Vomiting is so much easier when you're drunk. And, another thing, I haven't even lost my appetite. Maybe my appetite's gone, but I still want to eat so much things. I don't think I could though. I'm sort of exhausted.
--Eliot Sill
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Monday, March 5, 2012
Nick - Justits
Hey, remember when Mada asked us to write about being a girl? Is that offer still standing?
The reason I write this post is because earlier I saw a girl on facebook whose profile picture is just a picture of her tits. And I thought to myself, if I were a girl, would my facebook picture be a picture of my tits? I don't think so, but I really don't know.
The reason I write this post is because earlier I saw a girl on facebook whose profile picture is just a picture of her tits. And I thought to myself, if I were a girl, would my facebook picture be a picture of my tits? I don't think so, but I really don't know.
Here, wait, let me demonstrate. My lovely assistant Justice Ruth Ginsburg will be assisting in the demonstration.
 |
| Before |
 |
| After |
Thanks, Ruth.
Anyway, I'm really glad I'm not a girl.
Well, see you next week!
-Nick.
Robert - Conversations with Steve
Me: Hey, Steve, I see we’re incidentally walking directly at each other on the sidewalk. One of us should move.
Oncoming Steve: Nah.
Me: You don’t understand. We’re going to collide. Okay, here, I’ll move to the right. Crisis averted.
Oncoming Steve: And I’ll move to the left.
Me: I don’t think you understand how directions work from opposite angles.
Oncoming Steve: You’re right. Look, we’re going to collide again.
Me: That’s OK. Here, I’ll move to the left.
Oncoming Steve: And I’ll move to the right.
Me: Steve.
Oncoming Steve: (bump)
It isn’t your fault. No, you’re just walking to class, and you’re innocent. You did all your reading. You double-knotted your shoes today. You even tucked your shirt in. You know, that shirt that doesn’t even really need to be tucked in if you’re feeling especially casual, but you did anyway. You didn’t ask for your happiness to be wrenched from underneath your neatly-ironed chest pocket. Yet, there’s Steve, a stranger in a red flannel shirt and skinny jeans, strolling right toward you, oblivious of his impending collision course.
There’s a thought process here. My first strategy is to call the other person’s bluff. Walk straight, they’ll realize what’s up and move deftly to the side. After all, you’re sort of on the right side of the sidewalk, and that’s how cars work, right? This strategy is made possible by a curious mix of fear and pride. There’s certainly no way I’m moving out of the way first. Whether that’s because I have too much dignity or a complete inability to resolve minor conflicts, I’ll never know.
Eventually the inevitable occurs. Nothing.
Nothing occurs, and it becomes obvious Oncoming Steve over there is equally conscious of the rising issue. By now he’s only about 12 feet away and approaching fast. From there it’s a series of desperate attempts to communicate telepathically and resolve the crisis with minimal actual movement. I study Steve’s face carefully, trying to read his eyes for his next move. I study his hips like I was taught as a sixth grade football cornerback, just in case he tries to juke me. I sort of hope he does.
The moment of truth arrives at about the 8-foot distance. Decisions need to be made here, or I face becoming the laughingstock of the entire sidewalk from here all the way to that big tree over there. I don’t want that. I look into Steve’s eyes. He’s afraid, too. He knows the stakes. With a reassuring smile I let him know everything’s going to be okay. Of course, I’ve no way of knowing, but Steve looks like a nice kid, and I’m sure he has dreams of his own. With a sharp intake of breath, I bite the bullet and veer slightly to my right. So does Steve. Oh god no. It seems he and I are of tragically similar mindsets. With only one more step to go, I make an emergency change in trajectory. I awkwardly swing my leg around and turn back around to the left. So does Steve. Oh god no. With a dull, unenthusiastic bump we lightly collide, mutter apologies and carry on with our heads down. The day is lost.
Oncoming Steve: Nah.
Me: You don’t understand. We’re going to collide. Okay, here, I’ll move to the right. Crisis averted.
Oncoming Steve: And I’ll move to the left.
Me: I don’t think you understand how directions work from opposite angles.
Oncoming Steve: You’re right. Look, we’re going to collide again.
Me: That’s OK. Here, I’ll move to the left.
Oncoming Steve: And I’ll move to the right.
Me: Steve.
Oncoming Steve: (bump)
It isn’t your fault. No, you’re just walking to class, and you’re innocent. You did all your reading. You double-knotted your shoes today. You even tucked your shirt in. You know, that shirt that doesn’t even really need to be tucked in if you’re feeling especially casual, but you did anyway. You didn’t ask for your happiness to be wrenched from underneath your neatly-ironed chest pocket. Yet, there’s Steve, a stranger in a red flannel shirt and skinny jeans, strolling right toward you, oblivious of his impending collision course.
