Real Death and Fake Death

You wanna know what my first exposure to death was?

It was when I was about eight, maybe nine, it's difficult to remember now. My dad, the toughest welterweight I know, walks in the door home from work, a little early if I remember correctly. He saunters in, obviously a little distressed, and then something happened that I hadn't seen before or since. He started bawling. He broke down and cried worse than I did when Andrew dropped those blankets on me which caused me to headbutt a bongo hard enough to sprout a hockey puck on my forehead. I was in more shock now than I was then too. Why was he crying? He was my dad, dad's get mad at you when you cry, I didn't even know they could cry at that age.

Well when I found out what he was crying for I realized I probably would have done the same thing. His dad died. Of cancer. He didn't get a chance to say goodbye.

As for me? I didn't cry. Yeah, I found it weird too. I wasn't terribly close with my grandfather, but it wasn't like I never saw the guy. We visited Wisconsin all the time and he was a fantastically humble and caring man who made sure we always got some McDonald's when we came to town. Compared to my parents, classic “we're not going to McDonald's because we hate you” parents, that was a thrill. I guess I just knew that my grandparents would die. Insight like this is how you skip kindergarten. So I didn't cry, even though, I couldn't help but feel like I should have. I should have been more saddened by this.

You wanna know what my other first real exposure to death was? Well it sure wasn't real, I can tell you that much. My brother played video games, and he liked your standard shoot 'em ups as much as the next guy. But when that boy bought Resident Evil 2 he unleashed terrors upon me that I still regard with a particular zeal that would suggest I don't take them lightly. The death wasn't so bad when it was him killing zombies on a screen. But after he turned the screen off and I closed my eyes to go to bed, that's when the real creepiness sunk in. I had nightmares. Zombies would come in and eat me, or worse, my family members, leaving me alone with the hoard. Luckily I could wake up and escape death, but I remained humbled by how lost I would be if ever put in such a situation. It was traumatic. I woke up crying many nights, the thought of being eaten by my own kind fresh in mind, fearing that my realities and fantasies would switch and that one day I would wind up in Raccoon City, awaiting a slow and agonizing end.

And thus you have it: real death and fake death.

Like the lot of us, I grew out of it. I now enjoy blasting zombies to bits and killing off goons with no mercy or ounce of restraint just like all of us do. I play Grand Theft Auto and I still laugh when I punt a guy with my mock Hummer. That shit's funny to me. It isn't real, we tell ourselves.

But weeks like last week really show how unreal things can turn.

I, like everyone, returned home this past week. Springfield greeted me with sickness and lifeless cold air, as was exemplary of the fine, loving city. But also crawling through the streets of that sprawling heap of worthlessness were my family and dearest friends. I got to catch up. I got to relive the old days. I got to remember how fat we all had it, back when life was an object we endlessly toyed with before we realized that life was just a hibernating bear that would wake up and show us all its vicious teeth.

As Nick claimed on Monday, the week sortof culminated with Marcus Rodriguez's You're Welcome. A party that was so cool it had a name. Music albums have names. Movies have names. So did this party. It was a great time and an opportunity for a lot of us to check a lot of names off of the “people I have to see before I leave” list. And I have to be honest with you, Malik Hines wasn't a name I had on my list. In fact, I thought it possible that he and I wouldn't cross paths again. Painful the way that thought came to fruition Friday night.

When I arrived at the party, nothing was up. Malik wasn't dead. He wasn't really alive either, he wasn't really anything. He was less than an afterthought in my head. Someone I used to know but now never thought about. But within minutes of arriving at Marcus's house, the news was broken to me and all of that changed.

I just kind of stood there. My mouth fell a little bit. I wasn't overcome by grief and 

sadness, but I was certainly now incapacitated by shock. After a few brief seconds of grasping the situation I muttered a characteristic, “wow, are you serious? Oh my God. ….That sucks.” Not sarcastic, mind you. Just unfulfilling. You can't really do it justice. Nothing anyone could have said could have defined the situation because no one could have known what to think at the time.

