There's these things and they're pissing me off.

Man, fuck coffee. Or fuck my body. Something's not right — I drink a beverage and now I can't control myself? Fucking Parkinson's juice.

Cigarettes are dumb too. I found one at a party last Saturday, brought it home and smoked it. Now it's sitting in my scented candle-turned-ashtray, all tan, white and black tainting the sky-blue wax, a perfect metaphor for itself. I look at it and feel cool for having a cigarette mashed into my candle. It looks cool. That's fucking ridiculous.

I have work in an hour, and it's the worst thing that could happen to me. Working at Jimmy John's, an expanding company that's glorifying a man's idea to rip off the masses for a solidly made sandwich, thus exploiting the fantastic American laziness and allowing Jimmy himself to live his life however he wants, which he deserves no more than the panhandlers that'd love to score a J.J. Gargantuan that day, sucks. It's a minimum wage job that doesn't compensate its employees with a free meal or sandwich (or cookie, or pickle, or day-old bread, or garbage) unless you work a double-shift. I've worked their four hours today already and have 5-and-a-half ahead of me. Let there be life.

Death is such a fag. Hanging over my shoulder every unhelpful second, checking my work and making silent judgments. If this is the last thing I ever write, and it had better not fucking be, I want death to know that I saw its game for what it was.

Sadness too. Sadness can shoot itself in the head with a dick-loaded rocket launcher. It's either there like a blanket, keeping you draped in it so you're impervious to outside emotions, or its worn like a hat, purposefully worn for certain situations for as long as necessary. You take it at your leisure through movies, books or stories about high school kids whose sports teams get better after they die.

Sadness should be like death, hanging over you but mostly avoided. Death should be like work, necessary for most people but totally fucking stupid to do and done for the sake of others. Work should be like cigarettes, trendy and eventually fatal but people do it for some reason anyway. And cigarettes should be like sadness, unfortunately permanent or sparsely but willfully consumed. Coffee should just calm down; whatever.

--Eliot Sill

Yup

Well, that's it, semester 3. Took my last final today. Woot.

Grades up in the air, life up in the air, rain up in the air, falling down, I'm not going home tonight. Or tomorrow. I'm sticking around a few days to tie up loose ends with friends and enjoy a few free days in Chambana that I thought I'd have experienced before the semester's end.

It was a busy semester, holy shit was it busy. I tried to read books, I tried to listen in classes, I tried to edit stories, I tried quite a few things. Once again the dynamic changed — with the influx of transfer friends — like the third season of an enticing television show. Life has this funny natural progression to it. The more you think you've solved things, the more you end up having to solve.

And so I am taking a couple days, Chambanning, and organizing myself, collecting my thoughts and my things before I go home for winter break. I look forward to it, but as usual I also feel a want to stay. I like my life here, it's occupied, explorable, and productive. My life at home is relaxed, easy, and slothlike. It's amazing how hard it is to choose between the two.

Shout out to Jing, Professor Unger, Rashard Mendenhall's aunt, and Lance for teaching me a bunch of cool shit this semester. Shout out to History, Journalism, and Black Women in U.S. Contemporary Society for being interesting and math for being easy this time around. To Kaplan and Jewf, for being really easy to work with, and all my writers, for not being a bunch of dicks. Especially Emily Bayci, with whom I am apparently no longer feuding, and actually reads this shit blog, often commenting to me how she likes people's posts other than mine. Shout out to Illini sports, there are more boring things out there, and Steve Jobs for being No. 1 celeb death this semester (which was a crucial moment for our football team, they've been winless since his death). Shout out to the Communications library, see you soon, and to my SHIT I NEED TO DO whiteboard, this is the first acknowledgment I've given you in weeks.

College is like, you have this stack of problems and you just do whatever. That's been my experience thus far. And, oh yeah, definitely don't be a math major.

--Eliot Sill

Rememberance to the tenth power = immortality

Damn, I guess I am gonna die.

There's gotta be that one great beautiful dark twisted death out there that is just the perfect way to crystallize your corpse in the minds of millions worldwide. Fuck that, billions worldwide. Way to fucking go, this guy.

But, since that idea's taken, (not, you know, the feeling of smoldering yourself and boiling, melting, oh my God that sounds awful) I'll have to come up with something else.

You know who's really memorable? Forrest Gump. I mean, shit, if I had met Gump during one of his numerous (mis)adventures, I would definitely not forget the guy. In a day and age where celebrities die every day and become distant memories within weeks, you have to make contact with people in order to cement yourself in their memory.

And as good of a name as Eliot Sill is, I need something legendary. I'm thinking Kirken Waltsh. That's good. It sounds like a thing, and less of a name. You guys will all Kirken Waltsh one day. Middle name? C-something. Kirken C. Waltsh. 

I'm gonna meet a ton of people. And I'm gonna kick all their asses, not literally, but in a that-guy-just-blew-my-mind type of way.

Step one: Become a teacher.

You know how every one has that one teacher they will absolutely never forget? That's gonna be me. I'm gonna teach English, a subject every one has to take, and I'm going to be the best thing that's hit words since the semi-colon. First off, I'll speak completely in rhyme, and hire TA's to pencil-beat or beatbox (for advanced level TA's) all class long, with my main points summarized in refrains that, picture it, by the end of the lecture the whole class is singing as my army of hype men. Yes. That'll be hard to forget.

Oh, and screw not cussing. This teacher's new-school.

This is a limited time offer to America's youth. I've only got between four and six years to blow getting my name out there before the task has been completed and I quit fucking teaching. The seeds of my face have been planted in the youth. They will tell their parents, their friends, and their children about Mr. Waltsh. My network of knownness will grow, spreading across the body of the country like blood from a gunwound. Have I lost you yet? Good. Follow, follow.

Step two: Own land, and lord it.

