Spoiler. Alert.
I loved it, first of all. I am a full-on Batman fan. Not the biggest one, but a true one. This movie appealed to me. The movie has brought about buzz for a number of reasons: plotholes, length, telegraphed twists, larger picture statements and more plotholes.
I was afraid that this Batman wouldn't be the perfect idyllic conclusion we all assumed Nolan would deliver. As more audiences saw it and grew to have opinions on it, conversations escalated to debates, to arguments, to achieve the polarization we sit at now in the response to the film. But I think in the end, it is not what this movie was about overall or the hidden subtexts, it's what this movie caused that we will remember.
A week ago, I had not seen The Dark Knight Rises. The following ideas did not exist in my universe:
Anne Hathaway as a damn good "cat" burglar.
A broken back healing in 5 months.
John Blake, a Batman named Robin, or what the hell Joseph Gordon-Levitt's character was going to be.
A Batman saga without the Joker.
The Bane voice.
Dun, dun, dun-dun, dun-dun, (repeat).
Gotham City facing a nuclear bomb threat.
This critical, cynical, dare I say why-so-serious backlash to the film.
Do you remember people poking so many holes in The Avengers? It's insane to think the Avengers didn't have anything to "live up to" in the way that TDKR did. The Avengers was teased at in like, six movies over five years. Yet the plotholes aren't so magnified in what is looked at as more of a joyride than an Oscar prospect.
Nolan's Batman began with Begins. It presented a fresh believable superhero world, with a couple military technology-related leaps of faith (such as those of the Tumbler from rooftop to rooftop). The movie was a quiet killer. Shows no caution in presenting a full-on origin story without pulling any punches, and clocked in at 2 hours, 20 minutes.
The series continued with The Dark Knight, which brought a reimagined Joker into the fray, included modest upgrades in technology from Begins, and took superhero films to a new level. Heath Ledger didn't merely portray a comic book character, he acted the shit out the Joker. And his death nearly derailed the series. In fact, why didn't it derail the series? Had it been Christian Bale and not Heath Ledger that died, this series would have ended. It would have been impossible to continue the story without Batman.
As it stands, and so many people forget, it was near impossible to continue the story without the Joker. Yet, dimming the bright light shining upon Nolan's artistic control of the series, the American public demanded that the show go on. Nolan obliged, per his large sack of change and promise of more millions.
Chris called his brother John, and together they attempted to put together a new image from the puzzle pieces that remained. As it turned out, there were plenty of ends to tie up.
Shocked, we should be, that they sniped every hanging thread from the two previous movies — except one, obviously, being that of Ledger's Joker. A dead elephant in a room full of people who claim to be snubbing their noses at something else. This was not Nolan's baby. This was his adopted child.
"This is a time bomb story," one critic wrote, as if he had left the showing when he found this out, deeming it thusly unworthy.
Others didn't like the film's tone, which means absolutely nothing if you think about it. "It hasn't earned its darkness," said a Rotten Tomatoes top critic. In essence, his complaint is that since this movie lacks the Joker, and instead has a more practical superstrong warlord as its antagonist, it is not allowed to be as frightening.What he wishes, is that Nolan submit to the idea that the Joker was the only way to achieve a level of darkness, and that sans Joker, the film has to be less threatening. The point of this movie is that things can still happen without the Joker. Darkness can endure. Havoc can be wrought. The stakes can be raised.
"The 9/11 subtext is more explicit than ever here," wrote CNN's reviewer, of course. Superheroes needed to prevent catastrophic genocidal plots before 9/11, you know. If there's an attack on Gotham City (or New York, Spiderman) in a superhero movie, it's probably because it's a superhero movie, not because of Osama bin Laden.
"Bane’s intentions with regard to Gotham and its protector go from
uncertain to outright contradictory over the course of the film, with
the character flip-flopping between a desire to empower Gotham’s
populace (at times seeming like the spokesperson for the real-world
Occupy movement) and an urge to obliterate every living person in the
city." - A critic who didn't get it. Bane explicitly told an imprisoned Bruce Wayne that he was going to destroy Gotham, but give it hope at first that it could survive (so long as no one crosses that fucking bridge).
