Robert - Love Letters 1: Lauren Leonatti and Brandon Foster

Fuck. This is not what you think it is.

I decided that today I would write love letters to a male friend and a female friend (for gender parity [maybe next time I can equalize skin colors]). I'd already picked my male and female to write love letters to when I realized. It was just an accident, okay? I just felt inspired to write about Lauren and Brandon tonight. It just happened.

Anyway, with that hiccup out of the way:

Lauren is my musical soul mate. No one else appreciates the gray acoustic sameness of the great world of singer-songwriters like Lauren and I do. No one else has a hard on for Paste Magazine crap like Lauren and I do. No one else has touched Brandon's tongue with their tongue like Lauren and I have (I'm really sorry Hannah — I tried to not make this joke but I couldn't not do it, I hope Evanston is treating you great).

As mentioned briefly, Lauren has a tremendous appreciation for folksy bluegrass bluesy music that probably eclipses mine in purity. I think I like more poppy, marketable folk bands, whereas she enjoys Mumford & Sons and bands that folk purists wouldn't wag their dickbag fingers at. She gives and mails me music like this all the time, in various forms, such as mixes like Conundrum and Lauren's Stupid Untitled Mix, and great CDs by artists I've never heard of like Jackie Greene and The Belle Brigade. I haven't listened to that Belle Brigade CD yet, Lauren. I just got it this evening, you know? It's importing right now. I'm listening to Jackie Green right now, okay? Calm down. You're being a bitch. If Lauren played the ukulele, I would probably start a band with her. Her dad plays a bunch of instruments, right? Maybe I'll start a band with her dad. I'll write the words and the chords. He can do the hard things.

But that's not all! Lauren has more good traits than music. I don't think I've ever seen Lauren upset, for example. That's not true, actually, but on the rare occasions where she is feeling blue it's never for selfish reasons, and she carries a sense of positivity and optimism that scares me with its brilliance and sheer continuity. She's got a strong and definite sense of loyalty to her friends and of religious faith, which she wields tolerantly, which is super respectable to me (shout outs to Hillary Haaker, Eliot Sill). And she's tall.

Man, she's cool, right? And single, boys.*

*Right? Lauren, you're single, right?**

**To Lauren's possible boyfriend: I'm sorry.

Unfortunately, my love cannot be contained by Lauren alone, for she also has gaping negative qualities, such as not currently attending Bon Iver's show. Brandon is. He payed serious money for that. I didn't. I got a girlfriend to do that for me. That's right, ladies and Jimmy. Brandon's single, too, and as indicated earlier, I don't know that he's all that gender-discriminate. That's his first positive trait. He's not afraid to dance with a man, or kiss a man kind of, or shave a man's nipple-region. Or to throw up all over my apartment. That's unrelated, but it requires a remarkable amount of skill to hit every sink and towel in the four rooms. Had you missed a spot I would be mad.

Brandon is not my best friend at Mizzou, and nor am I his. But I sense a grave, deep mutual respect for each other that, if untrue, is really embarrassing that I just said that. Brandon last year was that friend who I wished I knew better and wished I hung out with more than just indirectly. Brandon this year is that friend who I know better but wish I knew even better and wish I hung out with without him throwing up. His humor is filled with creative puns (Eliot) and sharp witticisms that are far more complex than the amount of time he spends coming up with the joke. Often, fate scolds him for this talent by giving him weak jokes that fall on their faces, but Brandon responds undeterred by reacting to his own failure comedically. On paper, Brandon has time for reflection, and his weak jokes are filtered, leaving him with written gold that he publishes as Maneater articles. In the future, Brandon will be seen as a star music reviewer for Pitchfork and will singlehandedly convince the world that the part of company in charge of reviews isn't a gigantic piece of shit.


Their phone numbers are 217-720-1610 and 314-922-3744. I'm not telling you which is which.

Nick - The Most Self-Indulgent Post On The Planet

Today, I texted some of the other members of Classic Brian with the following question:

"When you think 'Nicholas Dietrich,' what is the first word that comes to mind?"

Here are some answers.