This could take anywhere from two to 20 years, depending on how long I feel like running with it. I want a lot of places owned by me, rented out to people. I will stress the lord moreso than the land, trying to paint a picture of myself as a high-society official. Speaking of which, I will implement a genius nugget of landowning policy: 50 bucks off your monthly rent if you hang a portrait of me somewhere in your home. If you're too egotistical to save this money, fine, pay me. Discounts go up, depending on where you place the portrait, for instance, if I walk into your apartment and see my stoic face staring back at me with some tastefully dramatic lighting drawing proper respectful attention to me, then bam, it's like: what are you going to spend your fresh $200 on?

I get real close with my tenants. After all, they have to think I'm living room portrait worthy. I build a real sense of community with my giant, nicely kept playplace in the middle of my complex, coupled with a bar (which is severely cheap; I do not need to profit monetarily from this, prestige is my currency).

Step three: Invent a new facial expression.

Yes, this is where my plot turns from golden to platinum. I will be everywhere wearing this thing. Eye-contacting as many passersby as is manageable.

When I master this, you will walk by me, and be

struck by someone with depression, hope and

a Nike swoosh for a mouth.

 

Was he laughing, yawning or eating an imaginary triple-cheeseburger?

 Why did that guy look like a mixture of a bird and an

old lady?

 

This, when mastered, will look unquestionably like there

is a black hole somewhere below the back of my brain

that I am using everything I've got to prevent from sucking

my entire body into.

Okay so this is really hard ... but I've worked up a few prototypes. I have, basically, all my spare time from graduation until I'm done landlording to master these. Just giving you some ideas. 

These interactions will be merely milliseconds in length, and will be enough to bury the image of my face deep in the unconsciouses of millions. But when recalled, they'll remember me, in a deja vu sort of way and think: "where have I seen that face before?"

Step four: Mass produce t-shirts of me.

On the front, nothing. On the back? As big as can allow, me, giving the face, and throwing a fierce thumbs-up. Underneath it in excited, Dr. Tinycat font text: "WALTSH HAS YOUR BACK;"

Yeah, the semi-colon is vital here. Peculiarity, memorability, fueled by originality. Sometimes originality is trying to put a square peg in no hole at all, but just letting it lie there and saying "that's where my peg is, you see?"

I will peddle these shirts, give them out for free, whatever. They will be plentiful and they will be worn, people will see the face, people will recognize the face, people will recognize their landlord, their teacher. I am growing, in populus, and in longevity.

Step five: Make small talk with the President at a very opportune time.

Big speech, millions watching, I charge the stage, with an undeniable smile. The President, definitely male by this point, is calm, he knows I mean no harm.

Me: "Hey, you're doing great!"

He: "Ha, well, thank you, can I help you?"

Me: "Yeah, you should really give this a look."

(Hands item)
He: "What's this?"

Me: "I just finished that book, it's really good, but I think you'd like it more."
He: "No reason I can't give it a look."

Me: "Exactly. Dinner later?"
He: "Busy."

Me: "Fair. Security?"

He: "I can call."
Me: "That'd be great."

Step six: Run for City Clerk somewhere...

...and spend billions on the campaign. Where is all this money coming from? Most, at this point from campaign funders, but also I will have money from landowning, and t-shirt sales. Also donations. I will be wealthy. I just will.

Anyway, my campaign will rival the President's. Only I will be running for City Clerk. Which isn't capitalized, but I will bring status to the office to the point of capitalization. I will tour the country, telling people across America to "really pressure the citizens of Peosta, Iowa, to vote me for City Clerk."

If the other guy gets a vote I swear to fucking god.

Step seven: Offer an infamous commencement speech

My popularity will be high by this point, and I must clinch status atop society by telling college kids what their future holds. 

Probably University of Illinois. I will start this speech by complaining about my toothache. How after all the preparation I put into the speech I have this stupid bloody toothache. This whining goes on for twelve minutes, and includes lots of sighing, some groaning, one minute of fighting an urge to cry. I may have this toothache, I suppose, but I am planning on this being a lie. Just when things are getting unbearable, and action is an instant from being taken, I spring into freestyle rap. I leap off the stage over to my drum set, microphone in hand, and rap to my own beat about how life is like a toothache, and so forth. 

By the end, the crowd can't fucking believe shit. I have solved all of their futures. All of their futures rhyme and flow magnificently. This makes CNN. Kirken Waltsh would be knighted if we lived in England. Hell, I might go over there and ask — worth a shot, right?

Step eight: Go overseas with the sole purpose of throwing kickass parties

I will sell everything I have, reputation stolid in America, and move to Europe.

I will throw the biggest, most lavish, most inclusive, and crunkest parties on the planet. Kirken Waltsh; party extraordinaire. Everyone's invited. Everyone's doing substances. Everyone's having the time of their lives. Party's status as a word will be put in jeopardy, as they will start referring to these large gatherings — and large gatherings everywhere — as Waltshes. Like a Waltz, but not so pretentious.

These will be my glory years.

Step nine: Advertise

I come back to America. Ready to rake in the millions.

A la The Most Interesting in the World, I will have advertise a sensible product. Maybe Coca-Cola, maybe Foster's beer, maybe Hardee's, maybe Tommy Hilfiger clothing. I will be on televisions everywhere, or computers by that point, if that's how life is then. 

Step ten: End it like no one else

My death, shall be boring. But, as usual, I will make the situation more interesting. Famous last words, ones that fit the moment. I shall have none of that, but what I will have is some milk, please. As I lay on my death bed, I will ask that I be placed in a tub and given milk to drink. All the milk I can ask for. I shall drink this creamy white utterance down like it is the kingdom of heaven itself, and go out completing the milk gallon challenge. I die before I throw up. Or I die, then throw up, but that doesn't count. Because I'm dead. My last words will be, "milk is how I'm going to die." And I bet NO ONE has exited on that line before.

