Not getting it

I've never been much of a jumper. I find my expertise is in making my way through large crowds. I'm thin, pushy and assertive, but not very springy. When I'm in a good mood, I feel I can jump higher. When I'm alone and stressed, my viscosity lowers and my ability to traverse large crowds is increased. I would consider these two attributes of equal importance.

The University of Illinois is a big place. Its sprawling campus is home to more worker-bee students than, I would think, any other university in the state. There are loads of crowds here. As a journalism major, I work in a competitive field. You can't just "take one for the team" and become a sports journalist. You have to work your ass off relative to everyone else working their ass off. You have to be a talented writer, you have to wisely discern turning points in games and know what questions to ask without making the rest of the lodge brothers look bad.

I first picked up the Daily Illini during a visit in my senior year of high school. I looked at the sports section (such was habit with newspapers since childhood) and read a column on Steve Nash. I liked it, but thought of some things that I would have done differently, which I thought were better. And I thought it'd be really cool to write for the paper. If I could get in to U of I, man, it'd be fun to see my face in print. Turns out I could get into U of I. It'd be fun to see my face in print.

Fast forward to freshman year, and I find the Daily Illini is actually quite an accessible organization. They take me in; my editor, Alex Iniguez, seems pretty nice. I get assigned a club sports beat and wait for further direction. I end up waiting quite a while, until October, when Alex floats me and the other two club sports writers a story idea with the plea "Please somebody do this story." I grabbed it, because it was underwater hockey, and I held my breath and dove in. I remember frequently corresponding with Alex, checking all my steps. Interviews? Practices? Length? Story tone? Whatever. Pictures? Pictures? Pictures? (I finally took the pictures.) And I came in with a story that I heard was hyperbolically called "the best first story ever." Which I basically still pride myself on today, sadly enough.

Alex worked with me to try and get me to a more prominent beat as club sports continued to dawdle. He was going to put me on hockey, then opted out of an additional hockey writer. He offered me women's gymnastics, and I opted for a column, showing this blog to him as a testament to my rambling abilities.

But I wanted to do more, and about this time last year, Alex and I talked and he convinced me to apply for assistant sports editor. Seeing as how I was the only willing applicant, I got the position and got myself in the newsroom. They convinced Jeff Kirshman, a sophomore, to take on the position as well. Assistant editors typically go on to become desk editors. The task was incredibly daunting at the time, but I knew there was a year before I'd have to be ready.

Amazingly, that year has come and gone. I've worked five days a week during the school year at the DI, critiquing stories, improving them, learning A.P. style, mingling with Jeff and the features desk, taking pointers from current editor Kevin Kaplan, seeing really good stories, seeing really bad stories. I've learned a lot. I've grown a lot.

At a certain point, you rise to the surface, or you make a leap to it. Or you sink. The more I filled in for Kaplan whenever he'd sparingly miss days, I grew in my confidence. If I could become sports editor my junior year, my senior year I'd have my pick of the litter. Jeff had told me with confidence that he didn't want to apply for sports editor. He had had enough of living at the DI and wanted to report again. After all, reporting is better for a resume.

I began using the words "heir apparent." They fit me.

Jeff and I's last day as true peers — before the word came down and the "apparent" half of the phrase could be dropped — we worked as well with each other as we had over the past year. Kaplan missed due to potential pink eye, and we ran the ship like two competent assistants would. The internet going down for two hours didn't stop us. We accessed facts that our reporters failed to find. We made sure everything was handed to the design desk on time. We had gone to news conference together, figured out what to play up through discourse, we stayed late, we watched the end of the NBA All-Star game, we finished the day together. I was exhausted. Too drained for drinks that night. Maybe another time, Jeff. It wouldn't be weird to ask. We had become friends through this job we loved and maligned.

The position of sports editor is a high-up one on the paper. The highest I care to go, really. I was coming into it like I had come into assistant editor, floating up through the mass of more qualified people per pointers from those I respect. Fifteen hours before the application deadline, Jeff had let me know he had a 180 degree shift of mind and was applying for sports editor.