There’s a thought process here. My first strategy is to call the other person’s bluff. Walk straight, they’ll realize what’s up and move deftly to the side. After all, you’re sort of on the right side of the sidewalk, and that’s how cars work, right? This strategy is made possible by a curious mix of fear and pride. There’s certainly no way I’m moving out of the way first. Whether that’s because I have too much dignity or a complete inability to resolve minor conflicts, I’ll never know.
Eventually the inevitable occurs. Nothing.
Nothing occurs, and it becomes obvious Oncoming Steve over there is equally conscious of the rising issue. By now he’s only about 12 feet away and approaching fast. From there it’s a series of desperate attempts to communicate telepathically and resolve the crisis with minimal actual movement. I study Steve’s face carefully, trying to read his eyes for his next move. I study his hips like I was taught as a sixth grade football cornerback, just in case he tries to juke me. I sort of hope he does.
The moment of truth arrives at about the 8-foot distance. Decisions need to be made here, or I face becoming the laughingstock of the entire sidewalk from here all the way to that big tree over there. I don’t want that. I look into Steve’s eyes. He’s afraid, too. He knows the stakes. With a reassuring smile I let him know everything’s going to be okay. Of course, I’ve no way of knowing, but Steve looks like a nice kid, and I’m sure he has dreams of his own. With a sharp intake of breath, I bite the bullet and veer slightly to my right. So does Steve. Oh god no. It seems he and I are of tragically similar mindsets. With only one more step to go, I make an emergency change in trajectory. I awkwardly swing my leg around and turn back around to the left. So does Steve. Oh god no. With a dull, unenthusiastic bump we lightly collide, mutter apologies and carry on with our heads down. The day is lost.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Buried Treasure
He opened his eyes.
Or, at least, he thought he did. Everything was just as dark as when he had them closed. He had no idea where he was.
A moment of panic gripped him. He couldn't move. A million thoughts flashed through his mind all at once. Was he paralyzed? If so, how had that happened? Why couldn't he see? Was he blind?
He forced himself to calm down. He needed to think. Ok, that's better. Good. Slowly, purposefully, he tried to lift his arm. No good. He wasn't paralyzed though. His arm had strained, it just hadn't go anywhere. He felt resistance on his wrists. What could that mean? Must be tied up. But why was he tied up? What was going on? Who had done this to him?
He struggled mentally for a moment to bring himself back under control. This wasn't getting him anywhere. What he needed now was to get himself out of this place. He might not know where it was, but he sure didn't like it, and he didn't want to be there any longer than he had to be.
As his eyes began to adjust, he started taking in his surroundings. There wasn't much to it. His sight only extended a few inches in any direction. Why was that? He tried to wiggle around a bit to see if he could gain a better vantage point. No luck. He immediately hit a wall. Same thing in the other direction. He abruptly tried to sit up and smashed his head into something hard.
He was in some sort of box. He was pretty sure of it now. He rubbed his skin against the "wall" he had just bumped into. Wood. Smooth wood, with a finish, not construction material type wood.
A coffin. Now he was freaking out again. He was in a coffin. Few things could be this terrifying and macabre. He thrashed about, throwing himself against the wooden tomb, but to no avail. He collapsed, panting. It was becoming harder to breathe. He was running out of air.
He felt pain in his wrists and a moist feeling running down his arms. The enclosed space began to smell slightly metallic. Blood. He must have rubbed his wrists raw in his little fit of panic. He was getting very frustrated with himself now.
Wait. Something sharp in his pocket jabbed him in the side. He wiggled his way into a position where he could grab it. He cupped it in his bound hands and felt his way around its edges. It was cross shaped.
He knew what it was. It must be the cross necklace that his wife had given him as a gift last Christmas. He didn't really believe in God and thought it was silly, so he had never worn it. But he loved her and it reminded him of her, so he had always kept it in his pocket.
Bringing it up to his mouth, he put it between his teeth and bit it. It was made of metal of some sort, tough but a bit malleable. A plan started to formulate in his mind. Yes, he just might be able to find a way out of this predicament after all.
One step at a time. He began to bite the necklace along the side, whittling it to as sharp an edge as he could hope to achieve. It wasn't easy, and on more than one occasional he would slip up and cut his gums. The ensuing blood only made the work more difficult, but he had no choice but to keep on trying. He was running out of time.
When he sharpened the edge to satisfaction, he transferred the necklace back to his hands. Slowly, painstakingly, he began to move it back and force against his bonds. If he dropped the necklace, who knows how long it would take for him to find it again and be able to contort himself into a position to pick it up? He didn't have time for that.
He continued on like this for minutes, minutes that felt like hours until finally his hands were free.He almost cried with relief. Kissing the necklace, he gingerly placed it back in his pocket. If God was real, he would have to thank Him later and hope He could forgive him for defiling a sacred symbol.