The reputation of realism that precedes this film is the bane of its critical interpretation. This movie is just as fun as The Avengers. Except you have your fun in the villain's successes as much as the protagonist's rise to stop them. The bigger the wave, the more awesome the surf. For instance, it is when The Joker blows up a hospital that The Dark Knight goes from good to great. In Bane, people are expecting a step down in scale, I guess? Bane blows up a football stadium, and does it a hell of a lot more credibly than Joker sneaking in barrels and barrels of explosives to a hospital. No one cares that Bane's blast was bigger and more realistic than the clown's, because they miss the clown, and he's the best.
A lot of criticism has been lobbed at the lack of actual Batman in the film as well. The movie is called The Dark Knight Rises, so I don't think that leaves room to complain of his precursory downfall. The point is to see what happens when Batman is incapacitated. See how much Gotham City needs Batman. They hadn't needed him for eight years. Batman had won his war. Batman leaves Gotham after the first stroke of Bane's revolutionary decree is made, and comes back 18 hours before his initiated and carried-out plan is complete. It is essential that Batman be gone this long, so that the problem can loom so large and ending need to be executed so hastily.
Then there's the 15 botherances posted by /Film:
1. How does Bane know who Batman is? You answered it yourself. He found out because of his longstanding affiliation with Talia Al Ghul and the League of Shadows.
2. How does Blake know who Batman is? Nolan paints Wayne's playboy personality, but doesn't focus on it enough for people to get this: there's no fucking way Bruce Wayne would be Batman. Blake sees through this mask Wayne wears because he knows how it is able to be concocted. Sometimes superheroes identities aren't known to the public. Prove that real life dictates otherwise, if you feel so empassioned.
3. Why does Batman fall and rise twice in the movie? Yeah, he faces multiple obstacles. What? I don't even.
4. Alfred's goodbye scene wasn't good enough. This happened. Sorry you wanted it to be more cinematic.
5. Why didn't the SEC void the trades Bane made? "Long term we'll be able to prove fraud." -Lucius Fox. But seeing as the trades were made by Bruce Wayne's fingerprints. They are temporarily true. Bane wasn't trying to bankrupt Wayne for the future, just temporarily and to give control to Dagget. Almost.
6. Why did Bruce and Miranda Tate do it? Talia wanted to infiltrate Bruce Wayne's privacy. And she's fucking hot. That's how it happened.
7. Why did Batman take time to make that burning batsymbol? It was a rallying cry heard by the entire city, a burning beacon of hope. Instrumental in mobilizing the police force against Bane's gang. (LOL Banegang.) Also it was awesome, so shut up.
8. Why did Bruce Wayne stop doing background checks (on Kyle and Tate, specifically)? Why would this bother you? Why do you care? And he's been out of the game for eight years and been without enemies.
9. Why did Bane fly with Batman to the pit? Because Batman is the single most important element of resistance against his plan, and worthy of his concern.
10. How did Bruce Wayne get back home in days with no resources or money? He had a month and he's resourceful. Also it's a movie. He figured it out. Calm down.
11. Why does the prison exist in the way that it does? The prison is an awesome idea.
12. Gotham post-Bane revolution wasn't realistic enough? Compared to what?
13. Were the GCPD and CIA really that stupid? Yes, I guess they were.
14. The fighting sucked. I disagree.
15. Too much happened at the ending. It's a Nolan movie. Look at you talking about it though.
I think this movie wore on people due to its length, lack of the Joker, and outstanding preceding installments.
I think of it more as a connecting line. A conclusion to tie everything together. What would bring everything to a final resting place? And the result is more "does it do it?" than "what is done?" I think this movie did it. It tied it up. It solved the puzzle, missing Joker piece and all.
A lot went into this movie. The stakes were as high as could be. There were obstacles in making it work. Yet we found someone to break the Dark Knight. And he found a way to rise.
They passed the torch to JGL, and the future of the story is open for interpretation. The point is, Bruce Wayne is done. He killed his public self, but is still alive in Florence. There will be no sequel. But life goes on, as Bruce Wayne's end is not crime's end, and so the symbol must continue breathing.
Critics viewed this movie deductively. I think it was fucking great.
--Eliot Sill
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Nick - True Stories About Jellyfish, Part 1
For a three or four year period in my childhood, my family would rent a house and vacation in Seaside, Florida for a few days out of every year. It was a nice location, the beach being only a block away, and we would spend our time hanging out in the water and finding creatures.
I was probably about 10 years old the year that we saw the dolphins.
They were out a ways from the shore, and we could see their dorsal fins popping out of the water. Of course, the natural thing to do was for me to try and convince my dad to swim out there with me.