Admitting you're flustered is rare — typically by the time you realize you were flustered, the damage has already been done. But Jeff's decision to apply flustered me, in an utterly fair way. I thought back to my application, which I had filled out in a more casual state of mind. I thought of new questions I'd have to answer, questions I hadn't been thinking of answers to for weeks. I went from needing an inductive appeal to needing to elicit deductive favor. My "good enough" wouldn't allow me a chance. I had seen a crack, and tried to fit through it. But no, this wasn't going to work that way. The bar had been raised, and now I had to leap.

Jeff had said earlier in the year, in a matter-of-fact way, "If I apply, they'll pick me over you." Fair, I thought. He has a year on me, a year which he used to cover varsity sports, and other than that Jeff and I were utterly equal in the eyes of superiors.  Things had changed now, though. I had impressed people. I had stepped up in times of need, and I had showed confidence. I was heir apparent, and no one shuddered at that.

Getting off the elevator on the third floor of the Illini Media building (the newsroom) for my interview, I was met, as the doors slid open, by Jeff. Damn it, he had worn a tie. I high-fived him/shook his hand. "Tag out," I joked, with a hint of nerve. I asked Jeff if he wanted to have a few drinks later. It would be a night for celebration — one of us was going to be editor, and the other would no longer have to be assistant. He accepted. The interview itself went well. Everyone in the room knew I could do the job. They asked me questions, and I answered some better than others. Nothing to do now but work and wait.

Nathaniel Lash, newly anointed managing editor, was the one who called me with the verdict. I was walking home, and had taken a detour so that I'd get the call outside, by myself. He apologized for an awkward miscommunication from earlier, and I could tell by his tone of voice there were more apologies to come. I understood immediately their decision to go with Jeff. That night had reassured me that either of us could do it, and it was cool having a chance to work with Jeff for a night in what was essentially a co-editing role, no assistance necessary. Nathaniel kept spoon-feeding me compliments after he told me the decision, and I kept chewing and swallowing them, because it seemed like a practical thing to do. When the conversation had lasted long enough, Nathaniel offered a final thanks, apology and compliment, and I hung up. I let the moment hang in the cool night air for a bit before putting my headphones back on. My iPod had kept me good company throughout the process.

For me, deferment means a new era and a new field. After spring break, I will begin reporting on the school's baseball team. I'm still planning on spending the summer here in Champaign, and hell, living with Jeff if possible. It's something that leaves plenty of room for opportunity, and brings about a little less stress to boot. I don't know for sure what I want to do next year, but I have a few ideas. And though I really, truly saw myself in that newsroom, working under Sammie, alongside Nathaniel and Taylor, with Jeff coming into me for edits and not the other way around, my time as sports editor will have to wait. And if I spend my time working out my reporting muscles, I'll be ready to jump when the time comes around again.

For now, I'll have to pocket my editor jokes, my meeting ideas, my editor fantasies, and my ideas for beat assignments for another year. It's a disappointing feeling. I lost, when I really thought I wasn't going to have to compete. I'm happy for Jeff, though. It's a challenge to me — earn my chops reporting, then I get another crack at the editor's chair.

It's important not to let go of failures like these — it's important to take them with you. I applied myself, and someone else applied themselves more successfully. And while it's hard to remember that you're not supposed to let your head hang, it's easy to remember that you're supposed to pick your head back up, look forward, and go somewhere.

Jeff, I'm happy for you. I think you made the right decision, potentially for both of us.

--Eliot Sill

Special

So it's 1:15 in the morning, and I'm desperately swimming through Sleigh Bells songs, trying to find something that will rock my fucking shit. My music sensors are too tender right now, perhaps I've been resting on my library's laurels this month, and now my ears are in heat and dying to hear something that fulfills this hungry silence.

I haven't showered today. I drank grape soda yesterday and ate jalapeno chips, which I double-dated with a shitty chicken slider and some slimy barbecue brisket. I woke up sick, with a leaky nose and mouth slogged full of mucus. I got up at two today and went over to the tenant union, dripping from the nose and mouth, to talk to some lady who told me to check Craigslist. I had a microwaved egg and bacon and melty cheesy Jimmy Dean breakfast sandwich and Papa John's pizza for food. I then had a ham salad (mayo, sugar and tomatoes) sandwich and a peanut butter and jelly wrap, which was overall the color of dead people's skin. I slept through my class today because, hell, I edit enough already. I had some warm Pibb Xtra to wash it down and I left my toothbrush somewhere over the weekend. Blare that damn Sleigh Bells. 

