Conor - Meeting people

I'm not very good at meeting people. I haven't had to do it in such a pure form in a long time. I actually have no memory of a situation like the one I'm facing right now, probably because this is a first. I know no one in the state of Oklahoma. Okay, okay, I know Andrew Hutchinson, but what do I know about him? I know he seems a little dull. BUT NICE. (And to our left, ladies and gentlemen, you can see the technique Conor uses to feel okay about himself after saying something mean. It's clearly designated by his use of caps.) HE SEEMS REALLY NICE. But he stabbed a kid once?! I don't know. I PROMISE NOT TO TELL PEOPLE IN OKLAHOMA THAT, ANDREW HUTCHINSON. HERE YOU CAN START ANEW.

Other than Hutch, I know no one. I have no wingman. My roommate has been busy slash indoors most of the past two days, so I have no guaranteed friend or companion. I don't know how to be myself without the people I am myself around. I think in a way you guys played a much more significant part in who I truly am than I thought. I'm doing such a shitty job of meeting people because I don't know who I'm talking to. Being around my friends gives me a context. At lollapalooza I befriended several people quite easily, because I was aware of at least some of the people around me. Let's say I had talked to Harry and Hannah and made a fool of myself. It wouldn't have mattered. Sure, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to get to know them, but I would have turned around and talked to Brian.

That luxury exists no more. That's so much bigger than I thought it would be.

Part of me is excited for this opportunity and part of me wants to pretend to be excited for this opportunity. That part of me is criticizing my friends who I miss so much. I received several messages about my friends up at U of I hanging out with eachother. It's really easy for me to sit in a critical armchair, drinking my critical cola, saying things like "Well they're not branching out. They're sticking to what they know, like cowards. If I were to duel them, I would undoubtedly emerge the victor" but that's NOT REALLY TRUE. If I had anyone here, that's exactly what I would be doing. In no way would that prevent me from meeting new people. New people would meet us. I'm sure they're meeting all sorts of interesting people. I'm sure they're doing that much more smoothly than I am.

I met a cool guy named Joseph my first night here, and walked around with him for a while until we parted ways. He talked about how many cute girls there are around here and I just played the "yeah, man" game. I'm so good at that game.

After Joseph I went to the swings here (there's a swingset on campus! !!!) and saw a girl swinging for business, not pleasure. She was really good at swinging. I was determined to meet her. I convinced myself that anybody that enthralled by swinging must be an interesting person. Her name's Ellen. She seems cool. Into Lord of the Rings and Dungeons and Dragons and things like that, but I'm afraid I cannot judge her.

I met a couple of cool people today. I went to a picnic and met Kevin Kingsley, from Chicago, Lauren Aragon from Houston TX (I referenced her full name and where she's from on purpose. It's an inside joke you guys will never be a part of. Allow me this small, pretend victory.), Garreth O'Brien, and Luis something. Kevin and I bonded due to our mutual midwesterness, and we played frisbee with a bunch of people. It's amazing how much that game of frisbee improved my outlook. I already developed a rivalry with this guy named Ryan. We kept tabs on eachother during the game and went out of our way to sabatoge the others efforts. We respect eachother's mad skillz, and later he tried to get me to Ryan to join his scavenger hunt team. SORRY RYAN I HAVE ALL THESE OTHER FRIENDS DESPERATELY SEEKING MY COMPANY.

So I met some people. I'm meeting some of the same people tomorrow for breakfast. I don't know how much we have in common. I don't know if they really really like me or if I really really like them. Iunno. It's weird, thinking I'm going to be here for another 4 years. I can't help thinking about how long it took me to find the people I truly cared about in high school.

BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME.

The History of Rap, According to Brendan

As a budding rap star, I've deemed it necessary to jot down my memoirs as an occasional member of the immensely popular, largely Afro-centered music culture before I'm inevitably gunned down by a rival recording artist (Central Spri-Town WHADUP).

I suppose it all began in fifth grade at St. Agnes grade school when I engaged in my first freestyle rap battle. Obviously, I did not come up with the idea, nor did I take the initiative to go first. Or second. As a matter of fact, I don't particularly remember even taking part in the event, save for assuming the role of the wide-eyed spectator/friend of those participating. I learned a lot that day. While I hardly ever laid down a verse until probably this year, I discovered that true rap comes from the heart, nay! the soul. Sure, almost anyone can deliberate and meticulously construct a decent rap song, but it takes a true poet to cull words out of thin air on the spot and arrange them in a way so that they are lyrically concise and somewhat intelligible.