I knew Malik Hines. I knew him, not well, but I knew him. We first met, oddly enough, through writing. We were both “staffers” on the State Journal-Register's The Voice. Chace Jordan was too, for a while. I recall a particular meeting in which we joked about making a black-oriented version of The Voice, one that would talk about Fubu jackets, and not Ugg boots, for the holiday fashions and other silly comparisons of the sort. We would call it The Deep Voice. I thought that was pretty good. I was a grade above him: a sophomore when he was a freshman. Now I was a small kid, but Malik was the boniest dude I knew. So being a sophomore, I made it a joke to go up to him whenever I saw him in the hallway and beat his ass. Not really, but I would jokingly act like a tough guy, pushing him against a locker, and he would go with the joke, “AUUGHH, Eliot! Leave me alone, oh shit!” I would let him go, both of us laughing. I'd walk away thinking “I appreciate how he goes with that” and him probably thinking “what a fucking weird dude.” It was obvious that he was one of those kids at our school without enemies. He was just that type of person.

My junior and senior years were times where I didn't interact much with him, it wasn't called on or necessary. I obviously saw him around though. And he was starting to come into his own. Not that I knew better than anybody, but it was obvious. He was developing his own thing. He had a girlfriend, Brenna Williams. They were a mushy couple. But I won't forget how much joy shot across either one of their faces, should they pass the other in the hallway. Malik was someone who appeared to have his sights set on having fun and was doing a damn good job of it. Somewhere down the line, he and Brenna split. Don't know when, don't need to know when. But he always maintained his light personality, and was one of the few people in school I could go to if I had a really stupid comment to make and needed someone to hear it, before the days of Twitter. One day I felt unreasonably compelled to ask Malik, “hey, do you listen to Lupe Fiasco?”

“Yeah Lupe's the man. ...Why?”

“No reason. Just felt like asking you, you seemed like you would listen to Lupe Fiasco.”

“Yeah well I do. I love Lupe Fiasco.”

“…..”

“You're really just asking me though?”

“Mm, yeah.”

“You're weird.”

Yeah, he was more than ready to start a conversation, but I didn't. Just didn't feel like either of us had time for the other. We had our own lives. As different as we were, I was happy enough to find one thing we both loved. That was just the kind of relationship I had with Malik Hines. Not much there, but from what was there, it was nothing but positive.

All of this came like a tidal wave back into memory that night. What? All that, gone in a pile of scrap metal and upholstery? Then came darker thoughts. I hope it was quick. I hope it was painless. I hope he was stoned beyond his nerve endings. Picturing a kid as animated as Malik just lifeless and just, not there. It was harsh. It wasn't suicide. He wasn't driving drunk. He just... died. I couldn't stop thinking about how unexpected it was. Malik was just a person you wouldn't think would die young. Not that anyone can be pegged as that. He had enough charisma to be notable and pleasant, not enough of a persona to be a traumatic public tragedy. Those words may sound harsh, but I'm just saying he wasn't going to the NBA and wasn't the next Lupe Fiasco, that's all. It wasn't the star quarterback of SHG, just some kid you figured you'd be able to see again. After digging through the pages of respects paid on his Facebook wall, I found the last status he ever recorded. “Parents are so pointless.” Hm. That's not necessarily a note you want to leave on. But it's so normal. Just a kid, feeling ready to be independent. Just like all of us are at some point.

And I kept going back to my dad, at a loss because he never said good-bye to his father. And as little as it's worth now, I KNOW the last thing I said to Malik was a good-bye. It was my last day of high school, I ran into him. Hell, I may have made a joke that I'd never see him again. It may have been true even if Malik had avoided the crash. And you know, that car accident was the furthest thing from his “fate”. It was just a thing that happened. You look at it now and think “this is something that happens in fantasies, but not reality. Not MY reality.” His close friends are stricken with morbid grief. Traumatized. His acquaintances have the wind knocked out of them. Disbelieving. Waiting for Malik to come back from being sick and for things to go back to normal. Distant acquaintances that know him little, like myself, are shocked. Lost for words. Searching for words to describe the feeling, lack of reasoning, lack of causation, lack of blame or conscious realization. This was a death that negatively affected everyone. Be it an overwhelming amount or the little bit that comes from viewing it objectively and realizing that tragedy can hit and nothing can be counted as a cause or reason. Sometimes, things just go horribly for no reason at all.

