Old age

These songs are basically the same song. And I like that Janelle Monae weasled her way into fun.'s awesome anthem, because they toured together and Monae was the headlining act. Now, if they ran that tour back, they'd swap roles, and Monae would open. But that has to hit her as an artist to be going around the country, and this band you've taken under your wing jumps up and puts together a chorus (that, as it turns out, fun. gave up on trying to fit naturally into the song. they just decided to burst into it and vanish away from it because, hell, if you had thought of that chorus, you wouldn't care whether you flow in or out of it. you'd just blast it loudly and repeatedly. well handled, fun.) that rockets it into the forefront of pop-culture — the chorus is that catchy. And so Monae, who has put together an awesome career founded on a peppy jazzy sound and pleasantly enigmatic personality (thinking Gwen Stefani, whose part in the duet "I Saw Red" with Sublime's Brad Nowell hardly resembles the musical artistry responsible for "Hollaback Girl"), sees fun. grab pop dollars while she gets by being a unique independent act. Ain't that some shit. Fun. politely provides Monae with some backing vocals cred, which is the reason I am listening to her now. She's fun. No pun intended, because that wouldn't make sense.

Anyway, the songs are both about "hey, we're old now, but let's put an effort for like six hours into pretending we aren't old and don't live with the inhibiting responsibilities that come with old age." And that's how I feel whenever I write a thought-out, engaging Classic Brian post. My era of soapbox blog posts, so emo in nature, is over. Now, I'm not undermining every post I've ever dropped on the blogspot (blot), because I stand by the things I've written here, and I love them, as they are a part of me growing up. And I'm not "grown up" now, though it seems like I'm trying to say that. I've just run out of ideas to blare on about, maybe only temporarily, but still.

For instance, it's Friday. What? I post Wednesdays. But, there's a clear path from Tuesday (hats off to Brendan) and I was legitimately busy on Wednesday until I became very exhausted. I went to Busch Stadium to cover a baseball game Wednesday and it was unbelievable. I was running across the grounds in between innings to get new angles on pictures I was taking (horribly). And while it's a great experience for our baseball team to get to play on Busch, I feel even cooler for getting the opportunity to report from it. Hell, I didn't even have to lose (5-4 to Missouri). Oh hell, there's an idea. I want to do it justice (and on a Wednesday) so I'll do it next week. But hopefully this writing here assures that I don't forget.

I miss the days of checking CB's stats to peep pageviews, and wishing that this blog would become a cult hit — which was always a pipe dream, no worries. But you who have read this blog from the start, I love you more literally every week. I keep getting older, taking on more responsibilities (college is progressing well in that regard) and losing time to write about the seconds I used to have but now spend preparing for how to spend the next seconds.

I used to text other CB members to try and keep everyone on top of it. I had ideas, hell we had a guest week, implying that we were people to fill in for. That was my idea, and I spent showers thinking about it. These beautiful posts I once penned, crafted with everything I had are now backwash of my time, not what I call upon to showcase my writing skills and altogether the equivalent of an old friend who wouldn't be your friend anymore if he hadn't always been your friend. It saddens me to think about, which I don't do all that often.

--Eliot Sill

The Bum Diaries

Brian McMahon Posting for Robert Langeiweird Late!

GONZO JOURNALISM:

Robert, a dog, and I just departed Robert's back porch with five ounces of mescaline, three syringes full of heroine, and twenty five capsules full of hydro codine. My associate Robert, a journalist, is assigned to cover a story of the turtle races of significantly high importance at the Henson Robinson Zoo this Saturday.

But that is not our main priority.

Right now, it's getting all these damn bees off my arms. The dog, well it think its a dog, an hour ago it was a cat, or a penguin. I dont know what fucking animal it really is. All I know is it's name, Rufus. Or I think it's Rufus, thats what the penguin told me, or the dog. Fuck, where am I? Anyway, about three hours ago Rufus knocked the last bottle of ether off the table and licked it up. In a rush, Robert and I sniffed up what we could. What would you do, thats five hundred dollars worth of fucking ether man! That shit doesn't grow on trees man!

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. Robert is passed out in a pool of his own piss right now while I'm trying to figure out what to do with this damn dog. I need something to even me out. Five pills of the hydro should give me the fix. 

.

..

....

...

Shit man, that was the ex. What fucking dealer did Rob get this from. Why is Abraham Lincoln tapdancing with Nazis in Rufu's kennel right now. Oh shit. I think I'm getting it again. The fear.

I hope all of you are doing well at your colleges and universities. LLCC is crazy!!!!