So anyway, here's some delectable exposition for you to munch on. My taste in music has always been a tad eclectic. Throughout grade school, I went from listening to N*Sync, Backstreet Boys and S Club 7 (still listen to them, unbelievable) to filling the shoes of every quintessential junior-high boy preceding my arrival to seventh grade by rocking out to some Queen and, rather obscurely for my eighth grade class, Van Morrison. And once back in the day, my cousin, my idol, came into town from St. Louis toting a CD PLAYER and several rap CDs. He told me, "Brendan, rap is the way to go. These guys are so fresh. Dr. Dre tells it like it is." Although I took his word for just about everything, rap was the one thing I couldn't dig (except, of course, for that of The Fresh Prince, Will Smith, and DJ Jazzy Jeff).

You see, I had always grown up listening to whatever my parents played for me, with some exceptions, until about seventh grade when I discovered that humans are social beings and the only way to connect with my peers and those of the students from ANOTHER SCHOOL (Blessed Sacrament) was through the pop-rap-infused "music" found on the radio stations of choice at the time, 99.7, 102.9 and 103.7. My world was opened musically when I heard classic cuts such as "Soul Survivor" and the unforgettable "Shake Ya Tailfeather" (all one word). I was finally cool, man! I was listening to rap music on the radio and identifying with my classmates.

Of course, that's all laughable now. But damn, son, back in the day you know it was the cool thing to do. Don't delude yourself any longer. I embraced it, yet I still didn't accept rap in its entirety. Rap was always something I popped in every once in a while to act tough and appear as if I could spit some game. And then one day in seventh grade, my buddy Griffin Davis says to me, "Hey, my dad bought me this CD last night of a new guy named Kayne [sic] West or something. You should check this out, it's pretty good. I think he's religious or something, he raps about Jesus, but it's pretty cool." And so it began. He and I were the cool kids (in my opinion) sitting in the back of class reciting Kanye's lyrics back and forth at each other. We fell in love with the down-to-earth, rootsy feel of The College Dropout, and were the only ones who knew of Kanye's existence for a long time. That is until we let slip the wonder of the album and our peers began to demand copies of the CD (who wanted to buy music in the early days of file sharing?). Consequently, Griffin and I set up a lucrative underground racket, bootlegging copies of the album for those who asked (quoth one boy, "Can I get a copy of that Connie West album?"), naturally, making a hefty profit (this is a lie. Once again I was purely a spectator, as another boy took my place in the market, but I had the inside look at this business).

As the business expanded and my friends grew prosperous, I concentrated mostly on deciphering the lyrics of The College Dropout. And to be honest, the lyrics are just now truly hitting home to me as I mature and gain a better understanding of West's music career and where he comes from. But back then I was just an innocent boy trying to associate with the plight of burgeoning African-American musicians. I really didn't listen to any other rap, though. I pretty much focused on Dropout and the subsequent Late Registration, conflicted by how much I loved Kanye West yet despised his immense popularity among people I disliked, the "phonies" if you will (thanks Holden Caulfield) (this was, and is, a major flaw of mine. After reading Catcher In The Rye, I became rapidly disenchanted by the arbitrary acts of the people around me jumping on the bandwagon, causing me to dislike anything other people like, things I may even have enjoyed at one point, but we'll save that for a later post). Unfortunately, I could never allow myself to try out Kanye's supposedly solid third and bizarre fourth albums, and I'm still uneducated on them.

As it goes, I still never gained a large appreciation for rap music, save for Kanye West, which stuck with me throughout high school. That's right, I've never gotten into Lil' Wayne or Tupac Shakur or anyone (notice how I'm struggling in coming up with any other notable rap figures). The only similar artist I grew respect for was Grandmaster Flash, of the Furious Five ('Cause white liiiiines blow awaaaaaay). That only happened because I'm nerdy enough to look up on Wikipedia what song Shaun and Ed boisterously sing as they drunkenly stumble out of the pub in Shaun of the Dead.

This dry spell in my rap career, like I said, continued throughout high school until about late December, when once again, Griffin came to my rescue and introduced me to Kid Cudi. "He's the next Kanye, man," I was promised. I couldn't turn that down. I burned a copy of Man On The Moon (still not buying CDs yet, but thankfully turning down torrenting) and gave it a few listens. I don't know what it was- perhaps the ambiance of the snowy, blustery weather, maybe the simplicity and down-to-earth feeling of his lyrics, or maybe the fact that the album featured MGMT (I was desperately searching for "independent," contemporary music at the time)- but the album stuck on me quickly, and I once again considered myself among the elite. You see, although I didn't know at the time that Cudi released his debut in, like, September, the album hadn't approached the ears of every other partyboy at SHG yet. So, yeah, you can guess what happened. Once every guy and his dog started posting "i got 99 pobrlems and they albitches [sic]" as his Facebook status, I pulled out faster than McCain said he could have in Iraq (obscure political reference!). But I secretly still like Cudi, despite the fact that all his songs are pretty much the same, weed and alcohol, lack of rhyme scheme, you know.