So we swam and we swam. Turns out the dolphins were quite a ways farther away than it had seemed from the shore. I got tired and my dad carried me on his shoulders. Finally, we started to close in on the dolphins.
Understand that, at this point, my dad is swimming with a large child on his shoulders at an incomprehensible distance from the shore. (I don't know how many or what fraction of a mile it was because I have no concept of distance in the ocean.) This is when we learn why the dolphins are out there in the first place.
Slowly at first, and then closing in before we could move, the water in front of us begins turning pinker and pinker, the bright color encroaching on our location.
"What's that, dad?" I ask.
Before he has time to answer, the shapeless pink mass reaches and surrounds us: jellyfish. Thousands of jellyfish. Square miles of jellyfish, so densely packed that they simply look like pink sea from above.
 |
| So densely packed that I couldn't find a comparable image on the internet. |
So my father, still holding me on his shoulders, swam through a swarm of jellyfish so densely packed that they rubbed against his skin on all sides for probably half an hour before clearing the gelatinous armada.
Not a one of them ever stung him, but imagine how horrible it would be to be stung by even one jellyfish at that distance from shore, let alone a whole fleet of them.
My dad said that they irritated his skin where he had just been brushing up against jellyfish for half an hour, but I think we got out of that one pretty lucky. Anybody else would have hurled me from their back and swam for their life.
Until next week,
-Nick.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
It's my birthday
After this post, Classic Brian will be a blog consisting of 620 published posts, 100 of which are tagged with my name, Eliot.
While it is unknown as to whether Nick or I have accumulated more blog posts over CB's existence (it's certainly turned into a two-man game of late), let's just pretend that I own the lion's share. If you were wondering whether I would mention this being Eliot post No. 100, I'm sorry to potentially disappoint you.
Today, just now in fact, I was at an ATM. The ATM has become a depressing place for me recently, as my lack of employment rings in louder and louder harmony to my dwindling funds. But I was taking out money today so that I could go to St. Louis and see The Dark Knight Rises in OMNImax, which I feel is the best way to format that word. As 6 o' clock approached and the store wherein I made my withdrawal reached its close, I staggered up to the ATM behind a middle-aged black lady.
She was sensibly dressed, wearing something of a gray and maroon full-length floral outfit. She was even wearing a sunhat. It suited her. As I stood behind her in line, she turned around and met my gaze for just nearly a brief second before turning back to the ATM, whether she bore a stern face or not, I did not know.
ATM etiquette is one of the most nominal and silly social norms of today. It's right up there with male bathroom etiquette in terms of unnecessary caution. But I am not fully educated on ATM etiquette, and began to question myself as to my standing position — was I too close? Did she distrust me? I don't know how to take advantage of a PIN number, unless I follow that person around until they inadvertently lose their debit card where I can easily retrieve it. Even then, she's a woman. Someone somewhere would probably track me down before too long if I was using a card belonging to Linda Johnson. Just like in the bathroom, if some guy sees your penis, keep in mind, he is still miles away from sucking that thing. You don't have to file assault charges quite yet.
Anyway, I was unsure if our gaze had been a infinitesimal signal of "back off" or merely an intersection of two careless people taking money out of their accounts to spend it and bring their net worth to a new, regrettable low. I stood back, and pretended to focus on a bronze floorpiece that commemorated the University of Illinois on "Agriculture and Science." The two subjects were imprinted in the circle on opposite pages of an open book. Agriculture was hyphenated, because it would be unrealistic if the word went across both pages. There were symbols surrounding the book, one a spade tucked into the earth, another a microscope, and a third appeared to be a agricultural AND scientific object, but I could make no mental connection as to what the piece actually was. I decided the bit of bronze floor was a shabby artifact, not vital to the University.
As I came to this conclusion, the black lady in front of me pulled away from the ATM muttering utterances I could not understand. Whether she was condemning me in a foreign language or rapping Lil Wayne lyrics under her breath, I could not tell. Then I looked at her hands, she had a lot of cash, and was organizing it. One of her bills had an approximate third of it torn off. She was talking about it, but again, I didn't know if she was inviting conversation or if she was ticked off at my intrusion. If she was mad, I feared, she would present me with of some of that patented black-lady sass (patented black-lady sass is preferable to stereotypical black-lady sass, I am hoping).
I resorted to my only plausibly safe recourse: the nervous but entirely audible laugh. She looked at me and, in agreement, shook her head. We were on the same team, I was almost sure of it.
