Robert - Travels to Colorado

The road to Colorado from 1111 Williams Blvd in Springfield IL is a long and very straight one, not counting the northern detour to Iowa City, Iowa to pick up fifth passenger. My lovely lady friend Hannah and her lovely precious family reluctantly agreed to let me tag along with them to the big square mountain state (not Wyoming) after they discovered me hiding in the midst of luggage piles in the back of their rented Chrysler suburban. I hopped up to the backseat, put on a blanket, read my book, and vicariously watched silent Parks and Recreation on Hannah's laptop screen from across the way for 7 hours of Saturday and 7 hours of Sunday.

Admittedly, I ignored most of Illinois. We've seen it all, really. In snowless December there was a preamble to the Midwestern journey in the form of unrelenting flatness of long since harvested cornstalks. Hundreds of thousands of thin brown rows exploded past the rear window at somewhere around 80 mph speeds, marking our progress field by field, cow by cow. That was to be the theme everywhere until Colorado, when mysterious green and brown lands (also harvested) began to roll over on top of the spears of dead cornstalks.

Iowa, surprisingly, has a number of sizable hills, particularly in the southwestern corner where it spills its highways into Missouri and Nebraska. That number is around 6, and all of them provided a beautiful change of pace. Entering Iowa City, our big ass suburban was greeted by San Francisco-esque hills that turned houses on their sides and threatened the bouncy balls of every kid in town. I've never been to San Francisco, so doubtless its actual hills were nowhere near in comparison, but it felt that way in respect to lands I've known in the past — lands where the geological zit Centennial Hill is established as a local landmark.

We started Day 2 in some nameless town past Lincoln, Nebraska — it had a Hampton Inn and that is all I know. Nebraska is the oft-ridiculed driver's nightmare that extends for hellish miles across the rectum of the Midwest. If the Mississippi River divides the East and the West America for wagon settlers, it's Nebraska and Kansas that separates it for the automobile traveler. This is, however, a place I've only traversed once, and, not having the responsibility of chasing an infinite horizon at the wheel of the car, I was free to drift off as I pleased and peacefully observe the surrounding countryside as a new experience to me.

Winter is nature's dressing room, and I drank in all its naked trees and barren earth, all with lascivious eyes. Something about winter landscapes, even without snow, no especially without snow, is captivating. It's earth in the raw, with ice that creeps up against the edges of the more still-watered ponds and gives off two different reflections — the clear light blue one of the sky off the liquid water, and the dark royal blue against the ice. The rest of the view is brown; brown earth has by this point given up all attempts at photosynthesis and waits in frost for a layer of clean snow that hasn't come yet. So it's a transition period — from green summer and fireworks autumn to winter, from foraging mammals to long hibernation, from birds to no birds.

Nebraska wasn't all that bad, then. There was one picturesque scene. Over an endless expanse of wheat clipped at the knees was scattered a few groves of leafless trees, and beside the highway a wood and wire fence, behind which was a small manmade pond, around which grew cattails and the like. Prepositions. And off a little ways in the distance, a freight train chugged across the landscape carrying a hundred million red and yellow boxcars. It was so perfectly American Gothic that I almost puked up corn and nearly choked on chunks of hard-working industry. What a bastion of all-American progress. While I was witnessing that and thinking about the giant mountains I'd eventually see, it struck me as incredible how credible we consider the incredible extent of flatland to be. Those of us who grew up in the Midwest expect to see nothing different, and I imagine many people of the world might be plopped down here in Nebraska by a giant Magic Hand and not know what the hell to do with themselves, looking in every direction and seeing nothing to mark themselves with. They might assume they've fallen into purgatory, with no way out except to convert immediately to the cold religious extremism that governs much of the area.

Cows were a frequent sight. We all know how I feel about cows. I don't like them. How is it that our mental stereotype for a cow is the black and white dairy cow? Every cow I see is bull-colored. Dark black or dull brown or dirty off-white. Not a lot of multiples of color on individual cows. In early Nebraska I saw a couple of cows grazing up ahead of me in a golden-brown harvested field. It looked like a pretty plain sight to me — a boring cow being really lazy in a comfortable patch of earth. But if I turned my head and looked straight ahead down my own lane at the rows of wheat whizzing by, I saw the ground actually covered in a film of snow, and I saw that maybe the cow's ground was not as comfortable and lazy as it appeared, despite its hooves. Maybe I should give cows a touch of respect; perhaps they suffer in their fields all day. They're like timid horses, really. Or aloof horses. Or apathetic horses, who are fat. Fuck cows.

Nebraska is so flat, even if it's interesting. Nowhere is a land more placid and predictable than Nebraska, except maybe for Kansas, and Oklahoma, and Illinois, and Iowa, and Indiana, and Ohio. The only human element to break it up and make it hideous are the sloppy low-rise billboards that poke out of the ground every few miles with bright reds and yellows, the typical ones that advertise for porn shops and steakhouses and food-fuel-lodging on Route 39 just of Exit 179. The one element that surprised me though was the neverending stretch of manmade ponds that littered the side of the road. I mean, there was one that was at least two miles long and no longer than 200 feet wide, whose water level went directly up to the front steps of houses. Let's hope that never floods ever.

