter-gatherers were among the hardest working humans in history for their food. They had to hunt for their food and often eat it uncooked. There was no certainty of dinner for one night, or even the next. We, too,have their blood running through our veins. We, too, have an instinct to fight for our satisfaction, and when the battle is already won, when the enemy crumbles before our teeth, we are left unsatisfied.

For three years our beloved cereal has marched from the factories in round, uniform, oppression. They seek a return to the glory days. A release from the boring days. I, for one, refuse to consume them until they are liberated to their bright, happy, shapely selves. Please do the same.

The day that the puff reigned again was the day my childhood ended. This is when I realized I was doomed to end up in a cubicle one day. This is when I gave up, and considered maybe trying oatmeal one day.


Not exciting

Saturday, December 25, 2010


Sorry this post is like right after Conor's. He posted late and I posted early. Consider it a double bonus Christmas special. And actually the first time I posted it it somehow ended up before Conor's post...? We need to fix the time thing on this somehow...

I'd like to start off by wishing everyone a merry Christmas. This is hands down my favorite holiday of the year and perhaps even my favorite time of year overall. It's not because I get presents, because although those are nice, I could care less whether I get any or not. I tend to have a disregard for money and such, which I'm sure will be my downfall later in life. But anyway, back to what I was saying. I love this time of year because of this comfortable feeling that comes with it which is hard to put in words. And this year it feels better than ever.

Recently I feel like I've finally developed a close niche of good friends that I actually hang out with regularly. Since a lot of them read/write this blog, I just want you guys/girls to know that I really appreciate you. As corny as it sounds, I honestly consider you all as my best Christmas present. Thanks for putting up with my shit sometimes, and letting me know when I go too far. I'm sorry for my recent spurt of douchey activity, and I'm resolved to be less personally offensive. Don't worry though. I'll still be Classic. And yes Robert, I will still most definitely play The Game.

There are a shit ton of reasons why I appreciate each of you peoples, and it'd take forever to name them all, so lemme cite some specific examples. FFFF. I needn't say more than that. Finding fun in the littlest things that most people would just consider dumb. How long did we spend picking out bad sweaters and randomly assigning ties to monumental moments in our futures? Good work City Museum squad. We spent like 15 minutes finding words in peoples's last names and finding ways to make them insulting. I don't even care that I lost badly and ended up being “alone” for the rest of the night. I appreciate stuff like that. Being able to talk to someone when shit hit the fan for me in certain aspects of my life. Endless hours spent playing NBA 2K. Skype conversations. Being reassured that I'm a good person when I don't feel like one. Being compared to T.O. In perhaps the most negative way possible (hope you don't actually feel that way about me, baby). Dating Rikki. The blanket game that I have no idea how to guys know what I mean. Inadvertently recycling Robert's discarded personality and just going with it. How we can go forever with any joke (“Ze fuck you!”). Over-explaining every joke ever. Spite. Music interests in common/musical debates. Being Mada's fling while her bf is away (this is a joke) even though I never see her (LAME). Learning guitar with Hilldawg (this is so fucking happening). This blog. How the nickname Classic has stuck and has come so far. Puns. And countless other things.

I'm really glad I can say that this has been an overall good year for me. I've suffered some casualties in some hard fought battles, but I feel like I've come out victorious. I look forward to 2011 and all it holds, including my continued posting on this blog. Good work on keeping this blog going and making it thrive for so long everyone. Thanks to everyone who reads/follows us, too. You're all great. I hope you guys think I'm a decent guy. I like to think I'm fun to be around for the most part. I've always tried to keep this persona of not caring what people think, but when it comes to my friends, I obviously do. I love everyone today. Except Bill O'Reilly. He's still a jackass. Merry Christmas again to everyone besides him.


Conor - Top 10

It's Christmas Eve, technically Christmas right now. I cannot be expected to provide you with entertainment right now. Instead, I will provide you with my opinion. My raw, unadulterated, overly quantified opinion.