With his hands free, he was now able to try and remove the lid. He fumbled around for the edges until his fingers found them. He traced all along them, looking for some sort of hold he could gain leverage from. Bingo. In the back corner near his head, there was a slight gap where the lid met the main body of the coffin. He attributed to shoddy workmanship on the coffin-maker's part. Figures. They couldn't even leave him to die in a decent coffin.
What was he even saying? He should be thankful for this chance, and here he was whining about craftsmanship. He must be losing his mind. With a great force of effort, he refocused.
Wedging his hands in the gap, he grabbed onto the lid and pulled with all his might. Sweat formed on his brow as he strained, and slowly the lid shifted a bit. As it did, dirt fell into the coffin.
So he was buried alive.
He was beyond being afraid now. At least now he knew what he needed to do. All that stood between him and freedom was some dirt.
He made himself think happy thoughts. He was an adventurer, and he was simply searching for riches. This would just be an archeological dig, but in the opposite direction. Right? No big deal. He could do this. He took a deep breath, pulled the lid back a little more, and started digging.
The sun was his buried treasure, and he would reach it no matter what.
-Brian
Or, at least, he thought he did. Everything was just as dark as when he had them closed. He had no idea where he was.
A moment of panic gripped him. He couldn't move. A million thoughts flashed through his mind all at once. Was he paralyzed? If so, how had that happened? Why couldn't he see? Was he blind?
He forced himself to calm down. He needed to think. Ok, that's better. Good. Slowly, purposefully, he tried to lift his arm. No good. He wasn't paralyzed though. His arm had strained, it just hadn't go anywhere. He felt resistance on his wrists. What could that mean? Must be tied up. But why was he tied up? What was going on? Who had done this to him?
He struggled mentally for a moment to bring himself back under control. This wasn't getting him anywhere. What he needed now was to get himself out of this place. He might not know where it was, but he sure didn't like it, and he didn't want to be there any longer than he had to be.
As his eyes began to adjust, he started taking in his surroundings. There wasn't much to it. His sight only extended a few inches in any direction. Why was that? He tried to wiggle around a bit to see if he could gain a better vantage point. No luck. He immediately hit a wall. Same thing in the other direction. He abruptly tried to sit up and smashed his head into something hard.
He was in some sort of box. He was pretty sure of it now. He rubbed his skin against the "wall" he had just bumped into. Wood. Smooth wood, with a finish, not construction material type wood.
A coffin. Now he was freaking out again. He was in a coffin. Few things could be this terrifying and macabre. He thrashed about, throwing himself against the wooden tomb, but to no avail. He collapsed, panting. It was becoming harder to breathe. He was running out of air.
He felt pain in his wrists and a moist feeling running down his arms. The enclosed space began to smell slightly metallic. Blood. He must have rubbed his wrists raw in his little fit of panic. He was getting very frustrated with himself now.
Wait. Something sharp in his pocket jabbed him in the side. He wiggled his way into a position where he could grab it. He cupped it in his bound hands and felt his way around its edges. It was cross shaped.
He knew what it was. It must be the cross necklace that his wife had given him as a gift last Christmas. He didn't really believe in God and thought it was silly, so he had never worn it. But he loved her and it reminded him of her, so he had always kept it in his pocket.
Bringing it up to his mouth, he put it between his teeth and bit it. It was made of metal of some sort, tough but a bit malleable. A plan started to formulate in his mind. Yes, he just might be able to find a way out of this predicament after all.
One step at a time. He began to bite the necklace along the side, whittling it to as sharp an edge as he could hope to achieve. It wasn't easy, and on more than one occasional he would slip up and cut his gums. The ensuing blood only made the work more difficult, but he had no choice but to keep on trying. He was running out of time.
When he sharpened the edge to satisfaction, he transferred the necklace back to his hands. Slowly, painstakingly, he began to move it back and force against his bonds. If he dropped the necklace, who knows how long it would take for him to find it again and be able to contort himself into a position to pick it up? He didn't have time for that.
He continued on like this for minutes, minutes that felt like hours until finally his hands were free.He almost cried with relief. Kissing the necklace, he gingerly placed it back in his pocket. If God was real, he would have to thank Him later and hope He could forgive him for defiling a sacred symbol.
With his hands free, he was now able to try and remove the lid. He fumbled around for the edges until his fingers found them. He traced all along them, looking for some sort of hold he could gain leverage from. Bingo. In the back corner near his head, there was a slight gap where the lid met the main body of the coffin. He attributed to shoddy workmanship on the coffin-maker's part. Figures. They couldn't even leave him to die in a decent coffin.
What was he even saying? He should be thankful for this chance, and here he was whining about craftsmanship. He must be losing his mind. With a great force of effort, he refocused.
Wedging his hands in the gap, he grabbed onto the lid and pulled with all his might. Sweat formed on his brow as he strained, and slowly the lid shifted a bit. As it did, dirt fell into the coffin.