"What?" I said, realizing that I hadn't heard her legitimately.
"One of my bills is torn in half," she said, content to have her complaint heard.
"Man."
And there it had went, by far the most efforted social interaction I had all day. For some reason, this felt like enough. Like just talking to that alone, middle-aged black lady was satisfactory to think "I talked to someone at the ATM today." For what it's worth, I think her 20 was still usable. I didn't mention that, however, because now she got to go inside the store and talk to a clerk about it, and that would be two conversations on this ever-wilder ATM quest. Tired, hot and full of a Buffalo Chicken footlong from Subway, I stepped up to the ATM, when it hit me.
I turned my head in her direction as she faded into the store.
"That's quite literally a rip-off," I said.
She stopped. "What?"
"I said, 'That's quite literally a rip-off.'"
"Ha ha ye-es," she replied with on-the-go humored enthusiasm.
I grinned alone in that lobby even as I threw away my receipt with depressing figure-based reality imprinted upon it. Out the door with $30 I went, and headed toward my still un-air-conditioned apartment. To tell the world of my brave adventure.
This glamorous life I have.
Here's to going for it when there's no reason not to, and in return receiving modest-but-positive results; the very essence of Classic Brian itself.
--Eliot Sill
While it is unknown as to whether Nick or I have accumulated more blog posts over CB's existence (it's certainly turned into a two-man game of late), let's just pretend that I own the lion's share. If you were wondering whether I would mention this being Eliot post No. 100, I'm sorry to potentially disappoint you.
Today, just now in fact, I was at an ATM. The ATM has become a depressing place for me recently, as my lack of employment rings in louder and louder harmony to my dwindling funds. But I was taking out money today so that I could go to St. Louis and see The Dark Knight Rises in OMNImax, which I feel is the best way to format that word. As 6 o' clock approached and the store wherein I made my withdrawal reached its close, I staggered up to the ATM behind a middle-aged black lady.
She was sensibly dressed, wearing something of a gray and maroon full-length floral outfit. She was even wearing a sunhat. It suited her. As I stood behind her in line, she turned around and met my gaze for just nearly a brief second before turning back to the ATM, whether she bore a stern face or not, I did not know.
ATM etiquette is one of the most nominal and silly social norms of today. It's right up there with male bathroom etiquette in terms of unnecessary caution. But I am not fully educated on ATM etiquette, and began to question myself as to my standing position — was I too close? Did she distrust me? I don't know how to take advantage of a PIN number, unless I follow that person around until they inadvertently lose their debit card where I can easily retrieve it. Even then, she's a woman. Someone somewhere would probably track me down before too long if I was using a card belonging to Linda Johnson. Just like in the bathroom, if some guy sees your penis, keep in mind, he is still miles away from sucking that thing. You don't have to file assault charges quite yet.
Anyway, I was unsure if our gaze had been a infinitesimal signal of "back off" or merely an intersection of two careless people taking money out of their accounts to spend it and bring their net worth to a new, regrettable low. I stood back, and pretended to focus on a bronze floorpiece that commemorated the University of Illinois on "Agriculture and Science." The two subjects were imprinted in the circle on opposite pages of an open book. Agriculture was hyphenated, because it would be unrealistic if the word went across both pages. There were symbols surrounding the book, one a spade tucked into the earth, another a microscope, and a third appeared to be a agricultural AND scientific object, but I could make no mental connection as to what the piece actually was. I decided the bit of bronze floor was a shabby artifact, not vital to the University.
As I came to this conclusion, the black lady in front of me pulled away from the ATM muttering utterances I could not understand. Whether she was condemning me in a foreign language or rapping Lil Wayne lyrics under her breath, I could not tell. Then I looked at her hands, she had a lot of cash, and was organizing it. One of her bills had an approximate third of it torn off. She was talking about it, but again, I didn't know if she was inviting conversation or if she was ticked off at my intrusion. If she was mad, I feared, she would present me with of some of that patented black-lady sass (patented black-lady sass is preferable to stereotypical black-lady sass, I am hoping).
I resorted to my only plausibly safe recourse: the nervous but entirely audible laugh. She looked at me and, in agreement, shook her head. We were on the same team, I was almost sure of it.
"What?" I said, realizing that I hadn't heard her legitimately.
"One of my bills is torn in half," she said, content to have her complaint heard.
"Man."