That's real death. The kind that comes and leaves you hollow and then goes. The kind that you realize will happen to you one day, albeit we can hope for better circumstances. Tragedy is every bit as much a part of life as triumph is, and unlike triumph, tragedy usually cannot be undone.

But how many times have we seen this before? Done this before? We have slain mercilessly the three-dimensional depictions of human life. Why? Because Grand Theft Auto tells us to. A 3-D depiction can look realistic, but the most important aspect of death is lost: emotion. Cold, untamable, raw emotion.

A couple years ago, a kid at Sacred Heart-Griffin tried to kill himself. He didn't, but he came irrevocably close. The incident is still viewed as a tragedy and he lost more than those months of rehabilitation. He now has lost certain motor functions that he will only gain back with years of hard work. Next time you get up and walk somewhere, unassisted, remember how lucky you are. Those around him realized how lucky they were to still have him. The rest of us realized just how easily tragedy can strike, but also we saw how it can bring people together. Anthony Enlow's story meant a lot of things to a lot of different people. He gave them the shock of losing a friend, and essentially a second chance at cherishing his life. I think that made all of us a little more compassionate. Everyone who absorbed the story behind Anthony learned to value what we have, and care about those who may be in need of a friend.

So what was to gain from the loss of Malik Hines?

This question plagued my mind as I reflected on what happened that afternoon. The only thing that could have prevented this was less unfortunate circumstance. That's it. While the class of 2011 grieves and searches for answers, I've found something that I think I wouldn't have found without Malik. Reality. Sometimes, it can leave you in the cold of an endless dark November, mouth agape, wondering which deed you did that was deemed bad enough to be responsible for this. Sometimes, your question will go heard, yet unanswered. There will be silence. And it's sad. It's just fucking sad.

But it doesn't end there. There isn't eternal silence and sadness. You go home. Out of the November cold. Into a house that still feels warm, a feeling that's almost off-putting in its comfort. You lie down and fall asleep. You go to school the next week and things feel almost like normal, until you see that empty desk in your English class. But it's not really an empty desk. Sitting there are the shock and sorrow that you met on Friday, when someone you knew and loved turned into something you would miss terribly and remember fondly. You aren't the only one who sees this. Your classmates see it too. It's tough to look, so you look to each other, and you understand. The lunch table seems smaller that day. The food is more unappetizing than usual, and you could swear it was quieter, even though everybody's talking as they normally would. But you go home that day. Your mom makes dinner. As you sit at the table with your family, you taste the dinner but also what it means to be able to taste such food. Food cooked by your mom in the warmth of your home with your siblings who, rather irritable, have been alright this week. You just last week gave thanks for so many things. But this week you're more thankful to have those things than you ever were.

Malik Hines will be missed by countless many. One thing that comes to my mind is his laugh. So genuine. And his voice still rings vividly in my head, despite not hearing it all too often. But don't let that be the end of it. As the calendar turns from November's uninviting frigid wind to December's welcome winter bluster, don't forget to look around you. What we have is so great. So beautiful. So wondrous. So delicate. Before we look forward to the future, let us not forget to cherish the present, because that's really all we're guaranteed. Someday, each one of us will die. It will come to an end eventually, and I am determined to not take life for anything less than what it's worth. This is what I've come to realize from Malik's untimely passing. I may not have known Malik Hines too well, but I will never forget him.

All of that makes me forget, though, the souls I've stolen when plugged into my Playstation. They're meaningless. I realize now that I've known that all along. Fake death has its place. Fake death is the comedy. Real death is the tragedy. I think for all intents and purposes we should allow ourself exposure to both. I always have kept these separate. And there's value in both of them. Fake death is fun. Fun to imagine, because it isn't real. It's the fairytale ending where everybody comes back in the end. Just make sure you know the difference between that and the frozen concrete of a tombstone in December.

Malik, buddy, rest in peace. Or better yet, live it up, wherever you are. The memories we have of you keep you alive, somewhere. And I know without a doubt, wherever you are, you have a smile on your face. And that fact allows me to go forward with a smile on mine.