So he was buried alive.
He was beyond being afraid now. At least now he knew what he needed to do. All that stood between him and freedom was some dirt.
He made himself think happy thoughts. He was an adventurer, and he was simply searching for riches. This would just be an archeological dig, but in the opposite direction. Right? No big deal. He could do this. He took a deep breath, pulled the lid back a little more, and started digging.
The sun was his buried treasure, and he would reach it no matter what.
-Brian
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Not getting it
I've never been much of a jumper. I find my expertise is in making my way through large crowds. I'm thin, pushy and assertive, but not very springy. When I'm in a good mood, I feel I can jump higher. When I'm alone and stressed, my viscosity lowers and my ability to traverse large crowds is increased. I would consider these two attributes of equal importance.
The University of Illinois is a big place. Its sprawling campus is home to more worker-bee students than, I would think, any other university in the state. There are loads of crowds here. As a journalism major, I work in a competitive field. You can't just "take one for the team" and become a sports journalist. You have to work your ass off relative to everyone else working their ass off. You have to be a talented writer, you have to wisely discern turning points in games and know what questions to ask without making the rest of the lodge brothers look bad.
I first picked up the Daily Illini during a visit in my senior year of high school. I looked at the sports section (such was habit with newspapers since childhood) and read a column on Steve Nash. I liked it, but thought of some things that I would have done differently, which I thought were better. And I thought it'd be really cool to write for the paper. If I could get in to U of I, man, it'd be fun to see my face in print. Turns out I could get into U of I. It'd be fun to see my face in print.
Fast forward to freshman year, and I find the Daily Illini is actually quite an accessible organization. They take me in; my editor, Alex Iniguez, seems pretty nice. I get assigned a club sports beat and wait for further direction. I end up waiting quite a while, until October, when Alex floats me and the other two club sports writers a story idea with the plea "Please somebody do this story." I grabbed it, because it was underwater hockey, and I held my breath and dove in. I remember frequently corresponding with Alex, checking all my steps. Interviews? Practices? Length? Story tone? Whatever. Pictures? Pictures? Pictures? (I finally took the pictures.) And I came in with a story that I heard was hyperbolically called "the best first story ever." Which I basically still pride myself on today, sadly enough.
Alex worked with me to try and get me to a more prominent beat as club sports continued to dawdle. He was going to put me on hockey, then opted out of an additional hockey writer. He offered me women's gymnastics, and I opted for a column, showing this blog to him as a testament to my rambling abilities.
But I wanted to do more, and about this time last year, Alex and I talked and he convinced me to apply for assistant sports editor. Seeing as how I was the only willing applicant, I got the position and got myself in the newsroom. They convinced Jeff Kirshman, a sophomore, to take on the position as well. Assistant editors typically go on to become desk editors. The task was incredibly daunting at the time, but I knew there was a year before I'd have to be ready.
Amazingly, that year has come and gone. I've worked five days a week during the school year at the DI, critiquing stories, improving them, learning A.P. style, mingling with Jeff and the features desk, taking pointers from current editor Kevin Kaplan, seeing really good stories, seeing really bad stories. I've learned a lot. I've grown a lot.
At a certain point, you rise to the surface, or you make a leap to it. Or you sink. The more I filled in for Kaplan whenever he'd sparingly miss days, I grew in my confidence. If I could become sports editor my junior year, my senior year I'd have my pick of the litter. Jeff had told me with confidence that he didn't want to apply for sports editor. He had had enough of living at the DI and wanted to report again. After all, reporting is better for a resume.
I began using the words "heir apparent." They fit me.
Jeff and I's last day as true peers — before the word came down and the "apparent" half of the phrase could be dropped — we worked as well with each other as we had over the past year. Kaplan missed due to potential pink eye, and we ran the ship like two competent assistants would. The internet going down for two hours didn't stop us. We accessed facts that our reporters failed to find. We made sure everything was handed to the design desk on time. We had gone to news conference together, figured out what to play up through discourse, we stayed late, we watched the end of the NBA All-Star game, we finished the day together. I was exhausted. Too drained for drinks that night. Maybe another time, Jeff. It wouldn't be weird to ask. We had become friends through this job we loved and maligned.
The position of sports editor is a high-up one on the paper. The highest I care to go, really. I was coming into it like I had come into assistant editor, floating up through the mass of more qualified people per pointers from those I respect. Fifteen hours before the application deadline, Jeff had let me know he had a 180 degree shift of mind and was applying for sports editor.
Admitting you're flustered is rare — typically by the time you realize you were flustered, the damage has already been done. But Jeff's decision to apply flustered me, in an utterly fair way. I thought back to my application, which I had filled out in a more casual state of mind. I thought of new questions I'd have to answer, questions I hadn't been thinking of answers to for weeks. I went from needing an inductive appeal to needing to elicit deductive favor. My "good enough" wouldn't allow me a chance. I had seen a crack, and tried to fit through it. But no, this wasn't going to work that way. The bar had been raised, and now I had to leap.