I've seen a few people say it was a mediocre year, or even a bad year for music. I didn't think so at all. Like number 7 on my list, Plastic Beach by Gorillaz? I listen to that album pretty constantly, but it's only 7 on my list. Because a lot of really awesome guys kicked a lot of really awesome ass this year. Good work, everyone. Also, I know there were a ton of albums I missed out on, and hopefully I'll remedy that soon.

Top 10 Albums of 2010
10. Undercard - The Extra Lens
9. Lonely Avenue - Ben Folds & Nick Hornby
8. Write About Love - Belle & Sebastian
7. Plastic Beach - Gorillaz
6. The Age of Adz - Sufjan Stevens
5. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy - Kanye West
4. High Violet - The National
3. The Suburbs - Arcade Fire
2. This Is Happening - LCD Soundsystem
1. Contra - Vampire Weekend
Oh, oh shit guys. IT'S CHRISTMAS MORNING. IT'S THE FOURTH OF JULY. Anyway, yeah, it's 1:30 in the morning so I'm going to go ahead and call it a day. Have a great holiday, everyone.

*Bro's finna cry?
**Oh girl doesn't look anything like she sounds

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Life as a Metaphorist

Life is a metaphor.

Profound statement. Utterly ridiculous, utterly truthful, utterly made up by someone who was bored with the daily grind that is encompassed by life on earth. We live through a lot of days people, eventually we get bored and start drawing connections that aren't really there.

Now look, I know it's the holiday season and everyone's got people to see. There's more to do and less time to read this crap. I'll try to make this concise, but more for my benefit than for yours. And if you're one of those jerks who runs at the word "basketball", this post may not be for you. It involves sports.

Earlier this week I asked for five life anecdotes that I could use for my Classic Brian post, and I got six. Sorry, Conor.

But the fact is, if you have enough of an imagination, sports can serve as a metaphor for anything. Anything at all. And that's yet another reason why people like them so much. A lot of old football guys talk about "football as a metaphor for life," well that's not true guys. As George Carlin perceptively noted, football is a metaphor for war. YouTube the video yourself, as I do not have the time to go search for it and link it, I may update that later. But, I don't wanna be Conor, ya know, so. No promises. But sports, the grand spectrum, it can be likened to nearly anything that happens. I haven't found the sporting equivalent of the Holocaust yet, but, well, let's hope that correlation never surfaces.

If you look at the song "Bloodbuzz Ohio" by The National, the whole song can be analogized to the plight of LeBron James. I did it. I sent my findings to Katie O'Brien via e-mail. I cracked up a bunch. Who knew The National were so prophetic about The (supposed) King's decision making. The fact is, sports is more than dunks and touchdowns. It's home runs too. And stolen bases. And failed stolen bases. And strikeouts. Groundouts. Incompletions. Losing seasons. Fired managers. Disgruntled fans. Team rivalries. Sadness. Happiness. Success. Failure. Sports encompasses all the emotions of human life and puts them in an arena that everyone can observe and take in without the risk of real world implications. It's like politics. Except there are not countries and thousands of lives at stake. There's just the prize, the pursuit, and the cellar. But what lies between these facets is so much more than one would suspect.

Natalie Cheng told me the story of her and her friend missing a train on two separate occasions after running through the snow to get there. That's a hilariously sad story. A struggle to run through snow and get to the train and catch a train. All to watch the opportunity slip through your fingertips.

Now the part where I relate that to sports. To hyperbolize Natalie's traumatic situation and make it something a little more grand. Look back to 1990 when a young football team from Buffalo was busting through to the cream of the crop in the National Football League. That team was highlight by an outstanding quarterback, a dominant running back, and a dynamic wide receiver. I won't give you their names because you'll forget them. (Aw heck: Jim Kelly QB, Thurman Thomas RB, and Andre Reed WR) Anyway, this team experienced enormous success during the regular season and made it all the way to the Super Bowl, where they lost on a botched last-second field goal and were upended 20-19 by the New York Giants. The next year they made it back, only to lose again. The heartbreak at that point must have been tangible. Next year the team rallied the troops and put together yet another stellar year despite their previous shortcomings. Then they met the Dallas Cowboys, a team with a better QB RB WR trio (Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, Michael Irvin respectively) and got destroyed 52-17. That's like Nixon and Regan election numbers. Embarrassment. Third time was not the charm. Well neither was the fourth. The team got beat the next year by the same team 30-13. Four straight Super Bowl appearances, four straight crushing defeats. And if you think the Super Bowl is unimportant, check this stat out: People who voted in the 2008 election= Approximately 131 million. People who watched the Super Bowl last year: 106 million.