--Eliot Sill

I Have The Flu

A few thoughts:

Harry Potter was really good. Like really really good. I thought they did an excellent job putting the book into film and am sooo happy they decided to split it into two parts. I will say that this movie was very much for the fans. This makes me extremely happy but it also means that a lot of it is probably really confusing to those who haven't read the books and I have no idea how interesting it is to someone who isn't anxiously awaiting every plot twist. Like the mirror thing. Did anyone ever explain the mirror thing? Nope.

How do you decorate you dorm room to show everyone that you're really cool and awesome without looking like a douche bag? I love Bob Dylan and Bob Marley just as much as the next guy but I don't think there's any way to have posters of either of these people in my room without looking like a tool.

Having the flu for the past 48 hours allowed me to take advantage of something I have pretty much ignored up to this point; the tv in my room. Realizing the remote worked was a crazy feeling and I started to get a little excited about my day in bed. But the I remembered that day time television is horrible. So then I napped some more.

I really like that new Katy Perry song Firework.

I realized today that my roommate and I have never really formed a relationship and that she will be gone in two weeks. Today we ran into each other in the bathroom and exchanged awkward mumbled hellos before I left and it occurred to me that I will probably hardly remember her. Since I have no real memories of us together, in a year it will seem like I never shared a room with her. I don't really like her but that is still a rather sad thought.

-Mada Lenore James Conrad Lee Larson

Nick - Highlights From My Journy To The Land Of Springfield

Let me begin by saying it was good to see everybody. Really really good. Sorry Conor Eliot and Brian for bailing on your FFFF session twice; I fell asleep.

The most surreal parts of the experience of coming home for a week were the coming and going. Walking into my room, it was pretty clear nobody had been in there since I had left, which is kind of a strange feeling. Everything was exactly where I left it, with the exception of a few plants and fish that were considerably more dead. (Rest in peace, Lola the plant and Giovanni the Arrow Crab.)

Also weird was how happy my family was to see me. I came home to a really nice dinner at the fancier dining room table, and my brother Ben immediately dragged me down to the basement to show me some games.

After walking in the door, I did the following things in the following order:
Hugged everybody
Ate dinner
Unwillingly saw Ben's Fallout: New Vegas
Epic drum solo
Watching Avatar: The Last Airbender with Teddy, Ben, and Sofia.
Playing Yu-Gi-Oh cards with Ben

It was nice to sit down at the drum set, which I think about every day, but the greatest part of coming home was that Teddy and Sofia are old enough now to appreciate the things I liked as a kid. The first thing they wanted to do was watch Avatar with me and Ben, which was exactly what Ben and I used to do when we were Teddy and Sofia's age. (8 and 5)

Also apparently not living at home most of the time has the effect of making people appreciate my presence, because Ben was way nicer and more eager to spend time with me than he had ever been before. Also he somehow got really good at guitar.

Even the people at Jeffrey Alans were happy to see me. They were, admittedly, a little over-zealous in scheduling me (51 hours) but this was easily resolved by putting on my best sick voice and calling in. They're pretty lax about stuff like that. I actually kind of enjoyed working with Lucas and Ashley again. We sold a ton of Christmas trees.

I feel like the whole trip culminated in the form of You're Welcome, a party which contained probably half of the people I know in Springfield. It was awesome to see everybody, and if I had room here to name everyone I was happy to see I would. Seeing Trotsky and Band Practice play was incredible and made me extremely nostalgic for this summer. Basically it was the perfect way to wrap up the week.

And then it was over all at once. As I said before, the strangest parts of being in Springfield were the coming and the going. And out of nowhere it was time for going again. Being home had been so easy and nice, but going back didn't come naturally at all. My dorm room feels really strange and empty. I think I'm stuck in break mode now; I like college, and I was super happy today to see my friends here again, but I'd like to spend some time at my real home.

It's my first night back and it feels like I've been back for a week. I'm still really excited about the Titanic show coming up (and I start performing next semester!) and I always look forward to our practices. But I have a feeling I'm going to spend the next couple weeks counting down the days until finals are finally over.

-Nick.
P.S.: If you read this post and are not from Springfield, I am so sorry.