So let's fast forward a bit. This summer, I got the opportunity to aid Peter in rapping the hook to a song he created around the Drake song, "Over." We did not make it into the Variety Show, whatever.

I've recently been made aware of the presence of two up-and-coming 19-year olds from Philly trying to make a name for themselves. Mssrs. Peter Racine and Thom Padanilam introduced me to Chiddy Bang, an "alternative hip hop" group that owes their popularity mainly to the fact that they cleverly sample songs by "independent" artists such as Sufjan Stevens and MGMT. What's not to like? I decided to bite the bullet last week and head down to St. Louis to see them perform in a small venue, and it was totally worth it. We got to meet Chiddy himself! And we saw some other sweet performers (Vizzy!).

I mentioned earlier that I'm a rap star, no big deal (yes it is). Peter, whom we've all come to affectionately know as P. Race, is Springfield's next big thing. I have the privilege of being on the inside (friendship! scoff!), and I've probably heard more of his cuts than you have. Sorry, but it's not all available to the rabid masses. Yet. But not only have I heard his great songs (who can forget "The Cellar?" I would link it, but Prace has an extreme aversion to the song (PETER IT'S A GOOD SONG, STOP DENYING THAT). I have also been in his infamous studio itself. One day, Peter, Thom and I were bored and we decided to cut, like, six or seven tracks for Thom's and my band, Parkour Through Downtown Springfield (check us out). Needless to say, after several hours of writing and recording, we came out with just one song, and it's a hit! If you haven't heard of MackAssurance by now, you probably live under a rock. Or you're Jobin, and you "don't like music."

MackAssurance is utterly unintelligible to anyone besides the three of us, so I'll let you in on a few of its secrets:
1. That is Hillary's voice sampled at the beginning. She wrote the second verse.
2. MacAssurance is a play-on-words. Peter worked at Office Max, where they sell
MaxAssurance. MackAssurance is designed to ensure that one is perfectly safe and
able to rebound after unsuccessfully "macking" on a girl.
3. That is me oh-so prolifically repeating the beloved refrain, something like "Titties,
titties, titties..."
4. The short soliloquy at the song's close is a letter Peter found in the bin at Office Max.
Your guess is as good as ours.

So we have one song, and it's incredibly popular. This makes me happy. Perhaps you heard us perform it at Tynan's? I think it went over well. I'm heading back into the booth in the next couple days before Peter and I head back to college. I have some fresh ideas; I hope we can recreate the success of MackAssurance.

So there it is. The history of rap, as I've experienced it. You're lucky I'm able to write this post; I was assaulted at Steak N Shake last night because a drunk passerby thought I mouthed off to him. I mean...a really messed up, busta-ass rapper...heard me perform MackAssurance the other night and...decided to rough me up a bit...and I popped a cap in his ass...

-B. Cav

Eulogy for a childhood.

Prepare to be bored, guys. This one isn't for you, it's for me.

My first memories of childhood come from right where I am now. This location is one I fondly refer to as my basement. I watched Barney and Power Rangers and all the kidly tv shows that were offered my way. I felt the need eventually to branch out of my own house. To the one next to mine. Anne Crabtree was my best friend. She was fun. When I conjure memories of her these days I think of how your grandma looked when she was a little girl. Dark hair as curly as can be coupled with a smile that would be notable on a girl my age, Anne wasn't too different from what I imagined all girls to be. She loved Star Wars. We watched the series to death. Also she had Nickelodeon and that would have been why I used her as a friend had I known better back then. I didn't have cable back then. I had basic cable. VH1, Channel 24, was fuzzy. That was the bounds of my cable until I was like ten or so.

TV was a family activity. By family I mean my brothers and I. The Simpsons was our main course, though I only tended to watch how the Simpson family would congregate on the couch differently than last time, then I'd lose interest because they'd start using all these words and stuff. My oldest brother Andrew dominated the tv with brute force. Until approximately two years ago, he could take me AND Peder in a fight. Andrew's iron fist served as law, but when in his absence Peder would try and rule the kingdom that was known as our basement, conflict was induced. When I fought my brother Peder, the goal was not to win the fight, but rather to keep fighting. Fighting showed my disapproval and what does a punch to the face have over a open hand 100% propelled by a wrist when the goal is to cause discomfort to your opponent? Strikingly little, as I managed to piss Peder off a lot. I really miss the days when life was a perpetual power struggle.