It's all about being different.

Life isn't like a box of chocolates. It's like a box of pinless grenades. No matter what you pick, you and those around you are going to die. But it's not what you get, it's in what situation you choose to open the box.

--Eliot Sill

Brain in a Blender

Today was a long day. I don't know how I'm not dead exhausted. I stayed up til 5 last night. It's good to know my summer disease of not being able to sleep before the sun rises still has potential to kick in at any given moment. At 4, after an hour of tossing and turning and whatnot, I decided there was no way I was getting up at 9 today. I showered. Went to bed at 5, woke up at 9:30, got to class on time. Bam. Time budgeted.

After the fourth or fifth consecutive day of failing to meet my own ultimatum of not having clean clothes, I suppose I should be doing my laundry right now. But alas. MORE IMPORTANT THINGS ARE AT HAND.

Well there are, as is becoming more usual, a few things I want to talk about.

1. I don't want to talk about anything.

Things are overwhelming. There's so much shit to do. Asking me to do it all would be like asking me to not allow for spare time five days out of the seven we decided that God gave us in a week. (Side thought: what if there were eight days in a week? ponder that. holy shit. yeah. that's a longggg time in between football games) Classes are throwing pounds of work on me. Not that many, but it's a lot of work if you want to actually full-ass the classes. Reading books? Chapter of my textbook before every psychology lecture? Kiss my ass, I'll take the B. Add to that the fact that I work for the Daily Illini, our student-run newspaper, albeit not very much. My first story went in this week. A feature on the sport of underwater hockey that dominated two-thirds of the front page of the sports section. That felt good. Also I need to find a work-study job? Fuck, should've went to Lincoln Land.

Oh well, I am realizing that I bit off more than I can chew financially by going here, but I don't care. I have had an amazing time and learned so much about the craft of journalism. It's like training with King Kai. You have to be dead in order to do it, but hot damn you get so much stronger. I'm just waiting for someone else to collect the magic dragonballs and wish me back to life so I can apply this knowledge. Uhhh, oh boy. (That's called taking the analogy all the way, boys and girls) I have met some crazy awesome people. Although I didn't meet half of guest week at my school, I'm still enjoying exploring this sea of individuals that reside in the UC area. Meeting people and making friends is an important task at college. It takes time and (not very much) effort (...for a guy like me) to do this. And school. And extracurriculars. And work. And it takes money. I don't have everything, but I'll make do.

When I sit and think about the hole I'm digging, though I know how worth it is, I reallly just want to turn another cheek and play video games or something. I just don't wanna face it. At least definitely not at once. And definitely not unless you tell me to.

2. Man, some people be on some bullshit

You wanna know why I hate baseball? Because Pete Rose still hasn't gotten in the hall of fame. Gay people get married on the reg, a black dude is our President on the reg, and people buy pot in California legally on the reg. The common theme? Society is changing. Forgive the dude for betting on baseball. Who really cares? He wagered for his team. How much of a crime can it be to put financial interest into winning sporting events? Oh wait, we do that all the time anyway. Pete Rose violated baseball's "cardinal rule" and because of this he's S.O.L. for the rest of his life. That's like when I got in fights with my brothers and to piss them off and land an excruciating blow I would boldly claim "I am NEVER!! EVER!!!! TALKING TO YOU AGAIN!!!!!". Baseball has said this and, like an asshole, is actually following through on their promise. I can't WAIT until Pete Rose dies and baseball finally lets him into the Hall of Fame, out of honor and respect, because I will write a column ripping baseball into a thousand million pieces. I can totally see this happen because in society today, we tend to ignore death as something that's GOING to happen to everyone and that COULD occur between now and the next time you tie your shoe. He's going to die from some stupid alcohol related liver disease, and baseball will finally let him into the Hall of Fame and honor him for what he was when he played, meanwhile he will have died without ever receiving the one call he wanted to hear most in his entire bleeping life.

No that topic isn't relevant to modern society, but the origin of that thought entering my mind was the new hit rules that are sure to ram themselves into the heads of NFL fans as eyesores in the form of yellow flags come flying for new and creative reasons. We've seen new penalties created every year for the last forever years in football, and it's really unnecessary and needs to stop.

Have you ever made up a game? Have you ever started a club? Have you ever been a part of something's beginning? Well the longer that game is played or club exists or thing perpetuates itself, the more you realize that it isn't a flawless system.

The longer something exists, the more it sucks. People do stupid things, or make mistakes, whatever, and rules have to be put in place to prevent people from dying.

It's going on with football today. It's a violent game. They're trying to eliminate violence from the game. You can make the game safe, but it won't be the beautiful game it was before safety was put first. That's why I don't play football, and that's why those who do make millions. Because you play with guys like Ray Lewis and James Harrison, who have to have won every argument they've ever been in by using this face and this face, respectively.

It's going on with government today, as Nick pointed out on Monday. Rules suck. You remember the beginning of things as the hay-day. The first few years, ironing the groundrules out, you spend them editing the things you left out. And then you spend the next part editing in things that may "enhance" the experience. There are a lot of good ideas to improve player safety, but depriving football fans of the shear awesomeness that is caused by glorious destruction such as this. Or this. Why did he have to die so soon? Ahh, I love football. But anyway. You get it. It isn't safe. You aren't going to make it safe and keep the intensity and the beauty.

Do you know who Mitch Albom is? I didn't. Not before today. He's a writer. And he's a damn good one. In 2005, he did something that was hilariously dumb and completely embarrassing. He lead a column of his with a beautiful moment that occurred at a basketball game. Two alumni coming from different corners of the NBA universe brought together to celebrate and rekindle their friendship while watching their team make its first triumphant return to the Final Four. The game was one he never went to. The moment was one that never happened. He was told by two players that they would attend a basketball game together. He made a cutesie lead for a story out of it. They changed plans. He didn't check. He lead his column. He was wrong. He had to apologize. He broke journalism's own "cardinal rule" by telling the public something he didn't know. He won a prestigious award this year for his writing and some asshole wrote a column claiming the guy didn't deserve an award for his work because of something he did five years ago.