Adventures in the Labyrinth Part 3: The Final Struggle

--Robert Langellier

For the last four months, I have been locked in a deadly battle of patience between me and a small speeding ticket I received a really super long time ago. Many blows have been struck, many tears have been shed, inanimate objects beaten, time and money wasted, friends killed, etc., since the onset of the war. I often go sleepless for whole nights, constantly alert in fear of a surprise attack by my ticket's minions. There were times I was sure it was going to take my life eventually. The grace of determination, however, allowed me to persevere. The Golden Day, November 30th, or, the Day of Reckoning, or, the final end of the long, difficult struggle, is nearly here. Unfortunately, my ticket has become just as aware of this as I, and it has bucked its ugly, disgusting, paper head one last time...

I thought this was almost over. I knew it was. Nothing could have gone wrong. I had merely to take a 4 hour online driving course at some point this Thanksgiving break, proudly show off my certificate of completion to some tool in the Attorney General's office, and give them lots of my money. Clever judicial system. You used a long period of inactivity to lull me to sleep and birth dreams of judicial convenience. How rudely you awake me with such malicious teeth.

Honestly, your breeching of my castle walls is probably my fault. I waltzed into this online driving course like I deserved the opportunity to pass it. Foolishly did I click with my mouse hundreds of times as a cheesy male voice told me repeatedly that I was an "individual" who needs to make my own responsible decisions behind the wheel. I should have known better. I should have prepared for the blast. I should have protected Java's walls of defense from my ticket's Flashware torpedoes. Why wouldn't Chrome's Flash player repeatedly crash in the middle-to-closing points of every second lesson I attempted? Why wouldn't my "progress chart" repeatedly tell me I've completed 0% of Lesson 2 Section 2 even after it's told me that I've successfully completed that part six times? SILLY ME.

I'm just glad the host site lists an unmonitored email address and a phone number that nobody answers if you need help. If not, I couldn't have spent a large part of two days sleuthing before figuring out that my family's Macintoshes cannot pass the 25-minute Lesson 2 Section 2 for some reason. IDKY.

Now, because of the extra time spent troubleshooting, I've been forced to stay in Springfield an extra school day to lie in wait for my time to pounce - Monday, the day the General's office reopens. This is my final chance to end this nightmare. This is the final struggle. As I type this, I have just completed Traffic School. I expect my printer to break and/or explode tomorrow morning. I expect my USB ports to continue not functioning, as they haven't all year. I expect to have taken the wrong Traffic School course and to have only $204.50 left in my bank account. I expect to be caught speeding on the way to the General's office.

Tomorrow I wake up early, at the crack of 9:00am. I armor up and make a sacrifice to the gods in preparation for battle. I take a deep breath and head downtown to see just how much more pain a traffic violation can do me. I expect it to be a lot, and I expect this to not be over for a long time to come. There. Undermine my expectations now, ticket. Come on. Do your worst. I'll be ready, money and blame ready to be thrown every which way in a hellstorm of nagging irritation. I will kill you.

Conor - In My Element

Springfield, IL. Population, 118,033. It's a nice place, filled with nice people.

I've been back since 3:30 AM, Wednesday morning and immediately I was reminded why I miss this place so much. 3 friends were waiting for me when I got here, and after grabbing some stuff to eat from the local supermarket we got down to to business and played 2 hours worth of Mario Kart. They left around 6:30, and I crashed into bed.

Such was my welcoming party home. It was grand and extravagant and everything I wanted. It's not like I've missed Mario Kart terribly (although my hours invested into this game has decreased worryingly this week. 8 hours? DEPLORABLE.), I've just missed our special brand of competition, hate, and love. Brian and Eliot fought for last place, gloating inappropriately every time they finished in 9th instead of their usual 12th. Everytime I managed to edge out fucking Baby Peach for 2nd place, I did my victory ritual, which looked something like I imagine a pterodactyl's touchdown dance would look. We complained constantly about how lame it is that Robert plays with the steering wheel thingy, ignoring how soundly he defeated us pretty much every single race. At around 6:30 in the morning my dad came downstairs to start his day, having been woken up slightly earlier than normal by Robert's shouting of "FUCK FUCK FUCK" one of the few times that I beat him. We played through every map consecutively because we were too dedicated to a joke. Brian was mean. Eliot was spiteful. Robert and I were perfect.