When I wasn't at home with my awesome family, I was kickin' it gangster style with Pam Trader. Pam and I ran the back woods and the entire pathetic street that is Witherspoon Drive, and we had three amazing things in common: we were short, we liked wrestling, and we aspired everyday to be as badass as we could. She had a trampoline, which, had I been older, I would have used her for. I spent hours jumping on that thing. Trampolines are the shit. I wish I could still jump on a trampoline and not be obviously oversized. (Improv reunion show: Improv on trampolines!) All the mischief we caused created an unkillable bond between us where no matter what we have each other's backs. Even though I have no idea where her back is, or the rest of her. We've grown apart. Such is life.

Sill family vacations consisted of two teams, TEAM BITCHABOUT and TEAM SENSE. The teams would change fairly often, the only consistent member being my dad (allied with TEAM SENSE). TEAM BITCHABOUT always was ridiculous and wanted things. TEAM SENSE was always annoyed by TEAM BITCHABOUT to a degree that they themselves became formidably irritating. And if you weren't on a team, then you likely hated us and would not associate with our kind. Packers training camp was usually a destination, and Wisconsin in general. One time Montana, one time Lake Superior, but never god damn EAST (IF YOU ARE GOING TO INDIANA OR SOMETHING, TAKE ME WITH YOU). We would travel around listening to a variety of music that was never once liked by a majority of the five members in our family fighting over backseats and pining about gas stations and bathroom problems. We always complained to my parents about how weird we are but shit, looking back on it, those were the days of normality. Those were the days I look back on now with a certain fondness and can honestly claim as my hay-day.

People grew up though, and siblings did drugs. As both of my older brothers developed a habitual liking of smoking reefer, I was utterly oblivious to it and just thought they were crazy! Pot smoking is something that you really would think would affect you as a kid, but here I am, and I'm a pretty reasonable person. What really sent me off the wall was when I came home one night to see my brother Andrew having a party, wherein my other brother, Peder, was wasted. He was wasted off his ass. Older me would laugh at him and poke him until he began vomiting. Younger me was terrified. Younger me saw it as me losing a brother and gaining just another punk teen I had to associate with who bit off more than he could chew and wanted to be older than he was. Younger me knew what it looked like when someone became impure. Andrew's steady drinking was sort of cool. The kind of thing where it was like yeah, he's an idiot and has screaming bitter fights with my parents, but he's SO badass. And Peder was struggling in middle school. He got caught in seventh grade smoking pot. SEVENTH GRADE. WHAT THE FUCK. My parents were frustrated by this stupidity and did what they could to prevent it (Andrew went to Trinity Lutheran for eighth grade, against every ounce of his will).Regardless, the brothers treaded onward, never looking back upon their habits and mistakes, and always living life the way they wanted to, and for that, I respected them.

Middle school came and there was so much to do. Friends to be had, grades to be made, teachers to impress, teachers to piss off (like Mrs. Kennedy for those of you who know that joke), and girls to acknowledge. It was a very strange time, looking back on it. Definitely an age I've forgotten how to act. I was a class clown. I was smart but also committed to my jokes to the point where making someone laugh was more important than making my parents happy (with my grades) and so I allowed for their expectations to sink, purely because of my lazy ass attitude and devotion to being a slacker. For all the talk I fired off in middle school it's a wonder I didn't smoke pot then. Kids did it. Which was weird. And I talked about it a lot. Hell, I practically held it in high regard. Wouldn't you if it defined part of who your siblings were in high school? Anyway, arguments delving into teen things like drugs, girls and masturbating were always great fun. And, looking back, the cutest durned things. We never really grew up in middle school, but we learned what we had to do in order to grow up. And, all in all, that's pretty important. From free hug Friday to the new hot school couple (example-Liz Woodruff and Walker Nelson? ACTUALLY HAPPENED, once upon awhile ago) to the bickering and drama that MySpace convinced us existed, we had a lot of fun dicking around and owning a place, albeit a place that no one cared to own.

Then we became freshmen. We became entitled to have thoughts and articulate them impressively. We became obligated to bring our own shit to class and to turn assignments in on time. We became forced to think for ourselves and plan for college. At the time, planning for college seemed like a stupid idea that was perfect for anyone looking to waste their high school career. For all I know it might be, seeing as how I never did these things. Speaking of which, I should pack. Anyway, we were exposed to a hierarchy and to adults disguised as seniors, and jokesters like me disguised as role models for pricks like me when I was in ninth grade. Also we were forced to focus on school more. We were supposed to spend less time with our families and more time with our friends. It made sense, I guess, though it would have been nice to be with my family more.