Seriously? View a body of work for itself. Not for related bullshit.

Anyway, I'm done talking about that. Haha, even I got kinda bored... uhmm...

Improv.... improv.... improv....... drawin a blank guys, sorry.

VIDEO GAMES. NBA 2k10 is IN at room 112 in Blaisdell Hall.

Classic Brian is no match for my mad Iguodala skills.

I really think sports games get a bad rep. And deservedly so. They're a suckers fettish.

Never have I bought a Madden and said "I bet this will be very good and I will never be mad while playing this!" or "I bet this version will never be improved upon!" or "the replay value of this game will last longer than one year!"

Supposedly NBA 2k11 is a great game. "Sports game of the generation", as IGN calls it. Well I bet 2k12 will be better. I just wish Madden would stop dominating the Players Association so some competition can arise and light a fire under their asses. People have tried to work around this agreement, making games with players that don't actually exist. Each one had an angle that they thought would succeed. None have. But all have come close and had their moment in the sun. All-Pro Football 2k8 (used old "legends" of the game) Blitz (the badass hitting, you know) and Backbreaker (an actual physics engine to alleviate the problem of annoying redundant animations). SOMEONE MAKE A GAME WITH ALL THREE OF THOSE AND COMBINE IT WITH THE PLAYERS ASSOCIATION'S SIGNATURE AND BEAT OUT MADDEN. I WANT A BETTER FOOTBALL GAME. AND OH YEAH MAKE IT SO I DON'T BUY A NEW COPY EVERY YEAR FOR UPDATED ROSTERS AND PLEASE SOMEONE TURN THE CAPS LOCK OFF.

Thanks.

Gosh. I was gassed today guys. Sorry for the lateness and the topical sluttiness.

If you enjoyed it anyway? Then good. That means you like me for who I AM. Not what I write.

Smoothie.

--Eliot Sill

Why I Don’t Work Out, Eat Right, Study Enough, Or Shower Every Day

Robert Langellier

 

It won’t matter. No matter what I do, I will never experience the kind of love that my friend has found.

My friend’s name is Garrett, he wrote for Guest Week last week, and he’s an asshole. Don’t let the pure-spirited friendliness, warm smile or genuine intentions fool you; his girlfriend’s name is Molly, they have been in love for five months and 29 days, and they are both giant tools.

Excerpts from Facebook:

"Dear Garrett,
You are asleep right now and i'm about to go to bed but i just wanted you to know that meeting you was by far the best thing that has ever happened to me. The first time i ever saw you I prayed that one day i would be able to meet you at least once. And now i cannot imagine my life without you. I love you with all of my heart and i cannot wait for the airport. Once i have you back in my arms there is no way i will ever let you go. I hope you are sleeping well and that you feel better in the morning. Or at least i hope this message makes you feel a little better. Kiss kiss my love
Molly"

"Dear Molly,
I got over 11 hours of sleep and am feeling much better today. Our talk yesterday gave me a lot of time to think and now that I've slowly convinced myself that I can't be superman, it's going to be much easier to not sit here and stress myself over the edge. Ever since I saw you sophomore year I wanted to just be able to say hi to you, and now that I've finally gotten the chance I didn't want to mess that up, but I know now that I can't, so I can stop working myself to death and just concentrate on coming home to you in one piece. I love you more than anything and am counting down the days until I'm back at that airport. 45 days, 8 hours. And I have good news for you later today :)

 

I hate this. I do. It’s disgusting. They’re so emotionally slutty with each other. The only thing worse than this is the undeniable fact that it’s cute as shit. Most people would have judged the daylights out of this couple from the few Facebook quotes up there (yes, they talk like that in person, too). I would judge it too, if I weren’t witness to its extremely public splendor. See, this is not “one of those couples.” You know what I’m talking about.

“Those couples.” The ones that include that girl who falls in love with everything with a sizeable dick and a dollar bill or that guy who’s so in love with falling in love that he thinks he’s fallen in love with every girl that struts by him. “Those couples.”

Molly + Garrett — Gally? Marret? Margaret? — are actually in love. I know this because deep down I’m not grossed out by their Facebook sex. I love seeing it. I Like it at every opportunity to click my approval on it. They talk openly about their unbelievably premature marriage plans. They generally prefer the company of their faces on a computer screen to the company of real humans. I am often completely ignored when I enter his room during a Skype session (we’re real friends though – I double checked). He has a custom mug sitting on his countertop with her face on it. You know. Real love.

My problem is not that I don’t like seeing it happen. My problem is that it makes me look bad. Like what the fuck, guys, stop. You’re 18. I’m 19. Readers, you’re probably under 20. I don’t talk about getting married. What the hell even is that? Marriage is for people who are my dad and my mom. I still treat girls like I’m in kindergarten. I throw rocks and things at them to show my affection. Look at Hannah. She’s my girlfriend that I abuse. What if she met Garrett? Girls like to be treated right, and he actually provides that. What an asshole.

Another problem is that Hannah has met Garrett. We Skype double-date sometimes, me and Hannah and Garrett and Molly. Cute in theory, but really it’s only cute from the right side of the room, because their puppy talk makes me and Hannah’s affectionate ridiculing of each other look kind of platonic. I don’t want a platonic girlfriend. I just want to yell at her for insignificant things without looking like a dick all the time.