-Brian

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

Songs of Yore

by Brendan Cavanagh

My name is Brendan Cavanagh, I'm twenty years old and I have a huge problem: I'm getting tired of my musical catalog. Certainly, I've made a number of infrequent musical acquisitions over the last year, but even the major breakthroughs I've experienced with my favorite albums listened to in 2011 seem to mostly be albums I already had in my possession, yet never fully discovered previously. Even the most recent albums I've picked up from the library recently seem to be as neglected as most of the same tired music on my iPod. When I pick up my iPod nowadays, I can't help but play the same smattering of songs each time- current, passing favorites and the like. I thirst for an album that will electrify and inspire me like some of the foundational albums in my repertoire once did. It appears to me that music these days doesn't affect me in the same manner that it used to. Let's look back and find out why:

Overlooking that short time in eighth grade when I had a "Rio" mp3 player ('cause everyone at school had one, Mom!), my first exposure to the harmonious rapture of crisp, stolen mp3 songs was as an eighth grader with the sleek, black iPod nano I received from Santy Claus. There were two songs I especially desired to "own," the appreciation of which I could happily attribute to Ken Burns. My eighth grade history teacher took several weeks out of our year to watch, at separate times in the year, his documentaries about Lewis & Clark and the Civil War. Each had a "theme song" of sorts- an historic, instrumental song that served as a running motif throughout each series of movies. For Lewis & Clark, there was "Beech Spring," and for the Civil War, "Ashokan Farewell."

My uncle Randy, whose 90s wardrobe has recently become my own- cardigans and flannels, and a short sleeved-button down I am actually wearing as I write, with "Randy" stitched on one side and "CO OP" stitched on the other- is the Cavanagh family's technological guru, and he offered to let me use his computer to try out a program called Limewire, from which I could acquiesce myriad songs I desired, without having to purchase or struggle to locate. Naturally, I was absolutely smitten with the idea, so I made regular visits to his house a mere three blocks away from mine on weekends and pirated music to my heart's delight. I can acutely recall sitting down at his home-office swivel chair, downloading favored songs illegally as often as I twirled around in that black leather chair. At first, I mostly downloaded songs I had always loved that my parents turned me on to. When I finally did get my hands on "Ashokan Farewell," I was ecstatic. To test the song quality, and hear it blasted directly into my ears for the first time, I blared the volume as I played it on my appropriately-timed four minute walk home that foggy, silent day of Autumn 2010. I unabashedly had my parents listen to it too; I desired that they should hear the same beautiful song I was once exposed to during each daily installment of Ken Burns' The Civil War, as well as hear mp3 music for the first time (Ah, the 2000s). Once, I recall, I was at my grandmother's Townhouse flat downtown, and I figured she, more than anyone else, would appreciate such an old-timey song, and surely she had no prior exposure to an iPod at the time (she currently owns an iPad, if that properly puts things in perspective), so I relinquished control of my iPod to her and made sure she listened to "Ashokan Farewell." The song came to her as a shock; literally, as I failed to keep in mind that she might not have been as hearing impaired as I was at the time, so the music probably blew out her failing ear drums at the time, as evidenced by a terrified shriek upon the song's commencement. Even so.

The music I downloaded illegally at the time seemed so much more different than it is today. Personally, it was harder to acquire. Of course, this is well before I learned of the passively pirating strategy of burning CDs from the library to my computer. Anyway, since I couldn't truly enjoy a song until I had it in my possession, on my iPod, directly played into my ears, my frenzied anticipation built each song up into a ballad of unprecedented effectiveness. Therefore, when I finally waded through the inexplicably ubiquitous mp3 files of Bill Clinton impressions and pornographic videos that veiled desired songs, the acquired song rang so much more loudly, and truly, and fully and effectively.

I wish I had more to say, or ideas to elaborate upon. My basic point is this: I don't appreciate music as much as when it was harder for me to acquire. This, of course, comes along with growing up in a constantly technologically advancing society, but traces of the primordial feeling can still be felt in finally acquiring that key album within the repertoire of an especially favored artist or musician after great waiting periods and eager anticipation (In particular, I'm reminiscing about my three-year crusade in high school to gorge myself on Bob Dylan's repertoire). Hell, maybe I just miss being in eighth grade, in a simpler time. Naturally, that would make sense, as most of my blog posts revolve around the idea (and oft-used tag) of overt sentimentality. Take me home, country road.

Nick - Let Down

I'm going to tell you guys up front; this is a post about my semester. Exit's that way, if you're in the wrong room.

My semester is best summed up with one word: disappointment. It's a beautifully succinct word. It implies expectations, followed by a lack of reward. It describes a hole where there should have been fulfillment. When the day you've waited for for weeks finally arrives, and you spend it in your room listening to music, that's disappointment.

The semester, much like the song First Few Desperate Hours by The Mountain Goats, started out on a high note before delving into more depressing subjects. There was the rush of coming back; the excitement over all that was going to happen this semester. We had improv auditions coming up; we were going to find a house to live in next year; we were going to party like nobody's business.

We found a house, I found a girlfriend, and I didn't have to take chemistry classes anymore. Things were going well, until we lost the house. Problems came up with the lease; one of our housemates pulled out of the deal. Meanwhile my professors were turning out to be crazy and their classes very weirdly set up. This weird rhythm, once established, persisted the entire semester.

But, good news! We found another house! This was the best part of my semester. Living in the dorms started to grate on my nerves after that. I just wanted to have my own room and live in our house. I just wanted the year to end.

Then I got mono. I was really sick for over a month, and I felt shitty in general for a long time before and after that. I pushed through. I pushed hard. I dragged myself to classes when my tonsils were too swollen to talk. I made myself keep moving by focusing on the future.