I didn't drink much up to junior year. I remained a pretty cool kid. Then, one night, everything broke. All the walls in my house revealed themselves to have irreparable cracks and then they fell in. I was trapped. My dad decided his marriage wasn't making him happy and decided that it'd be best if he moved out. Hmm, it sucked. That's when my dream collapsed. All the walls came crashing in and I was forced to wake up. The air smelled differently that day. That was the day my innocence was lost. My youth was no longer my ignorant bliss. Reality reared its ugly head and spouted words in my direction, "some things don't last forever." The victim in this case was the joy that my family unit brought to me. Darn. Maybe next time that one will work out.

I kept low key. I didn't let people in on what was happening in my life. Guys, for that I'm sorry. I was pretty ashamed of the way things were going for me. I wasn't bursting at the seams to tell people "Oh hey, you know my parents!? Their love died!" Not a fun tale to tell. Even when I decided to myself that it would be okay for people to know I just didn't tell people. I couldn't manage to bring the issue up. If the situation was ever called into question, I would explain everything. But I never let it come up, because I hid myself from conversations about parents and family. It ended up being a pretty effective strategy for secrecy. Needless to say, the information was slowly released at my liking. And for that I'm grateful. I trudged on in high school. I fought for my grades because I knew they were my ticket outta here. I didn't get straight A's but man, I tried a couple times. And I even got close every now and then, but never was a sterling student or the envy of other parents (their mistake, I'm f**kin awesome).

Senior year something happened. I became existential and nostalgic, like instantly. My mind began clawing for the years I let pass by so lazily. I branched out, made new friends, joined improv, and started doing stuff beyond buying alcohol to party with and have a fairly low chance of scoring a younger girl who was intoxicated for her third time (what a sad, sad existence). I broke off the track of misplaced funny guy with a supportive but counterproductive group of friends and found my way to the people I would flourish with for the rest of the year and into the summer. Having some new friends to mess around with kept things fresh and made senior year pass by like a dream. If senior year was a dream, then this summer was a (word that doesn't exist but means greatest thing ever). I won't scrutinize. I won't give an old horse a new name (or something like that. basically we've been here before, and we know summer was the peak of my life), but damn. This summer I found that youthful freedom and coupled it with that collegiate independence. Because of this I spent every night out with people I enjoyed. I don't regret a damn thing.

This may be a little stupidly worded. And it may be eight hours late. But I haven't really slept today so it still feels like Wednesday night. And Brendan, I know you're new here kiddo but jeesh, wait until you wake up to post son. You can do it. I hope this doesn't overlap Brendan's. Not everyone needs to read it. Not many should. I don't want to read this again. I just know that I grew up in a unique situation that's made me who I am today. And I'm proud of the motherfucker I've become. And I am going into college today with my head held high and my eyes sagging low because I am proud and tired. I'm prired (priored). Anyway, shit I've gotta finish getting my things.. see you next week.

Also fan this on Facebook. If you're committed enough to read down this far, you know you like it. You can now like us, Facebook official.

It's been so great getting to know you. But it's time for us to grow up. I'll see you on the other side.

--Eliot Sill

Nick - Improv!

I had a plan for today's blog: save my improv-related post for the weekend after my last show, and then write about how sad I am it's over.

But I can't do that.

I can't write about how sad I am because I can't be anything but happy about my life with improv. I've been blessed with the opportunity to meet some of my best friends and the coolest people in the world. I got to get up on stage in front of all my friends and all my friends' friends and make them all laugh. And I got to share unforgettable moments with my fellow troupe members.

Improv has been somewhat of a surreal experience for me. Conor persuaded me to come try out, and I came in with no expectations. I was lifted from my typical life into the arms of the gods; even though I didn't think I was nearly as funny as the great people I was trying out with, I was chosen to be a part of something I didn't fully comprehend at the time. Improv was something I never earned or deserved; it wasn't something I understood and worked for. It was a gift, handed to me seemingly from nowhere.

I am infinitely thankful that I've been able to have this experience. I've watched a new generation of improvers grow together and take the figurative torch from our hands as we head off to new adventures.

And I feel like we've accomplished a lot in our time. Conor always says a couple of things that have really stuck with me. First, that before our generation, improv met once a week and practiced together and then went home. But now things have changed, and we're all friends outside of improv too; we're comfortable around each other and we really enjoy one another's presence. I'd like to think that we contributed to that atmosphere of friendliness.