Let’s be honest. We can all pretend that we’re happy that this kind of destined love exists somewhere, and that maybe it too is in our own futures. That, like Conor Oberst said, “I love their love and I am thankful / that someone actually receives the prize that was promised / by all those fairy tales that drugged us.” Fuck that. Drake’s more popular. I’m doing me, and Garrett’s ruining my chances with his womanly romance. My god, he’s so chaste. In 2010. So is Molly. I had to look up “chaste” online to double-check what that word even means. Damn it.

So how can we ever compete?

My battle plan is extraordinarily complex. I am not giving up, never. Instead, I intend to utilize mediums such as Classic Brian to advertise Garrett Richie of Room 710, Mark Twain Hall in Columbia, Missouri to the widest female audience I can, hopefully then inciting a widespread swooning of girls around him, instigating a terrifying breakup, and therefore ironically proving, by attracting all females to Garrett, that even the most dedicated love is futile, thereby bringing him down to our level. If I cannot be the best, I will destroy the best. Good luck to you, Garrett. #

Just give up now, I'll never love you back.

Just twenty minutes or so ago, I was invited by Mada Larson, fellow CB writer, to come "kick a soccer ball in the quad" with her and a couple other people.

In honor of me flatly denying her offer, I have decided to write today about why soccer sucks and America will never like it.

Bend it like Beckham. What does that even mean? Jesus, that sounds like a sexual innuendo. Well it turns out there's this guy David Beckham who kicks the ball so well that he can put spin on it causing it to bend. Nifty. Except he is no longer the greatest soccer player in the world, Ronaldhino is. Or wait no, it's Ronaldo now. Cristiano Ronaldo. No I mean Lionel Messi. Err, Wayne Rooney? No he's not that good. Uhm now it's Kaka? Oh wait no I remember the World Cup, it's David Villa. Whew. Glad we got that settled. Anyway. Before you make a sports cliche and turn it into some stupid ass movie, you should probably verify that you are using the end-all be-all best player in that sport. It seems like every two weeks soccer has a new "best player ever".

It's probably because that's how often anyone ever scores in soccer. If you score you are the new best player in the world because no one ever scores, thus making your feat impressive. I mean, they make the field three miles long and two blocks wide so that there's only like six shots total in a game. Only two of which are even on goal and at least one of those is right to the goalie, so he only has to make one play a game to get a shutout. Okay, that was an exaggeration, but not a grand one. You can watch a half hour of soccer without anyone getting a decent shot off. That's why football fields are only 100 yards long, so people can traverse them with ease. Soccer (which you bet your ass I am not calling football or futbol, despite the obvious nomenclature sense it makes) fields dwarf the action by being so grand in scale, it really takes away from the viewing experience. I understand that that's just how big the fields are. I'm not asking soccer to change, I'm just asking soccer not to wonder why I don't like it. Because it's boring.

I will give soccer credit for this, there is always something going on. The action doesn't break three times for quarters and a million more for commercials. Games take two hours, not three and a half. Now I will take away credit for this. STOP THE CLOCK. Extra time is a stupid concept and one that dates back before humans were smart enough to be able perceive, learn, and practice rules. It's all approximation and you never know when the game is going to end. It just randomly decides to stop based on how tired the official's feet are.

Speaking of officials, soccer refs must have a shitty job. Because soccer players are bastards. Watching the World Cup where the stakes, and therefore reasons to cheat, are high, I get so fucking annoyed by soccer players getting brushed by opponents then doing six frontflips before landing on their backs and acting like they've been stabbed while witnessing their spouse get murdered. I realize you get more calls that way, and that works for the team. I get it. Doesn't mean you aren't a stupid asshole who I should make fun of, soccer fairy. You have to do what you have to do to get the call, but you could just be a man and do your best to play the games and trust the officials not to miss any blatant calls. Which is a hairy situation in itself. I'm not asking you to turn down the option to get calls that are rightfully yours, soccer players, I'm just saying I think you're worse people for doing so and I hate watching you disgrace competition by acting like you've been shot when really you've received an incidental elbow to the rib.

Soccer is so boring I just fell asleep for two and a half hours while trying to think of a fifth body paragraph. I can't make this stuff up. Furthermore, the best soccer isn't in America. It's just, like, not on television here. You know what is? The worst soccer. "Major League Soccer". That just sounds like a league that's trying too hard not to be bad. And they are trying hard, but not hard enough. You can't say that you've improved as a league after two big name players join, especially if they're on the same team. The fact is, America wants to like soccer. We feel bad, stupid even. We realize the world doesn't get why we don't get it. But, fuckin', we don't. It's stupid. It's slow. It's cool in forty second increments. But those increments are just too few and far between for it to make it as a major sport in this country. The English Premier League is the best league in soccer, and we don't get the full coverage on that league. We get World Cup coverage, which is so fun for a change, but it contradicts the EPL and MLS by establishing mental connections between players on national teams, when really, their allegiance is to another group out of a mixed international bag. In basketball, we cross-reference our knowledge of players with their NBA team. The best are all there, no doubt about it. It makes liking world basketball easy to do while maintaining an interest in the NBA. With soccer players gaining so much exposure from one aspect and so little from another, Americans will not identify with the EPL when they do start to play it in America. The soccer we see here in America is just not adequate.

That same lack of consistent excitement is the reason that baseball is plummeting in ratings and hockey is thriving in the HD era. HD in hockey=you can see the puck. HD in baseball=you can see the pitcher's nosehairs as he picks it in between pitches. I think after hockey took a timeout, made its rules better, and got back in the game, American sports fans embraced the fact that they literally just changed their sport all for the sake of our enjoyment. That shit gets our attention. Baseball is in dire need of an overhaul. The season needs to be shorter, that's basically the only problem it's having. Fortunately (you'll see in a second...) for us, baseball is by far the stingiest sport ever in terms of tradition and would rather be watched by 19 die-hard fans than change for the good of everybody (...that I was being sarcastic when I said "fortunately"!!!!!). So whatever. Have fun being liked less than hockey, baseball.