This is what I miss. This is what I had been waiting for. The good times have been rolling since I got here, and I have no reason to believe the good times will halt said rotation anytime soon.

Tonight was pretty perfect. I practiced with BAND PRACTICE for 5 blissful hours, where we made some of the best music I think we've ever come up with. Things just really came together today, thanks in no small part to Clayton Penrose-Whitmore, who is amazing. Call mez. I got to pretend to be a rockstar again tonight and I cherished the opportunity. I got to see a bunch of old friends, and I'm making new ones, too. I'm talking to people from Springfield who I never got the chance to know when I lived here. I'm glad I'm getting to opportunity to know them now before I fade awaaaaay.

I went to Little Saigon, this brilliant Thai/Vietnamese place with a couple of really good friends. There's a transition here, trust me. Tynan and I played the game there. The game is a concept I keep coming back to in my mind. My friends and I, here, in Springfield, we play the game constantly. The game is our life. The game being the way we joke. Someone makes a joke, some continues, and we hit the concept back and forth to eachother, volleying it like a tennis ball. Sports! Seriously though, it's like a sport. We compete, always trying to take the idea one step further. Today the game resulted in the idea of Meatboy, a superhero who shoots meat from his wrists like Spiderman (only with meat [instead of spiderwebs {the difference between Meatboy and Spiderman is that Meatboy fires meat}]). He also has meat breath, which has a pretty disgusting sound associated with is. See, in Oklahoma, they don't play the game. I'm not saying they don't play A game. I have tons of friends in Oklahoma who are as funny and witty as anyone I know in Springfield. We just didn't spend the past few years honing our art together. I need to give it time. I'll find another game to play with these fools.

Which leads me to another thing. For now, at least, these two worlds have coexisted wonderfully. I'm happy in Springfield and Norman. I realize there won't be a party every time I'm back. I realize I won't be able to see all of these guys every break. I realize that a lot of these friendships can't last forever. But so far, they pretty much all have. I've been keeping in touch with all my friends back home remarkably well, while managing to live a life in Norman. For now at least, I can have it all. I'm really liking that.

Tonight I got everything I wanted. In a selfish, awesome way everything went right for me tonight. I don't demand more nights like this, I mean I wish they happened more often, but I'm content with this one while it lasts.

This night is lasting pretty damn long, by the way. I've downed one Monster (I refuse to acknowledge the contradiction in my recent decision to stop drinking soda for my health, and my terrifyingly regular Monster consumption [fuck]), I've had a bowl of Frosted Flakes (with 2% milk instead of my regular choice of skim [fuck]) and Brian, Eliot and I are playing Final Fantasy XII. We, uh, we haven't made much progress. But that's okay. A beautiful poet told me that it's about the journey, and she has never led me astray. Why would she start now.

I hope you have all had a wonderful Thanksgiving, and here's to the next, better holiday that's on it's way. Ham > Turkey. Let the asshole who disagrees be known to the world.

Feeling Groovy

by Brendan Cavanagh

Lately I've been in a funk of depressed creativity. I've had about ninety million ideas for a good blog post, all of which seem to revolve around making a list of movies, music, books (not really, Eliot)... These ideas will likely one day be revisited, once I get in a couple posts without resorting to numbering my thoughts, 'cause you know what? I'm starting to feel a lot like Cash Bundren these days.

I’ve had an outstanding week off school, spending every second of free time with family, friends and food. It’s wonderful to be home and around people I love, but for some reason I just feel glum. Perhaps I’m dreading my return to school, which means homework, unfamiliarity and intolerable roommates. I think it’s just the perfect storm of powerful emotions: euphoria, depression, anger, ennui and the deadly assassin nostalgia. My mind is in a constant state of tumult and consequently I’ve been moping around the house today, listless and unable to extract myself from the Monty Python’s Flying Circus marathon on IFC. I had begun writing a post on Thursday, but Thanksgiving forced me to put it off, and it’s such a major concept that it will take longer to complete than I anticipated. It shall be done though. I began to think I would simply have no blog post this week. But then I flipped through my iTunes collection of videos I once illegally looted from Youtube, mostly just music videos and filmed performances, and rediscovered an old favorite: the video for Mocedades' 1973 hit "Eres Tú."