I wrote an essay for my creative writing class about my family and it sucked. I took a law test last week and completely forgot to implement Strict Scrutiny. I think my belly's getting bigger, probably because I've stopped working out, probably because I'm sick and looking for an excuse like "I'm sick." I have canker sores in my mouth, and they taste awful. I'm tired of Final Fantasy XIII-2 because I feel like it's worthless to play. Brian's handling most of that by himself now. Sorry Brian.

I haven't touched a piano or a cat since January. I forget what my dog even looks like. I haven't changed my sheets at all because they feel the same every time. I'm toiling my way through Mad Men while keeping pace with The Walking Dead {You Gotta March!} and waiting to start Firefly. I haven't felt fresh since I came home from Rend Lake. Rend Lake is great you guys.

Favorite places —

Butler Elementary, Springfield, Ill. -- This is so weird and I feel like such a traitor even acknowledging it as a great place. But simply put, this is where my friends and I spent most of our time loafing in Springfield, and therein lies the value. The place itself is not amazing. A really average elementary school, with a hint of antiquity. Across the street there's Sno-Bizz, which sounds really good right about now. As opposed to the muck in my chest.

Owen Marsh Elementary, Springfield, Ill. -- While we're on it, this is where I loafed by myself throughout my entire life. Owen Marsh is my stem, my origin, my foster parent of thought. I would be a different dude if I grew up anywhere else. I played baseball in its backyard field Schlitt Park, climbed trees, broke down a Pac-Man arcade machine by the generic factory lying just beyond its wake, and formed most of my friends within its walls. I run there when I go running. I sit there and I look at it and I try to think things, thinking that if I think enough things while looking at the building, it will know that I mean to thank it, and it will nod in appreciation. Owen Marsh, less conventional than its lesser cross-town rival, is shaped like a pair of glasses, with to circular classroom areas bridged by a tiny gymnasium.

I think she's saying, "Here, have this world."

Undetermined place in Champaign-Urbana, Ill. -- I don't have a go to spot yet. No building I climb atop to go and think. I guess if I had to choose a spot right now it'd be the Illini Media building, but that's such a reminder of difficult higher learning and my industrious work life that I don't know if I can feel relaxed when I go there, which is a thing. I'd like to say the Communications Library, but I only really go there when I have a huge test ready to destroy me that I have to study against. We'll see. Two more years here, I'm sure I'll find a nice niche for me. I like the campus as a whole, like, the whole campus is abso-worthy of being on this list. But, I'd like to narrow it down. Perhaps if Carrie was here (she's not) we could go to that bookstore in downtown Champaign, but seeing as how it's real cold always nowadays, I don't feel any urge to take my goopy ass out there alone on a bus.

North Beach, Racine, Wis. -- I don't have any real recent memories of this place, but this was "the beach" when I was little. If we were going to "the beach," it meant we were going here. Lake Michigan kissing against this otherwise shitty-but-quaint Wisconsin town (that I might actually like if I were to visit today) provided my relief when I went to visit (ALL) the grandparents up north. We could go to the beach and dig holes and hit water after six feet and not care at all that one of the biggest lakes in America was staring us in the face because we were 12 years old. I always loved a visit to the beach, and it showed me Wisconsin's nonfarmy side, which is small. About the size of Lake Michigan, in fact.

That sand is as Wisconsiny as cows eating grass. It's funny, despite how alike all beaches look, I can tell this one's North.

Augustana College, Rock Island, Ill. -- This is a small campus, or at least the portion I'm familiar with is small enough to lump into one without specifying. Summer after senior year was the one summer since my post-sixth-grade summer that I didn't go to Augustana for a week for church camp. I went back last year, and finally the campus was familiar to me. I've stayed in Ericson dorms for about four weeks out of my life, and walked the Slough Path as many times as Augie students have this semester. Maybe more. Leadership Lab, and thus Augie, was my first preview of a college lifestyle. When I say "college lifestyle," I'm referring to the freedom from parents and self-accountability, and not the excessive drinking. The place screams summer, and I associate it with feeling free, and connected with God, which can't hurt.