Jobin Kokkat revealed to me his serial cereal eating, as he destroyed 2 boxes of cereal in a seven-hour period. I could make several connections here. Obviously he is overindulging a bit. Sort of like the Yankees do every off-season. They cash in on free agents like nobody's business. Or more like there's nobody else in their business. They hog everybody. A-Rod, Jeter, Roger Clemens, Mark Teixera, Giambi, I could list on for four more paragraphs. But I won't Jobin, ya got one box of cereal down the hatch why scarf down another?

Because cereal's delicious. And nothing in life tops it. Just like in baseball nothing tops a perfect game. Enjoying whizzing pitches by opposing batters and watching them look dumbfounded as you continually gun them down with your rocket arm. Roy Halladay nearly duplicated this feat. He threw a perfect game in May (no hits allowed, no walks, no batters hit, and definitely no runs) and a no-hitter in October (no hits allowed) both of these guaranteeing certain victory as eliminating every bit of cereal guarantees certain satisfaction. And to do it all within such a short span? Even more amazing. Jobin, you need to tame your appetite.

Charles Yang posted a joke about the movie Air Bud. Okay, but an unlikely basketball star has before risen up through adversity and inspired the shit out of people. Ladies and gentlemen, J-Mac.

Robert Langellier told me he made a mix CD. Did he really? Well, I'm familiar with his (and Conor's) methods. They meticulously search their iTunes libraries and find all the songs that fit the moods and all the transitions that work well together and what-not. Kids, your General Managers. GM's put teams together. They build the roster adding and dropping players. A GM's job isn't done at the outset of the season. It takes many in-season moves to perfect your roster. Some great players don't work well together, just like how you can't have 19 smash hits on your mix CD. Songs have to work together, and they have to flow well. You like to have your big hit be your number two or three song? Well many basketball teams like to have their best player be their shooting guard or small forward, then you add in some complementary players and you end up with the Lakers. Now if I put "Wake Up," "1901," and "Bad Romance" on a mix CD you'd have the Miami Heat. I got that joke. Maybe Classic Brian did. Nobody else (who reads this) can put those two opposite ends of the entertainment spectrum together. Maybe.

Classic told me he's made fun of people and burned bridges in the process. Sounds to me like Brendan's pissed. Anyway, Brian is a real T.O. Terrell Owens is a great receiver, but a maniac. He is obsessed with himself and if everybody else isn't in line with him then its their fault, obviously. He's a great receiver, he can catch anything you throw his way, he can block, and he can make a play with the ball. Having a guy like Brian is great until things start to go badly, then he's pointing fingers and acting like he's doing nothing wrong. Then he starts feuding with the quarterback and eventually breaks the whole team apart. Classic, you are a cancer to the team. And yes, that phrase is politically correct. But it's okay because one day you'll find another cancer to hang out with and you guys will be 2-12 but you'll be really entertaining and have your own TV show in which you blame other people for your failures. Is this bridge lighting?

Conor told me he DD'd. Cool. Don't care. I said five for a reason, Con. Conor's story can be metaphorized (not a word) to someone who didn't make the team. A story that never got its chance to play out because Conor was just too slow to pull the trigger on his suggestion.

Well that's all I've got for today. Enjoy the Holidays. What'll you be doing on Christmas? I know I will be watching the five consecutive NBA games that ABC is broadcasting this year, and figuring out all my life's troubles in the process.

--Eliot Sill

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

This is a terrible post.