Soccer, I'm sorry. It's not you. Clearly. Look at how much everyone else loves you. However, I think your reign at the top of the international sports world is not forever. At first they'll see basketball and think "too much scoring" and football they'll think "those guys are too big. there's too much stopping" (which by the way, no there isn't. Football is like baseball with a purpose. They stop after every play. Big whoop. It's a tactical game. It's beautiful.), but they'll eventually embrace it. Because those sports are exciting heart-pounding and easy to understand like soccer is. So enjoy it while you can, soccer, but just know that I think you suck.

Unless it's the World Cup. Then I'll watch.

--Eliot Sill

The Three Interesting People I Met This Summer

--Robert Langellier


Today I walked outside and realized I needed a jacket. Hell. Yes.

Summer is over. Autumn is here. It's my favorite season of all the seasons; bonfires, jackets, dead bugs, harvested corn, pumpkins, squash, stuffing, football, chilled air, crispy leaves, visible breath. It's a beautiful time. It gives me the official right to reflect on this past summer as if it were a thing of the distant past. It was, far and away and without a doubt, the best summer ever ever, but I want to get more specific than that. I want to introduce you to the three most interesting men I met this summer.

Not Eliot, Nick and Conor. Sorry, guys.

The first interesting man I met was named Harry. Once upon a time, I had problems, so I decided to walk them out - all the way from Springfield to Farmingdale. I wasn't planning on walking all the way to Farmingdale, but that's where I ended up by the time I turned around. About 2/3 of the way there, shortly after I decided Farmingdale to be my final destination, I got really really thirsty. It was a really hot day, and I brought nothing to eat or drink, so I stopped at some farmy looking place that had the word "Cuisine" on a sign. Cuisine = food, I thought, so I walked around the place looking for human life and water. After a while of looking, I spied an old man through a backdoor kitchen window, and I motioned him out. Turns out, he was a hired man doing some dishes while the owner was away. Cuisine = catering service, making me a creepy trespasser.

Luckily, I was forgiven of my crimes, invited to sit, and supplied with homey cup after homey cup of ice water. The man had a plump, round belly, and a scraggly head of wispy white hair and a thick gray beard. He looked like he could easily pull off Santa Claus at the mall if he dressed over the white wife-beater showing off rogue chest hairs. He certainly wasn't prepared for a summer formal, but he was friendly enough. He introduced himself and immediately launched into dirty joke after dirtier joke, to the point where I didn't think I should have been allowed to hear them at 18 years of age. They were funny though, but eventually he launched into dirty story after dirtier story. True stories. Like how he liked to walk around naked inside all the time, or how his friend and his friend's wife liked to put a ballgag in the husband's mouth and lead him around the house on a leash. I finished the last cup of water and didn't hesitate to leave, and he closed by letting me know that he goes to the Family Video on Macarthur a lot, in case I ever see him there. I haven't been to that Family Video since then, but for some reason I remember Harry fondly. At least he was friendly.

The second interesting man I met was named Will. I went into the wooded area behind my dorm one day to relax by the brook and do some homework. As I walked down the path to what I hoped would be a secluded area, I saw a shirtless man lounging on a rock. I waved hello, intending on turning and finding a new, lonelier location, but the man shouted a hearty welcome and beckoned me over to his spot on the rock. I obliged, thinking I would get along with this gentleman and get some good reading done in peace next to him.

The man was aged about forty, and was probably warmed considerably by a coat of light brown hair, enveloping his chest, rounded belly, shoulders, legs and face. His dark shorts covered but to his middle thigh, and his Burkenstocks clung to his feet as if desperate to cast a tan line somewhere on his skin. A faded old Confederate bandana held back the sweat from making the long journey down his upper-back length hair to his body, or from becoming lost in the short but thick beard on his face. He was well past the age of caring what the world saw in his appearance, which was kind of enviable.

“I am just the product of a woman,” he said, humbly but defiantly. With a male-dominant mindset of a classic sexist, Will went on to describe within a rigidly narrow frame the characteristics that all women share. First and foremost, they are all too ignorant to understand what they’re doing, which they compensate for with incessant complaining. Second, their ignorant, childish anger is nothing to be given much heed to, as they will always forget their anger and come running right back. Third, that, if they don’t come running back, it’s no real worry, because they are all replaceable in a heartbeat. He mentioned the three women who were currently upset with him, one of which would be returned to him by the next morning. He was either shamelessly cocky or wildly ignorant.

After absorbing more information than I needed about foraging berries on trailsides, sleeping in natural cave insets, and escaping DUI warrants, he eventually shifted his focus to the government. Within moments his speech derailed far from any semblance of free-spirited sanity onto a new plane of radical, wildly generalized tirades. People needed to die, he said. Somebody needs to revolt, he said. They’re watching him, he said. It was as if the wires that made up his thoughts were abruptly cut in mid-conversation. His political rants were entertaining, but nonsensical for the most part. Eventually, after missing my entire journalism class, I bid him byebye and went to lunch. It was worth missing a lecture.

The third interesting man I met was my uncle Marty. A few weekends ago I biked about 40 miles southward to Jefferson City, MO, where Marty and his wife own a farm another 20 miles from their house. I spent a large chunk of the weekend hanging with Marty, and he showed me the ropes on everything he could think of, whether I liked it or not. He was resourceful, peaceful, stoic, hardworking, and well-intentioned. His graying wisps of hair and aging body did little to reflect his work ethic. He always had something to do around the house or the farm, be it sifting corn he found on the roadside, hunting down pipe-clogging beavers, patching a canoe, or debarking some felled trees no one wanted. He was also highly intelligent in craftsmanship and in nature. He was a very practical-motivated man; all his smarts were focused in on things that improve quality of life. His practical knowledge is something college can't teach and a big reason why I want to spend a lot more time at the farm in the future. Consider him my favorite relative now.