The thought of mountains, or the idea of mountains, is a horrible thing, because the horizon is a billion miles away and mountains will never show up no matter how far you drive, and when they do you will never reach them no matter how far you drive, because they are on the horizon which is a billion miles away. This trip promises mountains, though. That is where we are going. Once you have the promise of something, you'll start to look hard enough to where you'll start seeing things you didn't before, probably either mirages or air pollution, says Mrs. Kolkmeier. You do get to Colorado, though, and even though you can't even see the faint outline of mountains yet, a victory line has been crossed. You've made it through the infinite wheaten gateway to the west.

The west is a very strange place to me. Even the road seems foreign, with its chalk-gray surface and black and white midlines. Its grazing fields that don't even look comfortable to walk on from two miles away. But here we are. Boulder, CO, where somehow the sun shines bluer and yellower on everything in sight and it's 50 degrees in December and everyone is prettier and nicer than they are in the rest of the world. Time to snowboard.

(Dedicated to Charley Field.)

50 ... things

Your problems, from me:


1. Sunflower seeds

2. The Wire

3. Wallace

4. Boats

5. Grand Theft Auto: Vice City

6. Peein' Ian

7. A Kid Named Cudi

8. DKB - The Overdue

9. Remember Lil Wayne?

10. My dog

11. Names

12. Germany

13. Less fortunate countries

14. Marijuana, amongst other drugs

15. The Big Dav(e)

16. Feline AIDS

17. Slugs

18. Ravens

19. The Wire

20. College

21. Effort

22. The pursuit of happiness

23. Sports movies

24. The Wire

25. Bananas

26. Diseases

27. Finding Forrester?

28. Ray Allen

29. Ben Gordon

30. All that weird music Lauren likes

31. Lauryn.

32. Public schools

33. Cross-curricular!

34. Jackie Robinson

35. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy

36. Talib Kweli

37. Alcohol

38. Jamie Foxx

39. Fantastic Mr. Fox

40. The National

41. Lollapalooza

42. Pitchfork — might have to sell my ticket I have for Sunday. If you'd like it, go on and shout me out.

43. Burgers

44. The diversity of humankind

45. That fucker who killed MLK

46. Dave Chappelle

47. Young adorable Kanye West

48. Chicago

49. Bad TV dramas

50. The Wire

_________________________________________
Your problems, answered:

1. Sunflower seeds
(in my mouth)
2. The Wire
(not watching it, thus my tv is off)
3. Wallace
(WHY?)
4. Boats
(smacked down)
5. Grand Theft Auto: Vice City
(Owning property)
6. Peein' Ian
(drugs)
7. A Kid Named Cudi
(GOOD music)
8. DKB - The Overdue
(Not music)
9. Remember Lil Wayne?
(Irrelevant music)
~

10. My dog
(so ittttchy)
11. Names
(not as important as we claim they are)

12. Germany
(what's goin' on over there?)
13. Less fortunate countries
 (what's goin' on over here?)

14. Marijuana, amongst other drugs
(they're out there)

~

15. The Big Dav(e)
(Maroon car hell yes Grant!)

16. Feline AIDS
(The past can still hurt)

17. Slugs
(So can salt, actually)

18. Ravens
(Lockouts... and Baltimore)

19. The Wire
(So what?)

20. College
(Gotta get Stringer smart!)

21. Effort
(College's fine print)

22. The pursuit of happiness
(College's bold print)

23. Sports movies
(My personal favorite? Remember the...)

24. The Wire
(Sorry, just don't worry about it.)

25. Bananas
(How 'bout them apples, angry white man?)

26. Diseases
(How 'bout them abscesses, sad white man?)

27. Finding Forrester?
(movies I haven't seen that have black people in them)

28. Ray Allen
(movies I have seen that have black people in them)

29. Ben Gordon
(the opposite)

~
30. All that weird music Lauren likes
(Like Energy Spent, by Liam Finn)

31. Lauryn.
(What a lovely fucking lady)

32. Public schools
(tend to miseducate)
33. Cross-curricular!
(Unless you're learning from this mofo!)

34. Jackie Robinson
(Mostly probably about this mofo.)

35. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
(The answer to life lies on Jackie's back)

36. Talib Kweli
(Black Star never goes on stage without a towel)

37. Alcohol
(Canopy Club-Laura Sokolowski-SoCo-YUP)

38. Jamie Foxx
(who I blame for being crazy)

39. Fantastic Mr. Fox
(this one's simple)

40. The National
(Picturing Fantastic Mr. Fox singing "I won't fuck us over!")

41. Lollapalooza
(At this venue, where I did not get to see them last year. Or this year. Or ever, most likely)

42. Pitchfork — might have to sell my ticket I have for Sunday. If you'd like it, go on and shout me out.
 (Uh, yeah. Shit.)
43. Burgers
(Delicious...)

44. The diversity of humankind
(...different.)

45. That fucker who killed MLK
(What was his probbbbblem? Oh right, unforgivable racist and inhumane. Forgot)

46. Dave Chappelle
(Nicole Simpson can't rap!)

47. Young adorable Kanye West
(Milsap's band)

48. Chicago
(Found out I was gang affiliated, got on tv and told on me)

49. Bad TV dramas
(Aka, not...)

50. The Wire
(Okay okay, you're right. I have a problem. Well, maybe just an addiction. Not a problem. WALLACE!)


--Eliot Sill

The History of Rap, According to Brendan

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-B. Cav