And there it had went, by far the most efforted social interaction I had all day. For some reason, this felt like enough. Like just talking to that alone, middle-aged black lady was satisfactory to think "I talked to someone at the ATM today." For what it's worth, I think her 20 was still usable. I didn't mention that, however, because now she got to go inside the store and talk to a clerk about it, and that would be two conversations on this ever-wilder ATM quest. Tired, hot and full of a Buffalo Chicken footlong from Subway, I stepped up to the ATM, when it hit me.
I turned my head in her direction as she faded into the store.
"That's quite literally a rip-off," I said.
She stopped. "What?"
"I said, 'That's quite literally a rip-off.'"
"Ha ha ye-es," she replied with on-the-go humored enthusiasm.
I grinned alone in that lobby even as I threw away my receipt with depressing figure-based reality imprinted upon it. Out the door with $30 I went, and headed toward my still un-air-conditioned apartment. To tell the world of my brave adventure.
This glamorous life I have.
Here's to going for it when there's no reason not to, and in return receiving modest-but-positive results; the very essence of Classic Brian itself.
--Eliot Sill
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Nick - Wait, I Can Explain
Dear guy who works at the bank I work at (but never directly interacts with me),
Wait, no, that look wasn't for you. You have to understand that you just so happened to walk by right after my scanner jammed and I looked the universe in the eye and gave it my most intimidating death glare. You just happened to be standing right in front of the universe at that particular moment. I would have followed it with a reassuring smile, but you quickly scuttled away from me as if afraid for your life. Listen though, I don't want this to be a thing between us because we are coworkers (who never directly interact) and we should be able to get along in the workplace (without any actual verbal communication).
Dear tiny slut at the Springfield Mall,
Hey now, don't give me that look, this totally isn't what it looks like. I was definitely not checking out your body, being like, "man, I want to bang this clearly underage chick who has no boobs," I was just thinking to myself how crazy it is that you are so young and also dressed so slutty. I was trying, in my head, to guess your age, which, I'll admit, is sort of similar to checking you out, but the difference is in the intentions. Also, and this is tangential, but I think that I'm young looking enough that I should be able to look at you without getting a pedophile look because I'm not even old enough to be a pedophile really, probably.
Dear snobby rich neighbors of my rich uncle,
Listen you guys, I know that your first impulse when looking over a fence into my uncle's yard while he is out of town and seeing a teenager wandering around aimlessly is to think that I am casing the joint, or something, but I promise that that is the opposite of what I was doing. See, I'm supposed to be watering their garden, but I like to sort of wander through it and check out the flowers sometimes. And while I guess it's kind of weird that you're playing D on my uncle's house, what's really weird is that you seemed to think it was some sort of elaborate ruse when I actually started watering the flowers. Like that was just my cover story, or something. I thought about entering their garage door code to show you that I do, in fact, belong here, but I was afraid that might be the point at which you actually call the police.
Until my next awkward and totally-not-my-fault interaction,
Cheers!
-Nick.
Wait, no, that look wasn't for you. You have to understand that you just so happened to walk by right after my scanner jammed and I looked the universe in the eye and gave it my most intimidating death glare. You just happened to be standing right in front of the universe at that particular moment. I would have followed it with a reassuring smile, but you quickly scuttled away from me as if afraid for your life. Listen though, I don't want this to be a thing between us because we are coworkers (who never directly interact) and we should be able to get along in the workplace (without any actual verbal communication).
Dear tiny slut at the Springfield Mall,
Hey now, don't give me that look, this totally isn't what it looks like. I was definitely not checking out your body, being like, "man, I want to bang this clearly underage chick who has no boobs," I was just thinking to myself how crazy it is that you are so young and also dressed so slutty. I was trying, in my head, to guess your age, which, I'll admit, is sort of similar to checking you out, but the difference is in the intentions. Also, and this is tangential, but I think that I'm young looking enough that I should be able to look at you without getting a pedophile look because I'm not even old enough to be a pedophile really, probably.
Dear snobby rich neighbors of my rich uncle,
Listen you guys, I know that your first impulse when looking over a fence into my uncle's yard while he is out of town and seeing a teenager wandering around aimlessly is to think that I am casing the joint, or something, but I promise that that is the opposite of what I was doing. See, I'm supposed to be watering their garden, but I like to sort of wander through it and check out the flowers sometimes. And while I guess it's kind of weird that you're playing D on my uncle's house, what's really weird is that you seemed to think it was some sort of elaborate ruse when I actually started watering the flowers. Like that was just my cover story, or something. I thought about entering their garage door code to show you that I do, in fact, belong here, but I was afraid that might be the point at which you actually call the police.