Jeff had said earlier in the year, in a matter-of-fact way, "If I apply, they'll pick me over you." Fair, I thought. He has a year on me, a year which he used to cover varsity sports, and other than that Jeff and I were utterly equal in the eyes of superiors. Things had changed now, though. I had impressed people. I had stepped up in times of need, and I had showed confidence. I was heir apparent, and no one shuddered at that.
Getting off the elevator on the third floor of the Illini Media building (the newsroom) for my interview, I was met, as the doors slid open, by Jeff. Damn it, he had worn a tie. I high-fived him/shook his hand. "Tag out," I joked, with a hint of nerve. I asked Jeff if he wanted to have a few drinks later. It would be a night for celebration — one of us was going to be editor, and the other would no longer have to be assistant. He accepted. The interview itself went well. Everyone in the room knew I could do the job. They asked me questions, and I answered some better than others. Nothing to do now but work and wait.
Nathaniel Lash, newly anointed managing editor, was the one who called me with the verdict. I was walking home, and had taken a detour so that I'd get the call outside, by myself. He apologized for an awkward miscommunication from earlier, and I could tell by his tone of voice there were more apologies to come. I understood immediately their decision to go with Jeff. That night had reassured me that either of us could do it, and it was cool having a chance to work with Jeff for a night in what was essentially a co-editing role, no assistance necessary. Nathaniel kept spoon-feeding me compliments after he told me the decision, and I kept chewing and swallowing them, because it seemed like a practical thing to do. When the conversation had lasted long enough, Nathaniel offered a final thanks, apology and compliment, and I hung up. I let the moment hang in the cool night air for a bit before putting my headphones back on. My iPod had kept me good company throughout the process.
For me, deferment means a new era and a new field. After spring break, I will begin reporting on the school's baseball team. I'm still planning on spending the summer here in Champaign, and hell, living with Jeff if possible. It's something that leaves plenty of room for opportunity, and brings about a little less stress to boot. I don't know for sure what I want to do next year, but I have a few ideas. And though I really, truly saw myself in that newsroom, working under Sammie, alongside Nathaniel and Taylor, with Jeff coming into me for edits and not the other way around, my time as sports editor will have to wait. And if I spend my time working out my reporting muscles, I'll be ready to jump when the time comes around again.
For now, I'll have to pocket my editor jokes, my meeting ideas, my editor fantasies, and my ideas for beat assignments for another year. It's a disappointing feeling. I lost, when I really thought I wasn't going to have to compete. I'm happy for Jeff, though. It's a challenge to me — earn my chops reporting, then I get another crack at the editor's chair.
It's important not to let go of failures like these — it's important to take them with you. I applied myself, and someone else applied themselves more successfully. And while it's hard to remember that you're not supposed to let your head hang, it's easy to remember that you're supposed to pick your head back up, look forward, and go somewhere.
Jeff, I'm happy for you. I think you made the right decision, potentially for both of us.
--Eliot Sill
The University of Illinois is a big place. Its sprawling campus is home to more worker-bee students than, I would think, any other university in the state. There are loads of crowds here. As a journalism major, I work in a competitive field. You can't just "take one for the team" and become a sports journalist. You have to work your ass off relative to everyone else working their ass off. You have to be a talented writer, you have to wisely discern turning points in games and know what questions to ask without making the rest of the lodge brothers look bad.
I first picked up the Daily Illini during a visit in my senior year of high school. I looked at the sports section (such was habit with newspapers since childhood) and read a column on Steve Nash. I liked it, but thought of some things that I would have done differently, which I thought were better. And I thought it'd be really cool to write for the paper. If I could get in to U of I, man, it'd be fun to see my face in print. Turns out I could get into U of I. It'd be fun to see my face in print.
Fast forward to freshman year, and I find the Daily Illini is actually quite an accessible organization. They take me in; my editor, Alex Iniguez, seems pretty nice. I get assigned a club sports beat and wait for further direction. I end up waiting quite a while, until October, when Alex floats me and the other two club sports writers a story idea with the plea "Please somebody do this story." I grabbed it, because it was underwater hockey, and I held my breath and dove in. I remember frequently corresponding with Alex, checking all my steps. Interviews? Practices? Length? Story tone? Whatever. Pictures? Pictures? Pictures? (I finally took the pictures.) And I came in with a story that I heard was hyperbolically called "the best first story ever." Which I basically still pride myself on today, sadly enough.
Alex worked with me to try and get me to a more prominent beat as club sports continued to dawdle. He was going to put me on hockey, then opted out of an additional hockey writer. He offered me women's gymnastics, and I opted for a column, showing this blog to him as a testament to my rambling abilities.