Don't be fooled by this pretty picture; the Slough Path is disgusting. Side note: I love it.

Millennium Park, Chicago, Ill. -- This was my favorite place in the world for a while. And I've been there twice. Once this past September, another time in September of my 8th grade year when my dad took me to Chicago with him on a business trip. That's when I fell in love. It was hot, and there was water on the ground, and in the middle of the industrium that is Chicago, these two towers were spitting water out and I was walking around barefooted and I just felt happy. It was the most psychologically pleasing park I had ever seen. Going back there this year was awesome. I want to go there sometime when it's hot and spend a whole day there. Then drink a bunch and cry for my dead youth.

A world without shoes... One can dream.

Rend Lake Resort, Ill. -- This place. God bless this place. Rend Lake sits out there alone in southern Illinois with the stoical presence of a wolf, breathing and respirating February air, nurturing without boasting its wildlife. Even with dead trees lining the lake, it's so beautiful and so lifelike. I go here one weekend a year every February, and have since my 8th grade year. Each year at Windjammer, I sit on the back balcony, marveling at its graceful shape and picturesque warmth. The sun hangs in the sky just where it wants to be, channeling God's eyes to lay upon it with admiration. And I feel like God and I are both looking at the lake, admiring it, too in love to say a word. I soak up its placid splendor by taking some time with Rend Lake during the dance. I go out into the crisp but providing night air and take time to really think about myself and what I'm doing with my life. For some reason or another it seems I always need to around this time. Last year I spent it thinking how crazy I was about a particular person who happened to not be there that year. This year I spent it thinking how crazy it was that I was with that person, who was waiting inside. She didn't ask where I went. She understands the whole concept completely. Rend Lake is like a friend I can talk about anything to. I love it as such.

Lambeau Field, Green Bay, Wis. -- I've already written about my love affair with Green Bay, and specifically Lambeau Field. But still, there's never enough to be said. I feel home at Lambeau, I feel warm at Lambeau even when it's not warm, I feel wanted at Lambeau, I feel loved at Lambeau and I feel like I love those around me, even though I don't know them. I feel community unlike at any other place. It's bigger and more united. And at Lambeau Field, the gods walk the earth. They will sign your hat if you're polite enough and catch them at a good enough time. The surrounding area pays homage to the place, and those who filled its hallowed grounds. You never feel out of place, and you feel as though every sight is important. I wrote that the security staff were more like aunts and uncles than anything else, and I miss my extended family. How cool it would be to see a game there. Yeah, I've never even been.

The crowd you see isn't watching a game. They're saying thanks.

Observe the above picture. This is from the Return to Titletown, a post-Super Bowl celebration in Green Bay. It's 19 below, the season's over, the quota met, and these fans aren't ready to stop giving. I've never been as cold as I was, gloveless on the aluminum bleachers in that wind. Nor have I ever felt like I was in as perfect a place. Within life, we create our own joys. This was our joy: of loving a football team and having experienced it reach the fullest of its potential. To celebrate by coming together with the sole purpose of sharing ecstasy was to glorify the core difference between humans and animals — the love of the game.

The problem with loving places is that you don't want to leave them. Same with people I guess. So when a weekend at Rend Lake with my LYO family comes to a close, it's only natural that I feel a little bit like binging on gross and turning myself into a total wad.

--Eliot Sill

Nick - Resting On My Laurels

"Let me have men about me that are fat;
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights.
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look;
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous."

-Shakespeare's Julius Caesar


It's somewhat ironic that Shakespeare would have Caesar warn against content men, considering he's the first person that comes to mind when I think of the phrase "resting on one's laurels."

A few people have been calling me "New Nick" this week because I changed my hair / glasses / attitude. Which is funny and clever; and let's be honest, I love attention. But pretty soon this joke will die like every running joke dies, and all the better.

I change up when I start to get too comfortable. Too bored, even. Like when I cut my long hair, or that other time. Because if I've gone long enough without learning something new, without changing up, then I'm doing something wrong. Resting on my laurels is bad for me.

One time I told somebody that everything ends, and they got really upset; I'd like to amend that statement. Everything changes.