The other thing he says is that his favorite moments are when someone truly becomes a member of improv; when they go from being a reluctant and newly-accepted member of the troupe, to a friend with a love for improv and a real sense of belonging. I've been lucky enough to be there to witness a lot of those moments; to befriend and see the growth of several new and wonderful people.

Even the members of our audience have something special about them. An aura that defines them as friends and good people in general. So don't think that you are left out of this because you aren't in the troupe; everyone who has been to one of our shows has a special place in my heart, too.

Improv is something I will always look back on fondly. But it's also something more than that. It's something that I will never truly leave. Because I know that I'm connected on a deeper level now; I'm marked by an undefinable bond to the people I've come to know and love, and to improvised comedy itself. So now we depart, but the people we leave in our stead are people we trust to lead Easily Amused in the right direction, and I look forward to seeing their progress in the years to come.

EATIT forever.

-Nick.

Inhibition

--Robert Langellier

Senior year summer is an era more awkward than puberty that I didn’t hear a lot about before it came, not even from my lovely older brother Nick. Growing up you see milestones like first kisses and graduation and marriage in books, movies and television. These are all life-changing events, but all events you can go hang out with your friends and talk about.

Leaving for college is kind of different. It’s one milestone where, depending on where you’re going, you’re almost entirely alone, with a brand new life to keep you company. But I’m not writing another college post, don’t worry. I’m writing a reflection on PRE-college, or the senior summer.

What I’ve noticed about the final summer before college is a gradual (but noticeable) dropping out of my social inhibitions in place of an I-don’t-give-a-FUCK-cause-I’m-going-to-COLLEGE attitude. Just the fact that I’m leaving my home soon gives me the courage to let loose a lot more and stop caring about the lasting impressions I make on both people I know and don’t know. I like that. It’s cool that the way people act (or don’t act) is directly linked to how rooted they are in that specific place. I think that’s why people hook up a lot or do silly silly things on vacation. You’ll never see those people again, so why not throw that Pepsi hand grenade off the indoor balcony? As summer’s progressed, Springfield has started to seem more and more like a vacation I’m on before I head back home to Columbia, Missouri to my dorm husband Dylan and his campus mistress Hillary (they kissed) (twice). I think that’s how it is with a lot of my friends. I’ve seen more friends begin relationships in the last two months before they leave for college than I may ever have. They may never have the opportunity again, so why not go for the kiss or the hand or the boob grab (for the daring), and screw the consequences!

I personally think it’ll be interesting to see how long it takes for me to assimilate back into a normal compulsion/inhibition style of living. I’m assuming I will. I’ll fight it, but I can’t guarantee that I won’t be shy sometime somewhere again. Maybe I’ll even mature lol?

I like to compare the scenario to a turtle race because I promised to include turtles in this post. Inhibitions (or the turtles’ speed) really don’t affect you at first because you’re too pumped with adrenaline for the onset of summer (the beginning of the race). Eventually, though, you start to realize that your inhibitions are baseless and are simply holding you back from your potential (turtles are really slow and boring). Come the end of the summer (turtle race), you’ve finally done away with your inhibitions (who cares how slow the turtles are? What The Shell is about to win! Whoo!) and you feel great.

College isn’t coming anymore; it’s here. My giant list of people to visit and debts to repay by tomorrow is showing me that. My attachments are still alive and strong, but I’ve let go of a lot of them, and I feel okay with leaving. So here I am, about to do one of the most significant things I’ve ever done, and I’ve had approximately two months to let go of the only home I’ve ever known. I’m almost there.

Wow...

I cannot fucking believe I move to U of I on Thursday. I've been so caught up in my life that the time has just flown by and summer went by in a glorious flash. On that note, sorry my post is a day late. I wasn't home for most of yesterday. But anyway, I'm emotionally divided on the subject of moving away. It's gonna be a fresh start and I know I'll have tons of fun, but I leave a lot behind here in Springfield. I know I'll be back and I'll sporadically see those of my friends who aren't attending U of I with me, but it's still weird, and that part of it I don't like. Granted, there are certain people I will not miss in the slightest, but there are plenty who I will.

I am, however, ready to go to Champaign and fucking live it up and make a shit ton of new friends and party and....further my knowledge and understanding and stuff...Books! fuck yeah...Well, at least mentally I'm prepared. Physically, I feel like I have a lot of shit to get done before I go, but I don't know where to start, so I put if off for a while longer. This is a good start...

Anyway, I will miss the shit out of all of you friends not going to U of I with me (I just assume if you're reading this you're a cool kid so you're my friend). But don't cry, we'll see each other over breaks. Hit me up on my t-t-t-t-telephone (1st and last Lady gaga reference I'll ever make...all for you Eliot) and we'll party.