Tuesday Mada: Clean.
Classic Brian: robot
Sunday Robert: hair. im so sorry.

Notice that none of these words are "asshole." (Though I am, apparently, a clean hair robot.) Today I'm going to change that.

Now watch me play drums, dammit.

Behold my awesome drum set. The gorgeous, shining cymbals. The roto-toms with their translucent blue sheen. And my sleek, sexy body. Beautiful. And how talented!

And since I assume you are scratching your head and trying to keep up with me, I'll just help you out with that too. It's in 5/4, then 7/4, and then 4/4.

I don't want to hear any complaining, because I'm busting my ass over here trying to be modest. I left my shirt on in the video. I even kept it less than two minutes! In the words of my brother, "your drumming is usually more flashy than that." So there! I'm talented, gorgeous, and modest.

Sincerely yours,
-Nick (is an asshole).

Nick - Physicality Is Holding Me Back

As I sit here writing and snacking on mini Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I can't help but think that our bodies are really, really dumb. If my body was at all smart, it would be saying, "Nick, you should eat some steamed broccoli, or some protein-rich yogurt!"

But no. It's urging me to continue eating peanut butter cups. And that don't make no kind o' sense.

Sugar is bad for you. Lots of things are bad for you, and if you're anything like me you would far rather eat those things than a bowl of carrots or a sandwich or something. Seriously, what is soda? It's sugary goop. It is, in everything except taste, pretty gross. And yet it's delicious. When evolution was designing our taste buds, it done screwed up.

And here's another thing: anytime I do anything physically tiring, my body is telling me to stop and conserve energy. Well, stupid body, if you weren't so opposed to getting a good workout once in a while I think we'd all be a lot better off, don't you? It's like you're hardwired to try and make me fat and have heart problems.

And you know when you're lying on the couch and your body won't let you get up? What's that about, body? You should let me get up to go do something productive, for both of our sakes.

And, while I'm addressing you, body, let's talk about that time I broke my arm. As soon as I broke it, you started releasing some kind of something that made me super happy and outgoing. Why can't you do that more? That was kind of cool. I would think you'd give me incentive to not break the arm again by making hurt or something.

And yet, while you make me feel good after breaking an arm, you flip out every time I have to get a shot. What's that all about? It's just a little needle, you shouldn't make that big a deal about it.

It's like no matter what I tell my body to do, it's stubborn and set in its ways. Sure, I can ignore the pain and take it like a man, but my body won't stop producing it. And I can pretend that I don't have to pee really badly but my body will still make it feel really uncomfortable until I am able to go to the bathroom.

The conclusion is that our bodies are dumb. Although my body also happens to be gorgeous and adequate in every way.

-Nick.

Conor - Over and Over

I'm currently at the Duffy House, listening to the song "Over and Over" by Hot Chip, a band I could've seen live this summer, had I not decided to instead stand in front of a stage that would soon house the Strokes, pouting childishly because Brian Malone had jinxed me. It's a really cool song, but admittedly, it's very repetitive. It's not like Hot Chip would deny this, either. The chorus of the song acknowledges this perceived flaw and embraces.

"Over and over and over and over and over, like a monkey with a miniature cymbal, the joy of repetition really is in you."

"The joy of repetition," it says. The word repetition makes me think of school, or the bulk of Pokemon games, or work. It's not a positive word. It's boring, tiring. It's a family dinner you can't get away from. Hot Chip makes a case for it here. Maybe sarcastically, they deliver that line in a really monotone voice, but hey. If they're not making that case, I am.

Case in point, here I am at the duffy house where 5 of the frisbee guys live. A house 2 blocks away from campus, 15 minutes away from my dorm, and approximately 5 minutes away via my new bicycle. The front door is always unlocked. When you get here, you walk in, you do not knock. They mock you if you knock. From where I'm sitting I can see 11 frisbees, 2 wide screen tv's (both of which are currently being used), 4 speakers for their stereo system, and 2 identical Halo: Reach posters. The walls are a dirty beige color, and they have a bumpy texture. So... It's like a filthy, bumpy layer of eggnog. Over the walls and the ceiling. Ideal. I come here probably 3 or 4 times a week. Coming here means one of three things. Either A) I am sitting building my impressive-yet-utterly-futile-in-the-face of-the-godlike-Robert-Langellier Mario Kart skills, B) playing Black Out with varying degrees success, or C) picking up the tuxedo I consistently leave at their house before I go to a choir concert.