One of the best compliments I ever received was from Friday Conor, who told me, "you do what you do, and you stick to it."

There's an apparent contradiction here, but really it makes perfect sense. Living in the moment and doing what you do is all you are; what you've done in the past, and what you say you're going to do in the future are things that people see about you, but they don't make you who you are. They're just words and memories.

I like learning and trying and changing; that's who I am.


"It don't matter that some fool say he different, 'cause the things that make you different is what you really do, what you really go through." - D'Angelo Barksdale, The Wire

-Nick.

Nick - Fifty Improvisers In A Room

I spent all weekend in Indianapolis at CIT, College Improv Tournament, with DeBono. Fifteen teams showed up to compete (although I missed three of them) and a ton of different forms and techniques and interesting peoples were present.

I could write a whole post about how awesome that was and how much I love doing improv and how awesome all the people there were, but that's been done. Instead, I'm going to write about some of the funnier problems encountered when you have that many improvisors in the same room.

Focusing Is Hard

I don't know how many of you have been to an improv practice before. (Probably, like, half of you, if my readership is a reflection of my friend base.) But one thing that plagues every improv team everywhere is that improvisers just can't focus for that long.

As the contest was starting, Keith, our incredibly talented and friendly host, attempted to explain the rules in a 30 minute meeting. He tried really hard to be entertaining and keep everybody interested, but about 15 minutes in, he said, "Any questions?"

One girl shouted, "Are you single!?"

That was it. Focus lost.

The meeting never really got back on track after that point. Poor Keith.

Practical Jokes

Every improviser thinks that they are hilarious. Sometimes this plays out at the expense of others. Also, I admit that I am more guilty of this than almost anyone else.

In our hotel room, Simeon and I shared one of the beds while Kimi and Clare shared the other. Our first order of business was to give Clare the wrong room number and then sit around and giggle.

That night, Kimi tried as hard as possible to make Clare as uncomfortable as possible by forcibly spooning with her.

Our masterpiece was a plan to have Kimi start crying as Clare was almost asleep, while Simeon and I would pretend to be sleeping.

I spent the whole weekend watching people trying to be funny, but Clare's reaction to Kimi made me laugh harder than anything else all weekend. Prank calls were made. We convinced someone to jump in a pool. Good times all around.

We Can't Hold A Normal Conversation

Improvisers, as fearless as we can be, are generally deficient in social skills. One conversation occurring at the after party began with someone asking, "Do you work in Indianapolis?"

The response was, "Why, yes! I'm the mayor."

Conversation over.

Beyond that kind of cringe-inducing miscommunication, most improv conversations go like this:

"You you do improv? I do improv!! You go to college? I go to college!! We have so much in common!"

Judging Comedy Sucks

Comedy is a subjective thing. It's very difficult to judge. Especially when you have long form, short form, and musical teams all competing in the same bracket.

Feelings get hurt. Accusations get thrown around. Judges can be biased towards a particular form or a particular team.

I don't really care much about the competitive aspect the way it's done here, but some people take that shit seriously.

We're Loud And We Love Ourselves

The hotel room that we hung out in after the show got a lot of noise complaints.

Also they got yelled at by a naked guy.

True story.

Sleep

Oh god. Sleep. It's currently Sunday night, and the last time I got more than 4 hours of sleep at a time was Thursday night.

I took a series of 2 ninety-minute naps over the course of the weekend, and Saturday night I got a solid 4 hours of sleeping in after laughing at Clare for most of the night.

Speaking of, I'm feeling kind of dizzy. It's 7:30pm, but this seems like as good a time as any to call it a day.

-Nick.

EDIT: I just remembered another problem that someone mentioned to me as he shuffled through the pile of coats, looking for his own.

"So many damn peacoats," He muttered.

Nick - Comedy

"But nowadays everybody's a comedian, even the weather girls and continuity announcers. We laugh at everything. Not intelligently anymore, not with sudden shock, astonishment, or revelation, just relentlessly and meaninglessly. No more rain showers in the desert, just mud and drizzle everywhere, occasionally illuminated by the flash of paparazzi."
- Douglas Adams


I really like comedy. I like comedy a lot. Most of my friends like comedy. I'm in two improv troupes. I've done sketches and comedy videos many times. But comedy and I need to talk.


