Conor - Obsession

"On to the next one," says a good friend of mine. He's talking about the television series The Wire. I recently finished the Wire, but I can't let it go. I read interviews with the actors and writers, I talk about it all the time with my likeminded friends. Shit, I'm watching it right now with Nick. I can't stop thinking about it.

I mentioned my plans to rewatch the series upon returning to Oklahoma after break, and my friend says that he won't watch it again. "There's too much other media out there for me to consume. On to the next one." This is beyond me. I must know everything there is to know about the Wire, even if that means I never stop talking about the Wire, even if that means I don't experience other things due to this obsession.

Right now I'm midway through a playthrough of Final Fantasy VII, a video game that my brother introduced to me in 1999. I am an extremely obsessive person, fine.

A short, incomplete list of my obsessions.
   - The Wire
   - Final Fantasy
   - A very specific and small spectrum of indie rock
   - Monster Energy drinks
   - Ultimate Frisbee
   - Cane's Chicken Fingers
   - Most cats
   - Being so busy that I can complain about it

My very specific and small spectrum of indie rock is a telling example, actually. Sure, I don't know all the new bands and what have you, but the artists I do have? I have at least a majority of their studio albums and I have read several interviews with the front man and a few significantly less interesting ones with like maybe the bassist or something. I am unafraid and completely willing to constantly reference certain insights I may have gleamed from these interviews, too. Such are the advantages of an obsessive stud.

I'm resistant to change. I'm attracted to stagnation. I dwell on things, but like, in a cute way. I'm still talking about things long after most people have moved on. I'm thinking about them long after I stop talking about them, because I'm aware that it's no longer acceptable for me to still be stuck on these past events. I wish I could brush certain things off in a more timely manner, but I can't. In social situations there's always another What-If I can ponder, there's always another alternate universe I can create and live in. With my more materialistic obsessions, there's always another interview I can find.

This episode of the Wire is almost over. I enjoyed it a lot, even without the element of suspense and surprise it once had. I will probably watch this episode again soon, with the director's commentary on.

I should do homework more often but this is cooler.


  

Home Improvment

In a basement, in my hometown, at an improv sleepover. That's the sitch. This is an old drum, but I'm back and I'm beating it again. Because, well, I'm here. And this is the drum that I beat when I'm here.

BOM. BOM. BOM.

It's like a favorite pair of shoes that are just too small. They didn't bust, and they're not even that smelly or dirty. By all means, a solid pair of shoes. It's just a bit painful to wear. The constriction of this once adored pair of shoes is cutting off my circulation. It's building up my blood pressure. I feel the pounding of my pulse in my head.

BOM. BOM. BOM.

I can't complain, not right now. I've laughed a ton tonight. Yet I feel distressed. There's some element of this — I'd say I'm clinging to the past — that just doesn't feel cool. I can't say I'm having a bad time — I'm not. I just don't feel good about it, I've put in a lot of thought to this show. Too much thought for some measly alumni show (that's going to be great and I hope you go/went to it!) that's supposed to be mere fun and games. The angst makes me borderline nostalgic. Nevermind an 8-page college paper, are these skits funny? The critics in my head give me no discernible feedback, a bunch of jibberish.

BOM. BOM. BOM.

Why they make that noise, I don't know. Maybe I'm hearing the pounding in my head. It hasn't snowed yet this December, maybe that explains this out-of-whack mood I'm in. There's no pattering of snow on the rooftops, but instead an occasional rain. But on a dry day, with it too cold to go outside, there is silence. Yet I hear it.

BOM. BOM. BOM.

It sounds like something important but not able to be dealt with at this time. Like a wife nagging about a problem that I cannot fix. Or like a dog complaining that it can't drive. Or like a baby screaming at me that it wants to communicate with me but it can't because it's a baby. Or, it sounds like none of those things. It sounds like how it reads:

BOM. BOM. BOM.

It's internal, it's a heartbeat, it's a cry for help, it's a pleasant rhythm, it's a reminder that I'm not alone, it's a reminder that no one's around. It tells me nothing, but it explains everything. It makes me feel crazy. It makes me feel human. It makes this noise, and that noise goes:

BOM. BOM. BOM.

It doesn't rhyme with "bomb" or "mom" or "bum" or "mum," but somewhere between those sets of words, you find the sound I'm looking for. And if you keep thinking of "nom nom nom," you're doing it wrong. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. A moment passes, then I hear it again:

BOM. BOM. BOM.

I would like to go swimming in a pool. To drown my ears in water, let it rush in and invade my head so that it can flush out the sound. Sound. Pound. The pounding of it, it lingers like a vile stench. No need to scribe it. You know where this leads.

How'm I doing? Oh, I'm fine. Just a tad stressed for no apparent reason. My dreams have been getting smaller. My drum has been beating louder, and it's not very soothing. In fact, nevermind this whole fucking piece. I've got work to do. 

...

But first. I mean, I guess I wasn't done. I just want to say that I've been searching for motivation. Not "to go on," nothing that serious. Just to do well. I don't mind sitting at home all day indulging in entertaining activities. There's something about winter that makes me not care at all whether I'm inside or out. As long as I'm somewhere, I'm happy there. Content, we'll say. I am content. 

This was garbage, but hey, so is this.

--ES

Nick - Remember When Brendan Was Cool, Guys?

Once upon a time, our dear Thursday Brendan was a bad ass. He flew off the handle, went rogue, because a rebel without a cause. Fueled by his frustration with our lack of posting, he puffed out his chest and boldly proclaimed that he would hold up any day that we miss, like an internet-era Atlas.

It was awesome.

Today I looked to find that Cool Brendan, whom we had all grown to know and love, is gone, leaving behind no traces of his teenage rebellion.

Now we look around to see that the dream is ending, and Cool Brendan has been replaced with Lame Brendan.

If you're going to learn one thing from this post, let it be this: 'something about burning bright and fast.'

Poetic, don't you think? I mean, Brendan probably could have written better poetry. Cool Brendan would have, anyway. Lame Brendan is just lame.

Hell, he probably doesn't even do any drugs.