This is a terrible post. The premise is uninspired, and the execution is sloppy. I waited until the last minute but couldn't think of something to make a list of. So you get this. A post about something that happened to me today that I weakly connect to a larger idea. It doesn't really fit, but I apply it to myself for proof. You don't read it. Not really. You read the intro and the conclusion and you skim the body. My outro joke is good, my intro joke is bad. I write it in 5 minutes and don't proofread. You read it in 1 minute and wonder if I know there's spellcheck. You're impressed that it says I posted at ten but that's only because the post clock is two hours behind. Tomorrow you'll do this all again with the next post and forget that this one even happened. The only thing you'll remember is that I actually posted this time. But you'll continue to read this daily because it's still more interesting than Facebook. See you next week.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Nick - The Most Dangerous Game

I'm on top of the world; I rush forward, utilizing my overwhelming speed to close in on my helpless prey. I bear down mercilessly as he swerves, trying desperately to break my pursuit. And then, in an instant, it's over; in a satisfying crack his vehicle is crushed. He lets out a cry of anguish and despair as I drink the sweet nectar of his demise.

He wanders off, a downtrodden nomad and another helpless victim; everything he worked for is naught. As I gloat in victory, something comes up behind me. There's no time to react; there is no chase, no pounding heart, no fear. I hear the horrible crack that was my ally just moments ago, and now I too am crushed. Knocked from my place at the top of the food chain, I never even saw what hit me. It was something blurry, something moving incomprehensibly fast. It was something... pink.

This cycle of predator to prey, this dynamic story of betrayal and back-stabbing, is typical of a game of Kirby Air Ride. Kirby Air Ride is a 2003 Gamecube racing game starring Kirby. The reason that you've never heard of it is because it is, by all counts, a bad game. It got terrible reviews, and the main game is slow and boring.

But tucked away as just another feature, is a second gameplay mode called "city trial." It's advertised as a fun alternative way to play; you run around the city and collect power ups and then compete in a friendly race after the timer runs out.

What they don't tell you is that if you smash someone, you can ruin their vehicle, take all their powerups, and leave them broken and helpless.
There are several things wrong with the above picture: first of all, they look like they are having fun. In reality, Kirbys are disposable. They should be huddled in fear, preparing for their imminent demise. Any great vehicle you get, and power ups you receive, they all can be stripped from you in an instant. And then your assassin will have your precious power ups, feeding further into his strength and your oppression.

The second thing wrong with that picture is that exciting things are happening in the background. If you're lucky, maybe meteors will fall from the sky for a little while, or a secret stash of power ups will appear somewhere. But more often, the in-game events are things like the sky getting foggy for a minute, or the lighthouse turning on.
Another thing of note in Kirby Air Ride is that there is absolutely no balance. See that machine up there? That's Hydra. If someone manages to get Hydra, it's all over. Hydra is indestructible, overwhelmingly fast, and capable of destroying you and everyone you love with a single tap. If your friend gets Hydra, you had better pray that the round is almost over, because it will be misery for you. Your friend is no longer your friend. Now he is the oppressor. The enemy. The tyrant. A monster, bloated with his own strength.

. . .

I love playing Kirby Air Ride. It's unbalanced and cruel. When I play it, I am subhuman. You are no longer my friend or my brother. You are a target, and your only salvation will be the moment of relief you feel when the clock runs out.

If you want to play, call me up.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Robert - Italians

This is a profile on Italians. Why the fu*k are they all so hot? I've been thinking about this question for years now, and I can only come to the conclusion that they are of a higher and more evolved species than us common ethnicities.

This is Gino. He's a friend of mine from back in the day. This is him as a freshman in high school. I assume he's looked like that since kindergarten, when he hit puberty. He had a five-o'clock shadow the first time I met him and a mysterious gaze that stared right past my soul and into my heart. My knees weakened considerably. Needless to say, he's in a band.

This is Ben and another identical looking Italian. He has pecs and a stoic sense of humor. He is the current leader of the Easily Amused Improv Troupe and can do backflips. He likes the classy things: an old Bob Dylan record spinning on a record player, dimmed lighting, and scotch glasses. He does not wear shirts and I can prove it. I like to envision him as either the evil villain in a James Bond movie or as James Bond. Yes of course he rides a motorcycle. And yes of course he wears leather.