One of my favorite comedies of all time is Arrested Development. Arrested Development has a clever story line, clever characters, and extremely well-written dialogue. In many ways, it's the perfect comedy TV show. The plot advances at a good pace, the characters are humorous but believable, and it can put on a serious face without ever ceasing to be clever and entertaining.


Friday Conor shares my passion for Arrested Development, and has also introduced me to a number of other comedies. For example, one of his favorite movies is Hot Rod. Hot Rod is a movie designed expressly to get laughs; a series of well-coordinated jokes, one after another. However, I have trouble getting into Hot Rod.


I need context for jokes to have effect on me. I find shows like Dr Horrible's Sing-Along Blog and Arrested Development far funnier than Hot Rod or (dare I mention) Black Dynamite, because they can tackle serious issues while still being every bit as clever and funny. I find that movies which aim only to be funny start to feel hollow.


I think this is also why I prefer long-form improv to short-form. Not only is the scene funny, but it can tell a longer, more elaborate story.


I consider comedy to be a vessel: not a pursuit in and of itself, but a tool used to tell a story.


-Nick.

Nick - All Alone

We here at Classic Brian like to write about doomsday scenarios. Especially zombies. And while zombie breakouts may seem fun and exciting, I do not care much for them. If there were a zombie breakout, you and I would probably not be main characters or saviors. We would be hapless survivors at best and victims at worst.

But what if you woke up one morning to discover that you were the only person left on the planet?

Suddenly, no matter what you do you become the main character. What do you do? Do you take time to do what you've always wanted to do? To dance on the grave of society? Maybe take time to read a book you never got around to? Or live in an expensive house? I cannot answer any of these questions for you. But I can tell you what I would do!

. . .

I wake up, and everyone is gone. There is no noise coming from the street. Nobody at home. Even the dogs are gone. The only thing left is eery silence. Unfortunately, it would probably take me a while to notice. I'd probably wonder where everybody went for a few hours. Any other person would let the time tick away, waiting for something to happen. But not me. I would come to my senses, then hurriedly confirm my suspicions, and then spring into action. After all, I've written a blog post about this.

The scariest thing about this situation is that we don't really know how long electricity would last without any human oversight. The general consensus I get from Googling this is that the power would probably go out within the first day. Thus, the first day is the most important. I would frantically get to work before the power went out, forever.

Probably my first task would be to collect a gas powered generator and as much gas as possible. I would get to the gas station and fill as many gas canisters as I could fit in my car.

You know. These things.

Then I would go to a hardware store or something and take as many gas powered generators as I could find. Also I would grab several lengths of clear tubing so that I could learn to siphon gas from the many cars left behind by humans.

Finally, I would pick up enough food to fill a fridge and freezer, and settle into my new lifestyle. I would take as much cereal as I could; it will last until the end of time. Also I would get all of the ice cream, because I only have one shot at frozen things. And I would take a ton of milk, because I love milk and I don't really want to raise cows.

Obviously this stuff can't last forever; I would definitely be making frequent food raids at stores. However, having food and electricity could help me transition into an unpopulated world until I get better at scavenging.

After living this way for a long time, I would probably get very bored and lonely. Maybe it's time for a road trip? At the very least, I can go check out the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone Park, and all that other natury stuff. I would pack food and gas with me, and if I ever had car troubles I could simply find a car with keys in the ignition. I hope. Maybe I should find spare batteries and stuff too.

Probably when I get to experience the glory of nature without any people around, I will become a part of it myself. I will live in the wilderness, and learn to live in peace and harmony with the animals. I could live in the shadows of the mountains at Yellowstone Park, spending my leisure time watching the geysers and swimming with the fish.

Of course, I would get bored of that too before long. And then what kind of future awaits me? Maybe I'd go try to fly a plane. I guess I really don't know what I'd do next. But when all of you are dead, I'll find out.

-Nick.

Nick - The Contents Of My Toolbox

I found this by Google searching "pink toolbox."

The last day of improv practice before summer, we wrote down everything we had learned all year on a chalkboard. Every technique, all the little pieces of knowledge, every improv tool we had learned, all collected in one place. We called it our Improv Toolbox. And this concept can be applied on a much wider scale.