It’s really super late at night now, and I can see my breath. Yessssss. As fun as summer was, I’m definitely looking forward to the fall months and the people I’ll meet now.

Eject Button!

I've got a lot of shit clogging my brain on this fine evening. Rather than picking one and writing a bunch of shit about it, I've decided that I'm going to write less about several things. In journalism they call that a notebook. I've decided I'm just hitting the eject button on all this stuff in my head.

EJECT!

Birthday Glamour

Me!

That's what tomorrow is all about, bitches. September 9th of 1992 my dear sweet mother shoved my infantile body unto the earth, and bam! Now I have that day as a day to commemorate all my glory. Some people tend to be really non-chalant about their birthday. It's just a number, whatever. Some people tend to go over the top with it and make sure everyone knows it's their birthday. I am definitely somewhere in the second category. It's my birthday, so it's your responsibility to give at least ten seconds of that day paying your respects to me. I never got a lot for my birthday, some of you kids with your extended families and crap end up rolling in dough and awesome presents. I was never in that category. So to make up for it I make sure everyone I spend more than five minutes with knows it's my birthday.

Does that make me an asshole? Or do people deserve a day where the world owes them shit. Because, let's face it, birthdays are only a good thing for so long anyway. Once your 25 birthdays stop being cool. You start scrounging for the past and whatnot, so why not live up the birthdays we can fall in love with? And shit, I'm eighteen. I may make a Facebook event about it. This year will be my first birthday away from home, but my brother and dad are visiting to make things a little better. Not to mention I'm in college. It's my birthday weekend. You do the math. I'll do the meth. ;)

Inglorious Bastards

I dunno, guys. Did I spell that wrong or right? Anyway, I am in U of I's College of Media. Media includes things like broadcast journalism print journalism and, what the fuck, advertising? Anyway, the interim dean, an advertising expert, came and spoke to our Media 100 orientation class yesterday. And yeah, ads are as evil as they seem. They just try and get you to buy shit you don't need for prices you shouldn't pay. Cool. Thanks, I'm glad they exist. Their whole career revolves around making the public give money to corporations. Good. What a fine public service.

She spent the first half of her lecture blabbing about how brands are great for advertisers because they make the job easier and they create the illusion of reliability with the consumer. You probably like either Coca-Cola or Pepsi more than the other. You probably like Oreo Cookies. Advertisers' goal is to antagonize those who don't use their product. Oh, you don't drink Miller Lite? Well I'm a hot girl, and I think that you're less of a manly man for drinking Miller Lite instead of Budweiser. Oh also I'm perfect because I love beer, so you should definitely listen to me. Fuck that. Oh, you know Dove for men? Yeah, that shit makes you gay. So don't use it. Be a man, use Gillette. I hate advertisers like that. You know what's a good ad?

OLD SPICE ODAH BLOCKA BLOCK ODAH FO SIXTEEN HOURS! BITCH!

BLOCK! BLOCK! BLOCK! BLOCK! BUILDING KICK! OLD SPICE ODAH BLOCKA BODY WASH! ...I'm on a horse.

Thank God for Old Spice being funny. They satirize the whole manly product image while simultaneously luring dumbasses who don't get that they're joking into thinking they're buying manly stuff. Regardless, advertisers want you to make decisions beneficial to their wallets. They don't care about you. They truly don't. Why do they care about you. Because you give good money. They are and always be that boyfriend who thinks you're too hot to dump. They don't love you. They just love your sex. Your money. I'm kind of pissed that the College I'm in is associated with pricks like that.

Don't get me wrong though, not all advertising is bad advertising. Have you seen those cute ass animal adoption commercials on Animal Planet? Awwwwww.

Campus Wars

I've been at college for three weeks now. One of the more entertaining aspects to the whole college experience is the ways of commuting about campus. There are three modes of transportation you're sure to catch anywhere. People walking, people biking, and people driving. The hilarious part? Traversing by each of these modes of transportation causes you to dislike people who travel by any of the other two methods. Confusing? If you walk, bikers and drivers annoy you. If you bike, walkers and drivers annoy you. If you drive, everyone not driving annoys you.

I ally myself with the walking camp. We use simple transportation, there's no risk involved, except for punctuality, but that's totally avoidable if you plan ahead. And there is no greater satisfaction than walking peacefully by a crosswalk as five cars line up as they wait for your sweet time taking ass. Why? Why am I bitter? Because they have a car. They can get to places in five minutes that it takes me twenty minutes to get. That sucks. They WILL wait for me. Because in the end, they have it better. Bikers are hated by everyone, but in a more bitter sense by us walkers. We really can't do anything about them. If they run into you they win. If they don't run into you, they still win. It's super annoying. Bikes and cars get along like dogs and cats. If you put them on the same road, hell is sure to break loose.

The surprising all-approved method of transportation? Skateboards. More effective than you might think. They speed by us walkers without taking up space or being an inconvenience when traffic gets heavy. Bikers have no problem because they move more swiftly than walkers and take up less space. Cars don't mind them because they move quickly across crosswalks and rarely cause problems if there are no sidewalks to ride on. Advice? Learn to skateboard, kids. There's no flaw in it. Especially longboards. Those look super awesome, in addition to being better at getting you to where you're going than skateboards.

Scary Movie 8

Scary movies have always been a thing for me. When I was younger I would scare easily. I would get freaked out by Goosebumps and other freaky things. You heard previously of my fear of zombies. I just kind of always stayed away from scary movies. I figured there was no point in watching something that's just going to piss me off. When your friends jump out and scare you, it makes you feel zero positive emotions. Especially when they laugh at you afterwards. That's what I always imagined the credits of a horror movie being like. Just the director and cast laughing at you for getting scared shitless by their stupid worthless production. Halloween would come around and the Jason and Michael Meyers movies would blow up TNT and AMC and I would always be the apprehensive one of the group who would suggest just playing more video games. What's wrong with that? Unless of course, you play Resident Evil.