These are just two examples. Time and time again, Italians seem to coolly and effortlessly swing themselves to the top of the social ladder. Something about them oozes sex. Sexiness. Or both. I mean, look at them. By nature, they have more defined cheekbones. They have an automatic store of muscle that they have a physical need to display when women are present. Racially, they are often mysterious, tan and sexy. They are impeccably intelligent and use their advanced knowledge that they receive at birth to stun and woo onlookers. Their women are known to be powerful, also tan, slender, and well defined. They are among the sexiest species of woman, perhaps rivaled only by the saucy latino senorita and the Swedes.

Their weaknesses are few, not enough to stop the hordes of charging women. Many are slightly under average height, and they have been known to be sort of greasy. And I think they sweat a lot. They are also frequently really really angry, but are sometimes able to turn this into a positive by pulling a "getting-business-done" card or by drumming in a band.

I bring this issue to the table because I am threatened by them, and so are you. I think over half of my heritage is Polish and German. This puts me at an extreme biological disadvantage.

A Stereotypical Pole

I have no solution to this epidemic of sexy. I have only fear and admiration. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go learn French, the violin, and the guitar in my futile attempt to catch up. Goodnight.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

In Which I Proceed To Make A Parody Of Something That Perhaps Should Not Be Parodied, Or, Look How Awesome I Am!, Or, Lists

DISCLAIMER: The following material is not subject to your god damn criticism. However, this company does apologize for what will surely be offensive to certain individuals. We ask that you take it like a champ, and not bitch out on us like other certain individuals have in the past. This will prevent us from having to remove the following post in order to appease tender hearted people who may get their feelings hurt. This is just what we do. Thank you.

-Classic Co.

Being pretentious is a delicate art that must be refined over a lifetime. It's like a lump of coal in that it appears hideous at first and people don't really think it's all that great, but over time, if it survives under pressure for long enough, it can become a beautiful diamond to be adored. By one's self. And after all that time has passed, it turns out people still hate it, but now they're just annoyed at how self-absorbed it is, despite it being pretty.

Here I shall make a list of certain attributes and facets that can accurately guide one to pretension:
1. After completing any paper or article on the computer, go back through and haphazardly use thesaurus to replace those "lesser" words with great big ones that considerably less people will be sure to understand. (randomly--->haphazardly) FYI: According to approximately 9.6 million pretentious people wrote some sort of article on the computer today.
2. Know how empyreal you are at all times.
3. Make sure everyone else also knows this by incessantly smothering them with stories of your countless triumphs in life and how you reign supreme over all.
4. Never relent your point in an argument. Remember, you cannot be wrong.
5. Do not deviate conversation from stuff about you. Nothing is more important than you. That's all you ever need to talk about. Don't ever forget that.
6. Make sure to keep your guard up and be as defensive as possible with every quip. Those lower beings are always trying to drag you down to their level somehow...
7. Swiftly reject opinions that conflict with your own as utterly wrong, especially if involving musical taste.
8. Never let people mistake you for a decent human being. This is a sign of weakness.
9. Always wear clothes that give the impression of saying, "Oh, judging by what YOU'RE wearing, I'd say I overdressed for the occasion." Then flaunt how good you look for the entire night and make everyone else feel shitty for being dressed more casually than you.
10. Always assume everyone will always agree with you, then act terribly shocked when they don't.

These 10 points cover the basics of the douchey spectrum. The Golden Commandment is essentially #2. If you can follow that rule, then all others shall fall into place without much trouble. Now, if this post were 100% true to the pretentious code, it would be about 5 times this length. However, I'm not an asshole and I know none of you are THAT interested in what I'm writing, so I'll cut it off here.


Friday, December 17, 2010

Conor - 2:41-3:15 AM

It's 2:41 right now, and I'm trying to capture a moment. It's technically Tuesday, December 14th, but it still feels like Monday because I haven't gone to sleep yet. I don't know where my roommate, Trent, is. I was just lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. I have a government final at 8:00 tomorrow/this morning. I'm waking up less than 4 hours from now, but right now I don't feel quite ready for sleep. I want to write this all down.