Until my next awkward and totally-not-my-fault interaction,
Cheers!
-Nick.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Out of controll
My mind only produces commentaries in brief, tweet-length bursts. See scenario. Comment on scenario. Edit on comment to make it fit. And flick the two-cents of information into the wishing well of hopeful and righteous life analysts. Check back in five minutes for possible feedback. Check back in ten minutes for next subject. Check back in an hour because you've lost your way and forgotten what else it is you actually do in a day.
To my mother: to check your email, simply type "comcast.net" into the URL bar above (wherein it says classicbrian.blogspot.com/etc.) and hit enter on the keyboard. When the page loads, select "Email" or "Inbox" or whatever option presented that reminds you of an email account. It may ask you to sign in. If you need a reminder your email address is jetmusic@comcast.net and your password is songbird — no capital letters or spaces.
My mother used to rant about how society was becoming so out of touch with itself because it spent long hours mindlessly staring into the space occupied by a television screen and clicking ever so purposelessly through a web browser — something my mother could not define, should you ask her — instead of reading books and playing hopskotch or learning to cross-country ski.
Now my mother is technologically crippled, a symptom of long snubbing her nose at a generational nuance she considered not worth her time. She needs help accessing her email account, the equivalent of walking to the refrigerator as far as technology's concerned, let alone actually utilizing the Internet for its more lucrative and fulfilling benefits, such as promoting a business, writing a blog post or tweeting about whatever it is you just saw on SportsCenter.
She is the overlooked sliver of pie in the graph that shows how computer-based our society is today. The kind that didn't move forward to that era of technology because they didn't want to, rather than because they couldn't afford it or didn't know about it. She could have been told by someone somewhere down the line that she was going to end up out of touch with the same society she claimed was getting out of touch with itself, but she wasn't. She was left behind to teach violin and play music on wooden instruments that require horse hair to make them sing. Her office didn't upgrade its computer network, get wireless Internet, require her to get a company app, or use Skype at a budget meeting. My mom doesn't know what the hell Skype is, but if you told her, I'm sure she'd be amazed.
The phrase "simpler times" is so sweet in its truth, so loyal to the notion that technology isn't making the world better, only easier. As long as your wired in, you're clear to float on in peace. But once your technology comes undone, you go ape. We keep pushing technology forward because we can, and because it's cool and useful. But at some point, maybe my mother is less handicapped than we are. My mother's computer will be out of commission for months at a time and it causes her little to no strain. If she wants a recipe for something, she doesn't go to Pinterest, she thumbs through a cookbook until she finds what she wants, perhaps discovering a couple other interesting recipes in the process.
The notion that we can't live without technology is pathetic in how close it is to being accurate. If I got stuck on a deserted island, I know I would really miss Twitter (This is serious! If I don't get found soon, my phone is going to die! #NoOutlets @barackobama). We're reaching an age where we're becoming engrossed, drenched to the bone, undryably soaked in technology. Television is becoming outdated. What in the hell does that say? The mere fact that I'm saying this at age 19, not age 45, convinces me that technology is moving rapidly, and that I will soon be behind the times, whether it be now or when I'm 35 or 60 or 90 or 130, because lord knows we're all going to start living that long.
Meanwhile, as the world begins to quiver under the sheer weight of all the people it now holds (7 billion? That's a billion more than when I was growing up!), we continue to pretend there's room for everyone, jobs for everyone, happiness for everyone. If you can't have real happiness, well you can still have an iPhone. We create social media networks to try and lessen the amount of people in our universes, to try and recreate our own personal society filled with people we like, are interested in, and care about, and no one else. We try and add something that hasn't already been thought of or added, we try and make music like we've never heard, and then we wonder why that band is playing such weird shit. There's too many people to do anything anymore.
We have to realize that this system isn't sustainable. The foreseeable future grows shorter and shorter every year. If the world ends in 2012 with a bang or a series of natural disasters, we'll have the solace of knowing that it didn't come to us pruning the race ourselves. I'm not saying we need to do something about it, because who cares what I think? I'm a hair follicle on the testicles of a jester compared to someone who makes a difference, who just might be nobody anymore in an age where being the President merely makes you famous and blameable.