Lately I've changed my mind on the subject. I've started watching scary movies over the past couple years. And yeah, my body succumbs to the goosebumps. But there's an odd feeling of satisfaction watching a scary movie all the way through. I don't know what it is, but when you see traumatic events that someone lives through you sort of get a feeling of relief, and the feeling of fear that bogged you down and was surely removing any chance of self-enjoyment just mere minutes ago is now seemingly gone forever. Weird how that works, eh?

Well luckily for us, the viewer, scary movies have taken a turn for the better over the last few years. Well, the good ones anyway. They've stopped being solely about deranged killers hacking the crap out of kids your age. Finally we get some substance from horror movies, making them all the more scary. The Ring was a good scary movie because it made you freaked you out. It was weird scary, in addition to physically scary. The Hills Have Eyes was physically scary, but not very weird scary. The first Saw movie was relatable scary, and every movie that has ever been made about an exorcism still freaks me out. Last night, my roommate and I watched a Youtube saga which reminded me of Paranormal Activity and The Ring, if you were to combine the two. It is about a guy investigating the tapes that supposedly held the answers to why his friend moved away and halted contact with the guy forever. It is a weird scary, as they play with sound and visuals and go through several tedious steps to make the tale believable. The acting is excellent, and the thrills are quite enjoyable. The series never admits to being false, though it is clearly just an excellent work of fiction. The series is entitled Marble Hornets. It is a 26 part series and takes about an hour and fifteen minutes to watch. The use of silence in the film is powerful and shows just how stupid music in horror movies really is. When you rely on added music to make something scare people, it's quite evident that your product kinda sucks.

One aspect that bugs me about this production and Paranormal Activity is the lack of admission to the viewer that the movie is false. This is a very personal annoyance, as I'm sure the general benefit would side with keeping it an unstated truth. But while watching Paranormal Activity and Marble Hornets, I found myself griping the whole time about how this and that isn't possible and how that means it can't be real. Trying to find flaws in the movie rather than embellish the many positives. Whatever.

Happy Appetizer

To change from scared to excited in the (second) best of ways, football season is upon us! Tomorrow, for my birthday, Commissioner Roger Goodell and the good folks over at the NFL have organized a football game for me to watch. How sweet. This one's professional! How exciting!

However, let me take the following paragraph to thank the college football season for doing its part to make me happy.

College football, I don't love you. I could never love you. You lack the consistency, you often disappoint me and lets face it, you just aren't as "good" as the NFL. However, I would like to thank you for providing a shit ton of entertainment to me over the course of the weekend. Week one in college is one of the better weeks. Because you don't have to think about the BCS, some overhyped team always gets upset, and EVERYBODY PLAYS. Thursday started me off with USC and Oregon, a traditional collegiate contest in which the better team won and the worse team kept trying to make it interesting but kept failing to do so. Friday, well, who needs football when you have Friday. Saturday, SATURDAY. Start me off BRIGHT AND EARLY with an Illinois-Mizzou game that was actually interesting, albeit disappointing, while simultaneously uplifting. If that makes any sense. It gave me something to do. Inspired me and my friends to go out and play catch with the football, which is the greatest object to play catch with. Other than like, cats. Or puppies (WARNING: THAT VIDEO ISN'T CUTE) (This one will make you feel better about it though). Saturday night Oregon State and TCU played in a game that was mildly entertaining but footbally nonetheless. Sunday provided us with the gem of the weekend. East Carolina University versus Tulsa. This was a shit game. ESPN had nothing better to show. So when these teams went back and forth down the field to score touchdowns on TEN CONSECUTIVE DRIVES (Note: That's a SHIT TON of consecutive drives) I was more than pleasantly surprised. The final score was 51-49. 100 glorious points. And the final play of the game included a 6'8" guy (imagine Lebron James) leaping up and snagging a hail mary at the highest possible point he could have and pulling it down, sacrificing pain and his wind to catch the ball and bring ECU a fun victory with 0:00 flashing on the clock. What a game. Boise State and Virginia Tech played a stellar game on Monday also, which of course was viewed with higher regards due to the inclusion of two top ten programs. Whatever. ECU Tulsa will always have my heart. Because it's college. It's not like any of the teams could beat the Browns anyway.

Which is why I'm dumping college football tonight, and making my getaway with pro football. It is a million times grander and every aspect of it is more interesting. I <3>

Reaction

After reading Mada's post yesterday about Big Ten night life (good job by the way Mag), I started thinking about it. Why has society fallen to that stupid level of existence? You go to college so you can drink and hook up? Is that really it? Is socializing a dying art?

Obviously these are ridiculous questions. But at times its hard to see the point when all this crap goes on so much. Getting girls is such an overblown aspect of college and its funny because when you try and argue with these people about their way of life, it suddenly becomes difficult to fault. Yeah, it's a shallow existence that you'll never gain anything from. But if you can get past that (which, trust me, they've all gotten past that) it has an overwhelming amount of benefits. You meet people by signing up for frats and sororities and you intermingle with them and hook up and drink beer and stumble all over campus and are a douche bag and what not. But, they honestly have no regrets. Maybe they just have nothing better to do with themselves. We'll see what their future holds. Historically it hasn't been much of a hold back for people who are coherent enough to do their required coursework and earn a degree.

I certainly hope I can find a group of good wholesome people here at college who don't participate in the douchebaggery that is going out getting wasted and banging people as their only source of recreational fun. Now if you'll excuse me, it's my birthday in three hours. So I've got places to be. Hope you found something interesting in this amalgam of thoughts of mine. Have a good one. Hah...

--Eliot Sill