I was lying in bed, like I said, before I decided to right this. My alarm clock, currently displaying the time as 2:42, bathes the room in this bright blue light. Under normal circumstances this particular shade of blue would seem happy, but because it's the only light in the room it looks pretty sad. I like what it does to the room, how it makes the room feel. It's a pretty weak light. I turned on the reading lamp next to my bed to see if those two lights would do anything interesting when allowed to play together, but the harsh yellow light of the reading lamp completely drowns out the blue light. It's impossible to notice even a hint of blue, so I turned off my reading lamp. Normally I press the front display of my alarm clock up against my printer so it's light doesn't keep Trent awake or anything, but he's not here right now, so I'll let it make the room a little more melancholy. I like the blue more than I like the dark.

My alarm clock also doubles as an iPod dock, which I'm currently use to provide white noise. I wasn't really aware of how dependent I am on white noise to fall asleep to. I usually get back to the room after Trent, and he sleeps with a fan on, like I do back home. When his fan's on I can fall to sleep no problem, but when I was trying to fall asleep just a few minutes ago I just couldn't. It feels unnatural. I could go over there and turn his fan on, but that'd be pretty weird of me. I mean, he'd understand, and there obviously wouldn't be any problem with doing that I guess, but still. That's something I'm not going to do, for whatever reason.

Right now, at 2:50 according to my clock, 2:52 according to my laptop (It troubles me now that my alarm clock, which wakes me up in the morning and ensures that I get to places on time, is slow. I could turn around right now and fix that, but I totally won't), my iPod is shuffling my collection of Magnetic Fields songs. The Magnetic Fields make irresistible music to me. It's simultaneously simple and full of depth. The music is short and sweet. It's predictable. I know where it's going, and the familiarity is comforting, almost warm. The instrumentation of their songs are lush and pretty. There are like, 3 regular members of the Magnetic Fields, and 1 of those 3 peeps is a cello player. A solid investment. The lyrics are clever, witty, free of sentiment, dripping with irony and sarcasm. He delivers heartbreaking, endearing and honest lines with no emotion. Needless to say this music isn't helping me space out and fall to sleep, but this is what I want to be doing right now. The song Asleep & Dreaming played a few minutes ago. I love that song so much. It reminds me of last year.

I've got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow. I have 2 finals, a piano jury, and an interview with the editor of the school newspaper, The OU Daily. I'm trying to write on the newspaper next semester. Watch out, friends with journalism majors. I've come to trivialize your college careers by casually doing what you're devoting the rest of your life to. I hope you're angry, just like I'm angry whenever you amateurs try to play music. It's interesting that whenever I post this, I will have done all of those things already. I will know their results, I'll know how that all played out. I'll be back home! Would you look at that. On a related subject, I don't feel like not at home right now, and it feels weird acknowledging that. Springfield is definitely still "home" in my mind though. It's not like that can really change in 4 or 5 months, or however long it's been.

It's 3:11 (my favorite band) right now, and this is where I am, and this is what I'm thinking about. This song is playing, and I'm going to try to go to sleep now. It's time.

I've gotten a lot of emails from our loyal fans, asking me to tell you all about my thought process at around 3 in morning. Here you are, you vultures. This is post is for you. I hope you're happy.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

Spread My Arms and Soak Up "Congratulations"

by Brendan Cavanagh

Instead of repetitively listing off my favorite albums of the year, which happen to be many of the same albums that my friends have chosen, I'll just dedicate this blog post to my favorite album of 2010: MGMT's Congratulations. Two days after the album's April 13th release I wrote an article covering my impression of it, which was to be submitted to Sacred Heart-Griffin's Campus Crier (proofread by Classic Brian's very own Robert Langellier), but that never worked out. Funnily enough, what I wrote eight months ago is pretty much exactly how I feel today about Congratulations. I'll give you a look at how this brief article appeared when I wrote it- no changes made. I admit, there are a couple corny lines, but I think I get my point across anyway:

"Dear Mssrs. VanWynGarden and Goldwasser (MGMT),

If your plan was to bemuse fans and leave critics scratching their heads, It’s Working. Everyone thought your sophomore LP Congratulations would follow the same heavily-synthesized formula as your debut, Oracular Spectacular, but in a matter of two years, you’ve gone from creating insanely catchy, neo-psychedelic pop pieces like the widely appreciated single, “Kids”, to composing esoteric, lyrical homages to musically experimental English veterans, as found in your Song For Dan Treacy.