It turns out that we can learn a lot from people. Everybody has an experience we can learn from. Everybody has that distinctive style of humor. Everybody has something that I can add to my Toolbox.

For example, let's look at Sunday Robert. Sunday Robert makes a really funny angry face sometimes. His angry impression is hilarious. Now, if I see a situation in which it would be really funny to be pretend-angry, I just pretend that I'm Sunday Robert. I pull Angry-Robert out of my Toolbox and channel his energy.

I found this by Google searching "People Trapped In A Box."

Chances are, if you've done something funny around me, I've taken it and placed it in my Toolbox for later use. In this way, I can take your interestingness and add it to my own, making me seem more interesting.

Friday Conor's Awkward Manner, Wednesday Eliot's Way Of Phrasing Things, and Sunday Robert's Texting Hearts To People are now all in my Toolbox, along with many others. I wait until I understand your particular MO, that one thing you do, or that mannerism you sometimes have, and then I capture it for myself.

It's kind of like Pokemon, but with people.

-Nick.

Nick - Old People

I didn't pay much attention to old people until I went to college and there were none. Now coming back to Springfield is really strange, because there are people over the age of 40 or 50 all over the place.

Like many large demographics, you can't group all old people together. But all elderly folk have been through and seen a lot, and thus they tend to be set in their ways. I guess when you've been doing something for years, it becomes a part of you, and that's what makes our elders so different from teenagers in many cases.

I don't want to make blanket statements about how I think old people act. I'm going to talk about a few of my older relatives.

Aunt Teet

My Great Aunt Theresa, or Aunt Teet, as she encourages the kids to call her, is someone who I'm very close to. I started taking out her garbage for her at the beginning of my freshman year. Shortly after, she was no longer able to drive, and I started getting groceries for her too. I've been going to her house at least twice a week (while I'm in Springfield) for four years.

Aunt Teet loves to chat. I always set aside an hour or two on days when I go over to her house, just for visiting with her. She also writes letters to me every week or so while I'm in Champaign. She writes tons of letters, and sends out more than 100 Christmas cards ever year. Her handwriting is beautiful, and sometimes a little difficult to decipher.

Theresa has a lot to say; not being able to leave her house, she has a lot of time to think about things. She used to be a nurse, so medicine is her specialty. Despite being old and set in her ways, she isn't stubborn or entitled; I think life has taught her that humbleness is a virtue, and stubbornness yields no fruit.

Grandma Helen

Grandma Helen (or GH, as we often call her) is Aunt Theresa's sister, and they couldn't be more different. GH has always been stubborn, set in her ways, and somewhat standoffish. But she loves and values family, so we've been very close to her. She used to babysit me and my brother twice a week, and took us to dinner at least once a week after that.

GH developed Alzheimer's a little over a year ago. It's tragic, but at the same time, some of her standoffishness and her stubbornness has been washed away. Her sense of humor seems to be better than ever, and she's happy.

Papa (Pronounced "Paw-Paw")

My grandpa on my mother's side, Papa has been near and dear to me all my life. He used to care for me and my brother three days a week after school. He was a dentist, but he's been retired for most of my life. He had a big house on the lake, with a pool and a boat. We had many, many adventures in that house, and I miss it dearly to this day. Papa moved to Florida before I started high school, and it's a big deal when he comes to stay in Springfield for a week.

Papa is very stubborn, and he thinks he knows everything. He especially likes to talk about government, but has no idea how it works. He's probably in Florida running stop signs as we speak. He's 80 years old, but he still plays golf and works out every day.

We've vacationed at his house in Florida a few times, but I still miss his house on the lake. And more than that, I miss knowing that he's around and he could come visit at any time. I think he might be my brother's favorite person in the world.

Grandpa John

Grandpa John is different from all my other older relatives. He was a pathologist for a long time. He lives down the street from me. He sometimes sings at church. He isn't stubborn, or set in his ways, and he doesn't say much. He's just about the most friendly and nice person I can imagine.

Now that he's retired, he spends a lot of time golfing, caring for his beautiful garden, and making gorgeous furniture in his workshop. We built a table together once, but he did most of the hard work. I mostly just designed and sanded it. It's in my basement, and I love it dearly.