Going over to the duffy house isn't the most exciting thing in the world, but it's full of people that I like, and it's comfortable, familiar. By this point it's become a tradition for me to head over there. It's something that happens all the time, but I want it to happen. It's practically unimaginable that one could live a life devoid of repetition. How many new experiences do you have, daily? I didn't do anything completely new today, that's for sure. But I had a good time. I controlled my repetitions. I repeated the events I wanted to experience again, like going over to the duffy house, or laughing at someones misfortunes. (today: the janitors at the school of music when I put 20 empty cardboard boxes in/around the same trash can, shifting my burden to them. Yesterday: Someone not gifted with my looks, talent, or talent.)

For a week when I was 9 or 10, Peter Eck and Nick Dietrich and I watched Kung Pow: Enter The Fist! every damn day. There was a week when we did pretty much nothing but that. I would like to act like that wasn't true, but fellas you know I'm not fronting no fuckin' lie.

Starting in middle school, every half day a bunch of my friends and I would meet at D&J's cafe, a diner near my house. We would go there, overtip the waitress because we hadn't learned the value of money yet, head back to my place, and play Guitar Hero and a variation on 4 square called Cobra-Ball. I was predictably unstoppable at Cobra-ball, one of the many instances of life foreshadowing my eventual evolution into the ultimate athlete.*

FFFF.

Creating chaos and anarchy for several of my high school teachers with my eternal side-kick/love interest? Mada Larson. We got into a fight in which I swept the feet out from underneath her in order to get a nickel that I craved, that I needed. We chased eachother out of her room, down from her 4th floor tower to the 2nd floor when we policed ourselves, deciding we should head back up. She shrugged when we walked back in.

Improv sleepovers, and the inevitable temper tantrum I throw around 4 or 5 A.M. GET READY FOR THAT, FUTURE WIVES.

The 4 - 5 hour practice Band Practice always has before a gig because we didn't have time and we didn't have time and we didn't time until shiiiit we're playing a show tonight, guys.

Steak n' Shake. Dear god, Steak n' Shake. SOMEONE IN ILLINOIS GO EAT STEAK N' SHAKE ASAP. DO IT FOR ME.

Being irresistible.*

There are traditions here, too. They have traditions in Oklahoma, I shit you not. Every Tuesday, Thursday** and Sunday I have ultimate practice. Tuesdays and Thursdays after practice upperclassmen bully me and push me into lockers until I take them to the legendary cafeteria. Every week or so we have (lowercase) band practice. After every band practice we play racquetball which is good and fun, especially when you make up rules that would, if discovered, undoubtedly get your equipment privileges taken away. This burrito place here, Freebirds, has this cute little tradition of telling me that it will soon be ending it's half-off student discount, but then it sees the fire in my eyes and walks its cute, submissive ass straight to the cash register, where they give me the half-off student discount.

All of these things I love. All of these things I value. All of these things I'm glad to see come and go, if not daily, then weekly, or monthly, or whenever we have time. Sometimes I don't have the time, or sometimes I'm just forgetful, and sortof a bad friend. Too often a tradition has died, or I've missed a regular lunch date with a friend because I just didn't put enough effort into making sure it would survive/I'd be awake. I'm sorry, I'm perpetually sorry.

This break, I will play Final Fantasy with two of my bestest friends. Mada and I will eventually return to SHS and burn it down or something unspeakably cool like that. Freebirds will continue to give me my goddamn discount. Soon, a D&J's will occur. I'll make sure of it.

Peter and Nick though, we uh probably shouldn't watch Kung Pow ever again. I'm afraid of realizing how much time we wasted.




*As determined in a recent game of Likewise

**Who gives a fuck about an Oxford Comma?