But I wanted to do more, and about this time last year, Alex and I talked and he convinced me to apply for assistant sports editor. Seeing as how I was the only willing applicant, I got the position and got myself in the newsroom. They convinced Jeff Kirshman, a sophomore, to take on the position as well. Assistant editors typically go on to become desk editors. The task was incredibly daunting at the time, but I knew there was a year before I'd have to be ready.
Amazingly, that year has come and gone. I've worked five days a week during the school year at the DI, critiquing stories, improving them, learning A.P. style, mingling with Jeff and the features desk, taking pointers from current editor Kevin Kaplan, seeing really good stories, seeing really bad stories. I've learned a lot. I've grown a lot.
At a certain point, you rise to the surface, or you make a leap to it. Or you sink. The more I filled in for Kaplan whenever he'd sparingly miss days, I grew in my confidence. If I could become sports editor my junior year, my senior year I'd have my pick of the litter. Jeff had told me with confidence that he didn't want to apply for sports editor. He had had enough of living at the DI and wanted to report again. After all, reporting is better for a resume.
I began using the words "heir apparent." They fit me.
Jeff and I's last day as true peers — before the word came down and the "apparent" half of the phrase could be dropped — we worked as well with each other as we had over the past year. Kaplan missed due to potential pink eye, and we ran the ship like two competent assistants would. The internet going down for two hours didn't stop us. We accessed facts that our reporters failed to find. We made sure everything was handed to the design desk on time. We had gone to news conference together, figured out what to play up through discourse, we stayed late, we watched the end of the NBA All-Star game, we finished the day together. I was exhausted. Too drained for drinks that night. Maybe another time, Jeff. It wouldn't be weird to ask. We had become friends through this job we loved and maligned.
The position of sports editor is a high-up one on the paper. The highest I care to go, really. I was coming into it like I had come into assistant editor, floating up through the mass of more qualified people per pointers from those I respect. Fifteen hours before the application deadline, Jeff had let me know he had a 180 degree shift of mind and was applying for sports editor.
Admitting you're flustered is rare — typically by the time you realize you were flustered, the damage has already been done. But Jeff's decision to apply flustered me, in an utterly fair way. I thought back to my application, which I had filled out in a more casual state of mind. I thought of new questions I'd have to answer, questions I hadn't been thinking of answers to for weeks. I went from needing an inductive appeal to needing to elicit deductive favor. My "good enough" wouldn't allow me a chance. I had seen a crack, and tried to fit through it. But no, this wasn't going to work that way. The bar had been raised, and now I had to leap.
Jeff had said earlier in the year, in a matter-of-fact way, "If I apply, they'll pick me over you." Fair, I thought. He has a year on me, a year which he used to cover varsity sports, and other than that Jeff and I were utterly equal in the eyes of superiors. Things had changed now, though. I had impressed people. I had stepped up in times of need, and I had showed confidence. I was heir apparent, and no one shuddered at that.
Getting off the elevator on the third floor of the Illini Media building (the newsroom) for my interview, I was met, as the doors slid open, by Jeff. Damn it, he had worn a tie. I high-fived him/shook his hand. "Tag out," I joked, with a hint of nerve. I asked Jeff if he wanted to have a few drinks later. It would be a night for celebration — one of us was going to be editor, and the other would no longer have to be assistant. He accepted. The interview itself went well. Everyone in the room knew I could do the job. They asked me questions, and I answered some better than others. Nothing to do now but work and wait.
Nathaniel Lash, newly anointed managing editor, was the one who called me with the verdict. I was walking home, and had taken a detour so that I'd get the call outside, by myself. He apologized for an awkward miscommunication from earlier, and I could tell by his tone of voice there were more apologies to come. I understood immediately their decision to go with Jeff. That night had reassured me that either of us could do it, and it was cool having a chance to work with Jeff for a night in what was essentially a co-editing role, no assistance necessary. Nathaniel kept spoon-feeding me compliments after he told me the decision, and I kept chewing and swallowing them, because it seemed like a practical thing to do. When the conversation had lasted long enough, Nathaniel offered a final thanks, apology and compliment, and I hung up. I let the moment hang in the cool night air for a bit before putting my headphones back on. My iPod had kept me good company throughout the process.
For me, deferment means a new era and a new field. After spring break, I will begin reporting on the school's baseball team. I'm still planning on spending the summer here in Champaign, and hell, living with Jeff if possible. It's something that leaves plenty of room for opportunity, and brings about a little less stress to boot. I don't know for sure what I want to do next year, but I have a few ideas. And though I really, truly saw myself in that newsroom, working under Sammie, alongside Nathaniel and Taylor, with Jeff coming into me for edits and not the other way around, my time as sports editor will have to wait. And if I spend my time working out my reporting muscles, I'll be ready to jump when the time comes around again.