The only reason I ever looked into this song is because I was curious as to what exactly about the song made Chris Farley and David Spade sob as they blasted the song on the highway in the movie Tommy Boy. One night I finally decided I'd just look the song up on Youtube, and found out that it won second place in the 1973 Eurovision Song Contest, being Spain's entry. Despite losing out to some other song, it became a single and achieved international renown, subsequently leading to this video being created. And it's surprisingly inspirational.

There are so many things about it that simply make me feel good. For one, who doesn't like to hear a song in another language and pretend they know what exactly to say, and what exactly it means? Falco's "Amadeus" made every amusement park-frequenting, acid-washed phony in the 80s believe they could speak German. Julius La Rosa's "Eh Cumpari" taught formerly uptight Americans in the 50s that they don't necessarily have to speak Italian in order to sound like they are, if they can grunt and make exclamations remotely similar to the emotional language. And similarly, Mocedades' "Eres " had everyone in the 70s saying, "Oh yeah, You Are right...yeah I speak Español. Como una duh duh ERES TÚ." That sounds scathing, but it's true for you and me. Even though I can speak Spanish relatively well these days, it only makes me more pretentious if I try to showcase my knowledge of what the song says. It's not pretentious if you figure it out quietly for yourself though, don't worry.

The song is good enough with the woman taking lead vocals- she has a pretty voice- but "Eres Tú" gets infinitely better once the verses end and the song rises in crescendo to create this anthemic climax sung by all six members of Mocedades. It makes you want to join hands with them and sing along, too. And when I get in that mood, I really belt it out.

But all aspects of the song aside, the video is where it's at. The six members of the band, two with guitars, are in a room full of mirrors, which allows for some trippy cinematography. The lead vocals, a cute chick in a pinstriped suit, spits a couple verses until the camera pans out frenetically and begins a sweeping shot of everyone in the outfit-

1. The most Hispanic-looking guy with an acoustic guitar.
2. The suavest man I've ever seen. He's got a hell of a beard and looks so smooth in his blue
sweater and seems confident in his corny dance moves. He's the man I aspire to be.
3. The aforementioned female lead vocalist. She's the type of girl who is admittedly pretty cute,
but you tend to kind of pass her over because she's wearing a suit. But underneath that
"masculine" apparel lies an attractive girl.
4. The "hot" girl in the band. I think her peasant's blouse and dark hair are really sexy for some
reason. She has a really pretty smile.
5. The guy I imagine to be really quiet and apparently nerdy, but secretly hilarious and witty.
He's like a cross between Spencer from Criminal Minds and me, with those goofy, thick
glasses. He's equipped with the electric guitar.
6. The sex appeal. Clean shaven, handsome, nice hair. Kind of a Spanish John Cleese.

This is a later picture of the group. My suave idol grew his hair out more, and the "nerdy" one who reminds me of me grew an ENTIRE beard. I bet he’s the Spanish Richard Manuel.

I don't know. I guess I just like the fraternal quality of the video- how everyone's friendly and happy and singing along together. It's one of those simple pleasures. I don't need cryptic and ambiguous lyrics or meticulously constructed, synthesizer-laden songs all the time. It's nice to be able to relax and enjoy the inherent simplicity in music. It kind of takes you back to the roots of music- a nomadic clan gathering around a fire at night in order to relax, eat, share stories and engage in musical appreciation. And maybe I can't do exactly that, but I sure can appreciate what music means to me and share it with others. At the very least, this song makes me feel a little less depressed.

What do I want to be?

This is a late post, point taken. But I still haven't gone to sleep and woken up on Thanksgiving so it counts in a way for me. Anyway, the post I was writing earlier got delayed by a bunch of things. I won't explain them if you don't ask.

Here's what I HAD going:

And ya know what pisses me off the most?

Is that there are people that tell me the ONLY way you can get into heaven is by following Jesus Christ (his ways, not the actual guy). That makes me mad, but the worst part is that I've already told them that I'm Christian.

So what do you suppose is the reason they let me know so urgently of this revelation?