I woke up Sunday with a rash that I got from God-knows-where doing God-knows-what, and all my friends don't seem to like it very much when I show it to them. There won't be any pictures of it on Facebook or Instagram, though it's an accurate depiction of what my life's been for the past four days. I got disgusted looks when I mentioned it on the radio, because people don't want to hear about it. But I've been thinking about rashes a lot lately, specifically the one I have that has been begging me to itch it the entire time I've been writing this post, and I think they're a fair reminder that some things take time, no matter how fast your wireless loads, and that anything other than having a disgusting, itchy rash all over your torso is grounds for a good day.
The balance in the world has shifted, and it's now whatever you want it to be. Hell, they make different versions of the news to cater to different people anymore and interpret the Bible to mean whatever necessary to back their beliefs. They write books where the main character is dead or alive based on the reader's preference, and life's cruel subtleties — rashes and the like — are locked in a box and shoved in the corner with dirty clothes thrown over them to hide their presence. As the world becomes a niche-based society, people stop mattering.
I've been in my apartment all day doing next to nothing. This slothlike behavior has affected no one. I am experiencing what it's like to be utterly inconsequential. I've often said I would prefer to have lived in a previous era. This rapid crescendo of technology overpowers the buzz a single bee such as myself produces. I just float around, not able to hear myself think because darn it all there's no room for isolation in the modern world, searching for a flower to pollinate. But there's so much more to it than that when you're a real socially functional person, isn't there? I envy them. The bees seem just as happy as I do. Simpler times, I suppose.
--Eliot Sill
To my mother: to check your email, simply type "comcast.net" into the URL bar above (wherein it says classicbrian.blogspot.com/etc.) and hit enter on the keyboard. When the page loads, select "Email" or "Inbox" or whatever option presented that reminds you of an email account. It may ask you to sign in. If you need a reminder your email address is jetmusic@comcast.net and your password is songbird — no capital letters or spaces.
My mother used to rant about how society was becoming so out of touch with itself because it spent long hours mindlessly staring into the space occupied by a television screen and clicking ever so purposelessly through a web browser — something my mother could not define, should you ask her — instead of reading books and playing hopskotch or learning to cross-country ski.
Now my mother is technologically crippled, a symptom of long snubbing her nose at a generational nuance she considered not worth her time. She needs help accessing her email account, the equivalent of walking to the refrigerator as far as technology's concerned, let alone actually utilizing the Internet for its more lucrative and fulfilling benefits, such as promoting a business, writing a blog post or tweeting about whatever it is you just saw on SportsCenter.
She is the overlooked sliver of pie in the graph that shows how computer-based our society is today. The kind that didn't move forward to that era of technology because they didn't want to, rather than because they couldn't afford it or didn't know about it. She could have been told by someone somewhere down the line that she was going to end up out of touch with the same society she claimed was getting out of touch with itself, but she wasn't. She was left behind to teach violin and play music on wooden instruments that require horse hair to make them sing. Her office didn't upgrade its computer network, get wireless Internet, require her to get a company app, or use Skype at a budget meeting. My mom doesn't know what the hell Skype is, but if you told her, I'm sure she'd be amazed.
The phrase "simpler times" is so sweet in its truth, so loyal to the notion that technology isn't making the world better, only easier. As long as your wired in, you're clear to float on in peace. But once your technology comes undone, you go ape. We keep pushing technology forward because we can, and because it's cool and useful. But at some point, maybe my mother is less handicapped than we are. My mother's computer will be out of commission for months at a time and it causes her little to no strain. If she wants a recipe for something, she doesn't go to Pinterest, she thumbs through a cookbook until she finds what she wants, perhaps discovering a couple other interesting recipes in the process.
The notion that we can't live without technology is pathetic in how close it is to being accurate. If I got stuck on a deserted island, I know I would really miss Twitter (This is serious! If I don't get found soon, my phone is going to die! #NoOutlets @barackobama). We're reaching an age where we're becoming engrossed, drenched to the bone, undryably soaked in technology. Television is becoming outdated. What in the hell does that say? The mere fact that I'm saying this at age 19, not age 45, convinces me that technology is moving rapidly, and that I will soon be behind the times, whether it be now or when I'm 35 or 60 or 90 or 130, because lord knows we're all going to start living that long.