For now, I'll have to pocket my editor jokes, my meeting ideas, my editor fantasies, and my ideas for beat assignments for another year. It's a disappointing feeling. I lost, when I really thought I wasn't going to have to compete. I'm happy for Jeff, though. It's a challenge to me — earn my chops reporting, then I get another crack at the editor's chair.
It's important not to let go of failures like these — it's important to take them with you. I applied myself, and someone else applied themselves more successfully. And while it's hard to remember that you're not supposed to let your head hang, it's easy to remember that you're supposed to pick your head back up, look forward, and go somewhere.
Jeff, I'm happy for you. I think you made the right decision, potentially for both of us.
--Eliot Sill
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Did I Just Have the Best Weekend Ever?
Yes.
I spent this weekend in Kiruna, Sweden. If you don't feel like looking at a map that's really far north. We're talking Lapland, the arctic circle, whatever you want to call it. Here are some highlights:
-Kiruna is obsessed with reindeer. I sat on top of or under a reindeer skin at least 4 separate times on my trip, I ate reindeer jerky and I ate a reindeer wrap. Families in the north herd these beasts and can have like 5,000 each.
-I took a ride in a one horse open sleigh. Literally. I sat under a reindeer skin in 5 degrees (fahrenheit) and rode through the woods on a sled being pulled by a north Swedish black horse named Rambo who was afraid of camera flashes. By the end he was sweating because 5 degrees is really hot for him. I also accidentally took a flash picture next to him because I'm an idiot and don't know how to work my camera but Rambo kept his cool.
-Kiruna has a hotel made of ice. Of course. Like literally the entire building is made of ice and snow. It includes rooms with reindeer skin covers (obviously), suites, an ice bar, a church and a reception desk. I got so cold taking pictures I can't even imagine trying to sleep there. It was sweet though, and those people can do insane things with ice.
-I went dog sledding. BOOM. Thought about Balto the entire time. It was just as cool as you would imagine. We rode across huge lakes and through woods and these dogs absolutely loved it. Halfway through our journey we stopped at what looked like a teepee (though that would probably be offensive to the lap-landers aka the Lappis) and our guide made coffee over a fire and told us all about the dogs. He said that they were the happiest dogs in the world because they are pack animals that love to run with their friends.
-The Northern Lights are possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. When they first start you think they might just be a cloud and that you're just imagining them, but then you realize that clouds aren't green and they don't grow and swirl and stretch. The first time I got to see them was just by happenstance when my roommate stepped outside and started freaking out for us to come look. Seeing the lights stretch across the sky after hearing so much about them and never really believing that this phenomenon could be real actually made my tear up a little. And I'm only a little ashamed by that.
-Kiruna is so far removed from anything I've ever known. It really does feel like you're on top of the world. Standing out on a frozen lake with miles of white and sunshine and trees and hills and not a sign of modernity in sight. In "town", everything closes at like 4pm, nothing is open on Sunday and there are approximately 2 cab drivers for the whole area. We had to book cabs hours in advance if we wanted to go anywhere. Kiruna has over a month of complete darkness in the winter and over a month of complete light in summer. They also have snow the entire year except July. Despite having only about 25,000 people, Kiruna is about as big as Mexico city, As one of the guide's put it: "we've all got a lot of space to live up here."
-I'm not the only one who's fascinated by this alien community. The horses of Kiruna, the dogsledding in Kiruna and the city itself have all been featured on multiple discovery channel shows and similar things. Plus they get tons of tourists (like myself) visitng every year. It's like these people are just living their weird, secluded, reindeer filled lives and people keep showing up like, "Holy crap, this is so cool! You live here? Lemme hang??"
- I also got to bond with one of the coolest girls my sister was friends with in high school (who I've always been intimidated by), a tiny Indian man, a ridiculous British guy and an Iranian girl who knows three languages better than I know one.
This trip was far more expensive than any other trip I've taken or am planning to take while in Europe but I have to say, it was worth it. Lapland is a magical place that hardly seems real even if you've been there.
-Mada
I spent this weekend in Kiruna, Sweden. If you don't feel like looking at a map that's really far north. We're talking Lapland, the arctic circle, whatever you want to call it. Here are some highlights:
-Kiruna is obsessed with reindeer. I sat on top of or under a reindeer skin at least 4 separate times on my trip, I ate reindeer jerky and I ate a reindeer wrap. Families in the north herd these beasts and can have like 5,000 each.
-I took a ride in a one horse open sleigh. Literally. I sat under a reindeer skin in 5 degrees (fahrenheit) and rode through the woods on a sled being pulled by a north Swedish black horse named Rambo who was afraid of camera flashes. By the end he was sweating because 5 degrees is really hot for him. I also accidentally took a flash picture next to him because I'm an idiot and don't know how to work my camera but Rambo kept his cool.