Grandpa John is way too generous. He got me my first laptop. She is an iBook G4, and her name is Lisa. She's currently sitting on a shelf at my house waiting for my dad to replace her bad hard drive.

Grandpa John also understands technology better than any old person I know. All of my other relatives here struggle to send emails. I don't think Aunt Teet has ever tried to use a computer. Grandpa John, however, has a Mac, and was using Netflix long before it became popular.

. . .

Talking to someone who grew up without air conditioning or computers is strange. It's like looking into another time period, and seeing how the people who lived then are living now. I wonder, when we get older, if we'll have characteristics stereotypical of old people? Or will the conditions we grew up in imbue different qualities?

-Nick.

Nick - Observations On Obscenity

There were a hundred more relevant titles for this post, but I chose the one that had assonance.

My family has really weird priorities. My opinions were always more-or-less respected by my parents, they were pretty lax and gave me a lot of freedom, but god help me if I ever spoke any vaguely offensive words around them.

Not that I ever did; that's my brother's job. But in all seriousness, I never wanted to use curse words, or any words or phrases that might offend anybody. Growing up at Blessed Sacrament, a strict Catholic school, cursing when the teachers weren't around was the only act of rebellion most of my fellow students had. And I always wondered if they knew how stupid they sounded.

As I grew up, I was more understanding that obscene words are often necessary. But still, it's not at all uncommon for people to abuse them. And when a taboo word is used often enough, it loses some of its power.

Something I've learned during my time with The Titanic Players is that some characters need to use obscenities; however, if you rely on curse words all the time, they'll lose their edge. And then when you pull out a well-thought-out and obscene character, it won't be as funny. A politician who debates a very kind and noble opponent while making a  speech about "that shitty health bill" or "those damned libs" could be really funny, but only if you haven't been throwing shit and damn around the rest of the show.

Anyway, back to talking about me. I took it upon myself to not get into the habit of throwing around curses all the time. (or ever, when possible.) And I feel like this really long and probably not-worth-it experiment has taught me a lot about the power of language.

When you throw around obscenities too much, they lose their power. When you don't use them at all, you miss out on some great jokes or ways that things could have been worded. Language is a careful balancing act; finding the right balance where you can use that power without abusing it.

That balancing act, and the power of language, is really the take-home point I wanted to send to everybody. But I've got one more thing to say on the subject before I sign my name. This is something I've been waiting to say for a long time.

If you've ever mocked me for my reluctance to use obscenities, or quietly sneered at my always family-friendly improv:

FUCK you.

-Nick.

Nick - Protector of the Weak!

You know Gyarados, right? If you don't, bear with me, I'll stop talking about Pokemon in a sec.

Anyway, Gyarados makes Pokemon games easy. He has monstrous attack power, solid defenses on all counts, and only really fears the electric type. To top it all off, you can get him relatively early in the game because he evolves at level 20. After that, he's a machine. He crushes anything in your path.

And that is why he is boring.

Because every time I'm too good at something, I get bored of it. My favorite pokemon is always the one that is cool, but not that good. This way, I accomplish two things:
1. I am challenged.
And 2. I feel like I'm doing things in my own style. (ie, like I'm better than other people.)

This principle of preferring weakness rather than strength comes back to haunt me in every video game I play, but it carries over to other stuff too.

In Golden Sun 2, I didn't care that I had super strong characters I could use; I wanted to use Ivan, because I like him. He died quickly all the time, but for some reason my attachment to him only grew stronger as it became clear things weren't going to work out. Fire Emblem was a similar story, but infinitely more painful because of how frustrating that game is.

This isn't just a trait that flairs up in video games, though that seems to be where it's most prominent. If I'm at the gym in Champaign and there's a guy who doesn't know what he's doing, I feel an immediate attachment to him. By being uncomfortable and out of his element, he has shown his weakness. And this leads me to believe we are destined to be friends.

I can only conclude that nature done screwed up and gave me a maternal instinct. Curse you, nature, and all of your doings!

Basically the point is that I choose to surround myself with weakness. I guess that explains my friends!


Zing!

-Nick.

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.