Meanwhile, as the world begins to quiver under the sheer weight of all the people it now holds (7 billion? That's a billion more than when I was growing up!), we continue to pretend there's room for everyone, jobs for everyone, happiness for everyone. If you can't have real happiness, well you can still have an iPhone. We create social media networks to try and lessen the amount of people in our universes, to try and recreate our own personal society filled with people we like, are interested in, and care about, and no one else. We try and add something that hasn't already been thought of or added, we try and make music like we've never heard, and then we wonder why that band is playing such weird shit. There's too many people to do anything anymore.
We have to realize that this system isn't sustainable. The foreseeable future grows shorter and shorter every year. If the world ends in 2012 with a bang or a series of natural disasters, we'll have the solace of knowing that it didn't come to us pruning the race ourselves. I'm not saying we need to do something about it, because who cares what I think? I'm a hair follicle on the testicles of a jester compared to someone who makes a difference, who just might be nobody anymore in an age where being the President merely makes you famous and blameable.
I woke up Sunday with a rash that I got from God-knows-where doing God-knows-what, and all my friends don't seem to like it very much when I show it to them. There won't be any pictures of it on Facebook or Instagram, though it's an accurate depiction of what my life's been for the past four days. I got disgusted looks when I mentioned it on the radio, because people don't want to hear about it. But I've been thinking about rashes a lot lately, specifically the one I have that has been begging me to itch it the entire time I've been writing this post, and I think they're a fair reminder that some things take time, no matter how fast your wireless loads, and that anything other than having a disgusting, itchy rash all over your torso is grounds for a good day.
The balance in the world has shifted, and it's now whatever you want it to be. Hell, they make different versions of the news to cater to different people anymore and interpret the Bible to mean whatever necessary to back their beliefs. They write books where the main character is dead or alive based on the reader's preference, and life's cruel subtleties — rashes and the like — are locked in a box and shoved in the corner with dirty clothes thrown over them to hide their presence. As the world becomes a niche-based society, people stop mattering.
I've been in my apartment all day doing next to nothing. This slothlike behavior has affected no one. I am experiencing what it's like to be utterly inconsequential. I've often said I would prefer to have lived in a previous era. This rapid crescendo of technology overpowers the buzz a single bee such as myself produces. I just float around, not able to hear myself think because darn it all there's no room for isolation in the modern world, searching for a flower to pollinate. But there's so much more to it than that when you're a real socially functional person, isn't there? I envy them. The bees seem just as happy as I do. Simpler times, I suppose.
--Eliot Sill
Monday, July 9, 2012
Nick - Stats!
Robert
HP - 55
Attack - 65
Defense - 80
Special Attack - 55
Special Defense - 40
Speed - 89
Type: Ghost
Nick
HP - 80
Attack - 60
Defense - 50
Special Attack - 80
Special Defense - 95
Speed - 70
Type: Bug
Mada
HP - 45
Attack - 70
Defense - 50
Special Attack - 90
Special Defense - 60
Speed - 92
Type: Electric
Eliot
HP - 50
Attack - 60
Defense - 70
Special Attack - 60
Special Defense - 70
Speed - 99
Type: Ground
Brendan
HP - 65
Attack - 50
Defense - 90
Special Attack - 50
Special Defense - 90
Speed - 40
Type: Rock
Conor
HP - 100
Attack - 70
Defense - 90
Special Attack - 30
Special Defense - 30
Speed: 71
Type: Fighting
Classic Brian
HP - 55
Attack - 95
Defense - 60
Special Attack - 65
Special Defense - 45
Speed - 50
Type: Dragon
HP - 55
Attack - 65
Defense - 80
Special Attack - 55
Special Defense - 40
Speed - 89
Type: Ghost
Nick
HP - 80
Attack - 60
Defense - 50
Special Attack - 80
Special Defense - 95
Speed - 70
Type: Bug
Mada
HP - 45
Attack - 70
Defense - 50
Special Attack - 90
Special Defense - 60
Speed - 92
Type: Electric
Eliot
HP - 50
Attack - 60
Defense - 70
Special Attack - 60
Special Defense - 70
Speed - 99
Type: Ground
Brendan
HP - 65
Attack - 50
Defense - 90
Special Attack - 50
Special Defense - 90
Speed - 40
Type: Rock
Conor
HP - 100
Attack - 70
Defense - 90
Special Attack - 30
Special Defense - 30
Speed: 71
Type: Fighting
Classic Brian
HP - 55
Attack - 95
Defense - 60
Special Attack - 65
Special Defense - 45
Speed - 50
Type: Dragon
Thursday, July 5, 2012
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