Because they want me to go tell other people that they're going to hell. They want me to be that know-it-all asshole who thinks God sent him a secret note containing "The Plan". HE DIDN'T. I DON'T REALLY KNOW. That's why they call it faith.

Everyone should have their own beliefs and be content with them. My brother is in possession of two little Christian comic books that basically say if you don't love Jesus your life is missing its most important aspect. And you're going to hell. And there's nothing you can do about it. Except follow Jesus. They're funny in an "oh my God I sincerely hope this mind bullshit never works on anyone but if it doesn't it's hilarious" kind of way.

Anyway, (sigh), as Thanksgiving approaches rapidly, it's time to decide what we're thankful for, mutter a quick thanks before dinner, and then not worry about it for another year.

Things I'm thankful for: sports, music, my family sectors, turkeys, holidays, fans, heaters, Cloud Strife, hate, people who are better than me, people who are worse than me, irony, black people (all kinds), the word "awesome", other countries, water, marijuana (which, mom, dad, I don't smoke), television, Apple, apples, steak, wind and Sara Matherly.

It's approximately quarter after six as I resume this blog post, and there is still no sign of sun today? What if the sun just didn't come up on Thanksgiving? That'd be hilarious. Well, it's a moot point since undoubtedly the sun has risen between now and the time you laid eyes on this post.

So November, why in the hell are you so damn awful? Everybody hates you. Nobody is ever comfortable during you. It doesn't snow. It just rains. It's fucking cold and it rains. The air is as dry as death, meaning my lips are super duper chapped and it's November's fault. Nothing is ever important about November. The holiday, the sports, the vacation (it's a week off of school. SUCH A TEASE. Give me a real vacation like XMAS break where I get a month off and can do stuff and not just wish I had more time to spend with people I like), or even the specials. Have you ever seen a "Thanksgiving" anything? It's the same product with a turkey in the background. (I'm talking of TV-land here by the way (and no, not the channel)) Everything's just sorta meh. I love Thanksgiving, but it's to commemorate a time when a bunch of people ate a bunch of stuff. That's like throwing a party in honor of that one time me and Rob got really wasted. It's awesome, but it isn't important. Same with the sports, no post-season, no beginning, no end, just middle. Meh.

So what do we have to look forward to?

Everything, because this is our calendar's rock bottom. Every month is better than this one. We're almost out, and we don't have to come back for a long time.

So remember when I was talkin' about religion n stuff up there?

I went to church tonight for the first time since..... well it's been a really long time. It was the most packed our church has been since..... well it's been a really long time since it's been that packed. It reminded me of when I was a kid, as I looked into the congregation to see kids of ages I used to be wasting time in ways I used to waste it. I read a passage during the service, and I realized, I'm an adult now. I'm one of those who understands what's going on. I don't have to fidget for an eternity just to get through a church service. It was weird. But oddly enough, church still sucked. It was boring for the most part and I wished I could be dancing at a rave or something. Or maybe even running. Uy.

So what's this post about? Poor time management and thought organization. I hate it when I come to the keyboard and think "well here we go, let's start writing." I wish I had sermons for you guys once a week. Not about God. Yeah wouldn't that be a cool job to have? Be like a pastor for something that's not a church? (Doesn't make sense--I know, but listen) In the aspect that you spend the first fifteen years of your adult life doin' a bunch of crazy shit, and then spending the rest of your adult life writing about a particular subject and occasionally drawing on the fifteen years of crazy shit you did for inspiration. I want to be a basketball pastor.

The thing is, I love writing for Classic Brian. I wish Classic Brian had a billion and five followers instead of 18 and I never had to work and I was Hugh Hefner and life would be great. So in order to help me reach those dreams, you guys should really start purchasing more of our merchandise. It helps a ton. A lot of you seem to not know that we have merchandise, but we do. It's the compliments I dole out when you give me money. College is expensive. Help a brother out. Now you seem to think I'm running out of things to talk about. Well I am. It's 6:30 leave me alone. You're sleeping and I'm writing. I'd rather be me but I'm obligated to be you.

Next week I'll write about something better. Something awesome. Something... I dunno, SOMETHING.

But let me otherwise be the first to tell you, I hope your Thanksgiving sucks. Why not?

--Eliot Sill