-Classic

What can music do?

A year ago, I did not know who Arcade Fire was. I did not know that weird bands made normal music. Simply, I did not know what music could do to people.

I learned a ton of shit senior year, and one of the highlights of this wealth of knowledge I received was that good music is not dead. Frankly I wasn't sure. I hadn't really checked I guess. The TV and the Radio don't really like good music I guess, because they sure as hell do play Ke$ha a lot. Regardless, I was cultured enough by new friends this year to realize that rock bands still exist, which entranced me enough to purchase a $215 Lollapalooza ticket. Let me tell you, that's f*#king expensive. Anyway, I went this past weekend. So did a lot of my friends. So did Brendan. I know you just heard about this shit yesterday. I DONT GIVE A DAMNFUCK.

I had no expectations for my weekend. All I knew is that my friends and I were leaving Springfield behind, crashing on a floor at Sean O'Brien's apartment (if you read this Sean and Michelle, which you won't, thank you for your saintly hospitality, you guys are the COOLEST), and going to concerts every day for a whole weekend. Here's the thing. On another level, I had no expectations for what two of those three elements would be like. Sean's Chicago living situation? I dunno what that's like. No supervision around to police us? I dunno what that's like. And as far as my experience goes with rock concerts? Um, the Ataris played a show here in Springfield about a month ago. They weren't very good, just very loud. I went there. Oh, and get this, the only other shows I had seen were headlined by Band Practice! No experience at all basically! I had seen Glastonbury videos on Palladia and stuff, but I had no idea what being in the crowd would be like.

It was amazing.

There were four acts that I'm going to talk about today. The first one being MyNameIsJohnMichael. First off, their space bar was broken when they submitted their name I guess. It's really unfortunate, because it makes their band name really fucking stupid. The setting of this band was at the BMI stage, a more casual viewing stage with room for an idling audience and really a place to draw in passerby's who didn't necessarily have seeing your little band on their agenda. Also it was 11:15 in the morning. They were a total throw-in. 11:15 is too early to rock out and too late to play dreadfully slow but placidly pretty music. They started the show with about ten rows of crowd, and several people lounging around the area. The band wasn't a complete stranger to me, Robert had showed me one of their live performances that was YouTubed. I watched the first twenty seconds and then went back to whatever. Regardless, I randomly decided they were a priority. I ended up getting third row due to the passively spaced out crowd (more on this in a bit) and had no idea what I was in for. The band was obviously just starting to achieve remote popularity, because this was their first time playing in Chicago (they were from New Orleans). They played perfectly. The lead singer was pitting out, undoubtedly nervous, and engagingly entertaining. They recognized their spot for what it was, a complete bonus. They weren't what anyone was there for, yet they played exactly what the crowd needed to hear. They pepped up everyone in attendance and ended with a spectacular sequence in which three of the band's five members grabbed percussion instruments (one a bass drum, another a tom, and the third a trash can. The trash can was played with a chain, the other with mallets) and, after a minute or so of atmospheric scene setting keyboard chords coupled with thin and purposefully confidence lacking guitar chords, played a booming simplistic yet heavy (and as Robert described it, eerie) beat that really put a foundation under the song. All of a sudden it was a full roar we seemed to hear from the guitar and everyone in attendance seemed taken aback by the creativity, but moreso the effectiveness of said creativity. We were all taken from groggy impatient fans who were exhausted from a full plate of music the day prior to excited and pepped up fans who had seen something different and neat to start the day. Music can be quite the alarm clock.

Rewind. Day one. I had seen four shows. The Walkmen, who I had liked, but were apparently unimpressive as far as live bands go. Who knew? From there I saw twenty minutes or so of Jukebox the Ghost, a band I had looked up prior to Lolla and found amusing and not bad. They were good, but I mean, I didn't get much as far as seeing them or how they commanded the stage. Then I went to Cymbals Eat Guitars. I disliked them because of their loud crashing drums and lack of strength behind the other band members' instruments. But seriously, they were too loud and formulaic. I left them. Then I stumbled upon the New Pornographers. They were pleasing, but I wasn't really gripped by them, and so I left to go see Matt and Kim, because a couple of my friends were there that I wanted to meet up with. Now I had not heard of Matt and Kim. Their deal? I did not know it. I knew their name and that's it. Comparatively named artists? Belle & Sebastian and She & Him. That's who I was grading them against. Then they come out with this. Needless to say, they passed with a WTF+. I ended up not being able to find Robert and Caitlin for that show, but it didn't matter. I was trying to leave for twenty minutes because I wanted to see the Black Keys as well and I had found friends their previously so I figured I could do it again (I couldn't). The reason leaving took me so long is because the crowds were packed and I was distracted by how AWESOME Matt and Kim were. I couldn't help but jump up and down and listen to their awesome inter-song shpiels (who knows how to spell that word?). Music can inexplicably give you the need to party with people who you don't care to know.