-Kiruna has a hotel made of ice. Of course. Like literally the entire building is made of ice and snow. It includes rooms with reindeer skin covers (obviously), suites, an ice bar, a church and a reception desk. I got so cold taking pictures I can't even imagine trying to sleep there. It was sweet though, and those people can do insane things with ice.
-I went dog sledding. BOOM. Thought about Balto the entire time. It was just as cool as you would imagine. We rode across huge lakes and through woods and these dogs absolutely loved it. Halfway through our journey we stopped at what looked like a teepee (though that would probably be offensive to the lap-landers aka the Lappis) and our guide made coffee over a fire and told us all about the dogs. He said that they were the happiest dogs in the world because they are pack animals that love to run with their friends.
-The Northern Lights are possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. When they first start you think they might just be a cloud and that you're just imagining them, but then you realize that clouds aren't green and they don't grow and swirl and stretch. The first time I got to see them was just by happenstance when my roommate stepped outside and started freaking out for us to come look. Seeing the lights stretch across the sky after hearing so much about them and never really believing that this phenomenon could be real actually made my tear up a little. And I'm only a little ashamed by that.
-Kiruna is so far removed from anything I've ever known. It really does feel like you're on top of the world. Standing out on a frozen lake with miles of white and sunshine and trees and hills and not a sign of modernity in sight. In "town", everything closes at like 4pm, nothing is open on Sunday and there are approximately 2 cab drivers for the whole area. We had to book cabs hours in advance if we wanted to go anywhere. Kiruna has over a month of complete darkness in the winter and over a month of complete light in summer. They also have snow the entire year except July. Despite having only about 25,000 people, Kiruna is about as big as Mexico city, As one of the guide's put it: "we've all got a lot of space to live up here."
-I'm not the only one who's fascinated by this alien community. The horses of Kiruna, the dogsledding in Kiruna and the city itself have all been featured on multiple discovery channel shows and similar things. Plus they get tons of tourists (like myself) visitng every year. It's like these people are just living their weird, secluded, reindeer filled lives and people keep showing up like, "Holy crap, this is so cool! You live here? Lemme hang??"
- I also got to bond with one of the coolest girls my sister was friends with in high school (who I've always been intimidated by), a tiny Indian man, a ridiculous British guy and an Iranian girl who knows three languages better than I know one.
This trip was far more expensive than any other trip I've taken or am planning to take while in Europe but I have to say, it was worth it. Lapland is a magical place that hardly seems real even if you've been there.
-Mada
Monday, February 27, 2012
Nick - Well Let Me Tell You
My watch is pretty cool, if I do say so myself.
It's so cool, in fact, that I get a lot of comments on it. People frequently ask me where I got it. If I were a normal person, I would tell them.
But alas, of the many things I am, normal is not one of them.
So here are a few of the different ways I got this watch. I think all of these stories are believed by someone somewhere.
I get stronger with every lie I tell.
-Nick.
 |
| Watch and sea. |
But alas, of the many things I am, normal is not one of them.
So here are a few of the different ways I got this watch. I think all of these stories are believed by someone somewhere.
- My dad wrote an article for the State Journal-Register back when he was a business columnist. He wrote about a piece about local businesses including a medium sized watch shop, and the article won an award for journalistic excellence in local reporting. A number of the businesses featured in the article sent my dad gifts after the article won the award, and this particular watch shop invited us to come in for a tour. I got the watch there.
- My grandfather worked at an Italian watch factory when he was a kid growing up in Sicily. He stole the watch thinking it was worth a lot of money, but it turned out to not be worth much of anything. So he stole a more expensive watch and I ended up with this one.
- My high school engineering club, of which I was a member, entered a national product design competition. We designed a really shitty watch, and we didn't make it past our regional. By sheer happenstance, the team that won the nationals also designed a watch, and, as per the terms of the competition, their design actually got manufactured. The education nonprofit running the competition sent all the team captains a copy of the watch that won as a participation prize.
- My friend Robert and I were at the mall in Springfield when we saw in one of those claw-grabber thingies a copy of The Hunchback Of Notre Dame 2. Robert, who is a sarcastic bastard, had been making fun of my terrible taste in movies all day and quickly offered to win it for me. I told him to go ahead, and, neither one of us willing to back down at this point, he puts in a quarter and tries to grab the DVD. Instead, he accidentally grabs the coolest watch ever. As per the terms of our agreement, I insisted that the watch belonged to me. I payed him back his quarter.
- My grandfather worked at an Italian watch factory when he was a kid growing up in Sicily. It was about a mile from where he lived, and he walked there every day. However, he stopped working there when his mother got a job and was able to send him to school. Years later, when he was almost 17, he heard that the watch factory had burned down in a terrible fire. He walked over to see the damage, and amongst the partially-standing remains of the building, he found a glass case of prototype watches. He gave me and my brother each one, and he has fourteen more, all way cooler than mine.
I get stronger with every lie I tell.
-Nick.
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