A lot of critics think Someone’s Missing, that some experienced hands are required to aid you guys in meeting up to everyone’s demands for more satirical, danceable tunes about spending money and doing drugs with attractive women, similar to the ones found on your debut. But I disagree; I have mad respect for you for refusing to fold under the music world’s expectations. I like that Congratulations is distinctly different from Oracular Spectacular in that it delves further into the macabre, trippy sounds of the oft-overlooked tracks of the former, yet still leaves the listener’s mind reeling with bursts of Flash Delirium. I like how the album resonates even when I’m not listening to it- for instance, the other day, I Found A Whistle and recalled the emotional rawness in your echoing vocals on the album’s slower tracks. Like that whistle, several of the more memorable leit-motifs of the album’s first half still pierce my humdrum day, causing me to unconsciously begin humming the catchy tunes.

But what is especially impressive is Congratulations’ twelve-minute opus halfway through the album. The song’s subtle transitions between alternating fast and slow ditties effectively replicate the swelling and subsiding of the Siberian Breaks which match the track’s title. The song’s wonderful imitation of a frigid ocean’s surf and tide, as well as the album’s ridiculously oblique cover art, triggers something deep inside of me that makes me want to hang ten with some friends on the melodic waves of the so-called “Pop Surf Opera.”

As a whole, the LP’s overall smooth flow, complete with solid synths, sincere vocals and deliciously other-worldly sounds would bring a tear to even the father of ambient music, English musician Brian Eno. Referenced in the album’s punkiest song, Eno would at the very least be moved to smile at the track’s rousing call-and-response verses, the likes of which are found elsewhere on Congratulations. Now, the album also throws some curveballs in the mix. For example, there are assuredly a number of Lady Gaga haters that were innately drawn to the second-to-the-last track, hoping for some devilishly biting lyrics towards Gaga. They instead discovered the instrumental psychosis of Lady Dada’s Nightmare, described simply by English musician- and Congratulations’ producer- Sonic Boom as “More DaDa than Gaga.” Sorry, but if people haven’t learned by now that MGMT frequently does the opposite of what is expected of them- exemplifying the near-anarchist principles of the Dada art movement- then they probably should not be listening to the group at all.

But perhaps this was MGMT’s goal- to cast off the parasitic and unappreciative hipsters and scene kids from their fan base, yet retaining the faithful few who actually appreciate what they aim to accomplish through their music. So Congratulations, MGMT, on your success in refusing to conform to the ill-founded expectations of many and instead demonstrating your versatility, while still adhering to your principles by creating a truly memorable psych-pop album that will play in my car’s CD player for quite a while.

Your devoted listener,


. . .

I like that MGMT decided not to release any singles prior to Congratulations' release because, as co-front man Ben Goldwasser claimed, ""We'd rather people hear the whole album as an album and see what tracks jump out rather than the ones that get played on the radio – if anything gets played on the radio! There definitely isn't a 'Time to Pretend' or a 'Kids' on the album. We've been talking about ways to make sure people hear the album as an album in order and not just figure out what are the best three tracks, download those and not listen to the rest of it." Releasing Congratulations without promoting any singles beforehand sends a strong message that I think a lot of people fail to comprehend these days. In a time of file sharing and iTunes downloads, it would be awesome if people would appreciate musicians for what they try to convey to the masses through their music, instead of using them for the few tracks that will earn them the most friends at a dance party or at school or some kind of social gathering.

I don't know what attracted me to Congratulations so strongly. I listened to this album at least twice a day every day for about six months straight, and I still listen to it several times a week today. I guess for once lyrics aren't really a primary concern of mine, though that's not to put down the lyrics on Congratulations, which are solid. This album just has a wonderful and inimitable sound that is almost palpable in a way. When I listen to it rise and swell I can feel my emotions following suit, as Congratulations, I've noticed, is intertwined with so many diverse experiences of mine from 2010.

Feel free to submit your candidate for Best Album of 2010 in the comments section below or on my Facebook link.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

University student makes mix CD because I told him to

A recent report coming from Columbia, Missouri, it turns out one university student is more impressionable than previously thought.