Later on in the evening, I traveled to a mystical land where anything was possible, and sexual orientation was set back to zero by one crazy ass bitch. Lady Gaga was set to perform in front of roughly 80,000 intrigued/entranced/enthralled people. Gaga made these people her own. It was crazy. I met up with Peter Racine, but we were alone in a crowd of crazy fans of Gaga monsters. She drew all sorts of different fans. Some people were there because they liked her pop music more than Ke$ha's and Katy Perry's, others were there because her radical extreme insanity was liberating to them. Others, like me, were there just to see what the fuck was going on with this chick. The concert played like a broadway musical with super catchy music. She got the crowd going and kept them going for two hours. Dancing was everywhere. It was like an acid trip where Gaga was God and everyone else belonged to her. I think that's what she's going for. I feel her act is contrived to control people and that her insanity is something she takes off when she gets back to her dressing room. But who knows? Her mind must be a very interesting place. And when I say control people, I say it not in a manipulative sense where they do things for her, but just like, I don't know, she gets the feeling of supreme power from having these people do her every bidding. If Gaga says clap, you clap. If Gaga says "dance you mother fuckers!", you dance. If Gaga says "I want you to put both hands in the air, and I want you to grab the person next to you's hand, if you don't know 'em, who cares? Make a fuckin' friend." then you make yourself a fuckin' friend (I made friends with a girl in a Pink Girl costume (derivative of Greenman)). The point is, her fans are fiercely in love with her and it seems like she's using that as a gigantic boost to her ego. I respect her ability to do that. 80,000 people dancing to the beat of one person's ridiculous drum. Music can control you.

Fast forward. The day is Sunday. The strategy is simple: go to the stage that Arcade Fire is playing at, stay there, stay there, stay there, stay there, stay there, enjoy amazing seats to the best concert we'll ever see. From 11:15 to 10:00 at night, I moved approximately 5 yards total. The day started with rain and cool breeze. We bought ponchos. The Antlers performed. They finished. We waited. We socialized. The stage almost fell apart due to a light breeze. The rain stopped. The sun came out. The sun baked our asses. Blitzen Trapper performed. They finished. The sun continued toasting. Yeasayer performed. The sun did not quit. MGMT performed (excellently by the way). The sun finally fell behind the tall Chicago skyline, yet still the air burned with intense heat. Then we found ourselves a spot on the fence, front row. And then, something great happened. The sun finally died, the heat subsided, and out came Arcade Fire. They were welcomed with such praise you would have thought it was the Justice League or something. The band played a brilliant set, masterfully geared toward live performances. The elements to the band's atmospheric sound were brought out and enveloped the audience in that atmosphere. The band's seven members hopped from instrument to instrument and each combination was just as wonderful as the last (my personal favorite being two drum sets pounding simultaneously). Win Butler's vocals were even more saturated with emotion than on the band's recorded tracks, and Régine Chassagne's perfectly imperfect voice resonated with all 90,000 that were glued to the band's performance. Simply put, the band's performance transcended all that I had pictured live music to be. Nothing was lost and so much was gained. And when Butler lied wryly telling us that "Keep the Car Running" was the last song they'd be playing, no one bought it, but yet we were filled with excitement because we knew what was to come. The band came out for an encore and Butler proclaimed "we're only playing one song, and I want 'em to fuckin' hear it in a space station" everyone knew what to do. "Wake Up" was played, and it was absolutely beautiful from start to finish. That's the most people I've ever done something together with. And it felt pretty damn amazing. I'll be able to die in peace.

Music can save your soul.

Lollapalooza was a hell of an experience. I would recommend going at least once in your life. It changed mine, and I'm pretty sure it changed the lives of the other 240,000 people that attended as well. At least most of them. Live music is something that can either annoy you or make you feel like you've never felt before, and it's something that goes under-appreciated despite how much acclaim it already gets. These were just four of the twenty bands that I saw over the weekend, and all twenty left lasting impressions on me, for more than just how they sounded. Seeing a rockstar is also quite a thrill, I have to admit. I'll probably go to Lolla next year, but I know the Arcade Fire show was the best show I'll ever see (partially because I didn't see this one). So I encourage you, if you haven't already, experience live music. It changed my life in a damn good way, maybe it can do the same for you.

--Eliot Sill