Robert Langellier, freshman journalism major at the University of Missouri has decided to formulate and minimally produce a winter-themed mix CD.

In a recent interview, Langellier admitted that "yes, I am making this mix CD solely because you told me to." This statement confirms rumors that have been circulating around my head that Robert Langellier is in fact my bitch. When Langellier asked that I make one for him in return, I declined, citing independent thought and a life.

Langellier produced a summer-themed mix CD earlier in 2010 that was met with optimistic enjoyment by his friends and unknowing indifference by any and all reputable critics. Apparently the summer mix was entitled Younger Now, but no one really paid attention to the CD's title because it, according to one source, "had nothing to do with anything important about the mix. I mean, I just wanted to bolster my iTunes library, and (Langellier's) CD helped with that a little bit, but I mean, eh."

Langellier tried to hide information about his forthcoming CD, but I was so bored by the useless interview that I didn't really maintain an interest in whatever Langellier was talking about.

"The CD will be entitled Snow Erection, because I really like winter (Editor's Note: Or something like that)," Langellier rambled. He kept being all secretive throughout the interview despite me frequently driving home the point that nobody is going to care at all what he has to hide because mix CD's more often than not go un-listened to. A probable reason for this is that nobody really cares that much about your musical obsessions. They just like to hear good music, which you often sacrifice for the sake of thematic continuity.

"I'm going with a racial vibe for this mix. The sounds will be spacious, atmospheric and droning. Most people who like good music probably won't like this mix," I imagined Langellier saying, as I zoned off inattentively during our interview.

Some bands that one can expect to hear on Snow Erection include The National, Slammin' Ho's with Ma Bro's (featuring Kelis), Arcade Fire, Bright Eyes, Gazpacho for Breakfast for My Valentine, Coldplay, and Mertin Keeth and the Googly Eyed Percussionist.

The mix CD put-together-er denied rumors that the introduction to the mix CD will include a minute long recording of him administering a forceful yet pleasurable fellatio session to Bright Eyes frontman Conor Oberst, but failed to deny that such a recording existed.

When asked why the hell he wasn't putting Christmas music on the mix CD, Langellier offered that "Christmas is so, like, mainstream, and I really want to introduce some new music to people. I've discovered some new holidays that people haven't really heard of and the music that goes along with those holidays is totally a new sound and is just sick."

Langellier discussed that he filtered through several editions of the mix before coming up with a self-proclaimed "perfect" final version. Former mix CD titles included The Wrestle, Wrestling With Black Gays, Langellier's Fancy Parade, Condoms Made of Hope, Pretty Winter Melodies that Bring Holiday Joy to your Catholic Family of Six, Music my Dad Says, and If Cats Could Sing. He said he threw all of these titles out while molding the mix into the forum of perfection that it is now.

"This is basically the greatest and best combination of songs that anyone could ever put together. I put like, so much effort into this mix, I'm really proud of what I've put together," he said, as if he had done as much work as any one of the bands he whimsically put into the playlist. "It's really a ponderous and melancholily illuminated tome about a frenzied feeling of euphoric discomfort and freeing yourself from the imprisonment embodied in the lugubrious winter months."

When I asked Langellier what the fuck he was talking about, he replied with a meek, "I don't really know. I just read those words in a Pitchfork review of one of Sufjan Stevens' albums."

Langellier cited winter as an inspiration for the mix CD. Oh my God. No shit.

After he went on for a bunch about some band I don't know, I told Langellier that I really needed something worthwhile in order to make a story, and asked what the hell was gonna be on this stupid thing.

"I've given you the sneak preview," he wryly replied. What a douche.

After much begging and a fifteen dollar bribe, Langellier unveiled the following. "It's going to be a lot of music that I like. And I like the way it flows. And it's a mix CD. And it's got a beginning. Then it goes from there." So I punched him in the face, then did some research.

It appears as though his cryptic language points to some viral sites that reveal a little bit about the mix. Such sites include this one, that one, and this one.

You tell me what that means. I mean, I'm not looking forward to this either.

Snow Erection is set for release on December 17th.

--Eliot Sill