I got better just in time to miss CU Improv Fest. I still felt awful and tired, but I never once let myself crash. Then I got to spend time being unable to drink, having difficulty staying up past 10pm, and watching as all the good times blazed past me.

Finally, an end is given; finals week approaches quickly. Only one more week. One more week and I'm done. I see light at the end of the tunnel, just as my relationship launches into the final stages of its slow, agonizing collapse. Boom, crash. All that effort wasted and gone. Suddenly the end of the tunnel doesn't look so light.

Here's the part where I spend the day I waited for for weeks in my room listening to music.

I drag myself to my Thursday morning stats final. I hadn't studied. I hadn't really slept. I pushed through, tried hard not to cope with reality for the rest of Thursday, couldn't sleep again, and blasted through my last final on Friday.

Get me the hell out of here.

The worst part is that I don't think I would do anything different if given the chance. I was dealt a shitty hand, and I played it out to the bitter end, card by agonizing card. I was tired and angry, I hadn't learned anything, and there wasn't a damn thing I could've done to prevent any of it.

It's an asshole thing to say, but I was disappointed in everyone but myself.

At least I still have that, I guess.

-Nick.

Some storm we knew we'd brave

False, lying, incomplete.
There's an unfathomable essence in this room.
Something's not right — well, so
you're not here.

When I felt the warmth that day,
it reminded me of your shirt
pressed against my invulnerable skin.

Some things, they say, are meant to fade,
others vanish quickly
no more lonely days,
I'll take this planet with me.

You've found me, you see me, know my name
I'm-so-enjoy-you're glad you came

Don't think twice just take me with
we'll find some land and spread our arms wide.
We'll take it in, and it will be ours
to groom
and grow
and grace
and give.

We won't have to leave, not even when we think we should.
This place of ours, our neighborhood.
Our roundabout, our philanthrope.
Some reason won't wedge between us and it,
nah, it would never work out

that way. When we're older
we won't have to cry,
because no one's going to say
to us a bye.

Independence, independence
independence, independence, independence
oh no. Independence, independence.
Oh no.

Fighting back. Fighting back. Fighting back
fears—

--Eliot Sill


An afterword:

I feel the need to add — the need to explain myself. See, I've never ever liked poetry I've attempted. I've always written my poems, loved them, then hated them within an hour. It's the form of writing I'm least confident in.

Poetry stirs us that way. To try and use words as brushstrokes and craft art out of letters is a difficult task. Especially when it's abstract in the way (my) poetry is. I've found myself better describing emotions and images, rather than trying to use words as them. But I'm not alone. Poetry is an oft neglected art form.

It's not cool, it's never cool to do poetry, at least not in a public forum, (such as Classic Brian), but I feel like it's one of those things where it's awkward to read someone-you-know's poetry. Because you're used to them expressing themselves in a different, normal way. But when someone thinks they have this mind bending concoction of flowey words and sappy imagery painting phrases, it's sort of a matter of pretense. You don't respect the person writing because they aren't above you enough to write in that way.

Having said that, good poetry is good poetry. It'll make itself known in a crowd of crap, like most good things.

But here I am, I don't feel confident slinging poetry on Classic Brian like it's something I'm entitled to try. Like fiction, but to a greater extent. I am backing up that poetry with prose because, damn it, I can do prose. Anyone can do prose. But, anyone can do poetry too. Not good poetry mind you, but who said prose was easy to rock. Certainly, I think, it's easier. Especially for someone like me, who meanders on and on and can give you 1,000 words on any little dumb thing (like a dumb poem).

I wrote this poem because I didn't feel like I had any solid CB ideas, but yet I had a lot on my mind. I tried to think of topics, and only words came to my head. Words that sounded good together. Words that sounded bad together. Words that sounded nonsensical, frightened, and alone. Words that desired the companionship of other words. I put a lot of myself in its three-hours-ago state into that poem, and I feel like it relieved some stress, just typing it. But I still can't look at it like it's good. I hate it.

And, going back to the as-a-writer thing, it sucks that I don't feel confident in all walks of write. I wish I could bang out poetry and fiction in the same way I can do the things I do semi-decently. I've never been a songwriter, and I've never been a poet. I think I sound overall corny and always too desperate to sound cool.

Regardless, thanks for reading.

Halloweenblogpost

"Whatever you, do, Sophie, DO NOT appear in the sequel. And if you even consider Halloweentown High, I'm taking my pointy hat back."

by Brendan Cavanagh

And how! Yes, it's already the end of the first week of October, and while most of my friends have either decided on or mulled over options for their costumes for the extended Halloween weekend coming up at the end of the month, I alone remain costume-less. I've heard some solid ideas, some cliche, many inventive and funny. Unfortunately, I can't seem to think of anything that I could be. Boy, back in the ollld dayss...

Back in the old days, choosing a costume was easy. From about the ages of four to eleven, with a few exceptions, I had the same three standby ideas: a staggeringly charming little pirate (due, in part, to a single eyepatch), a spot-on- dare I say it again, "charm"ing- interpretation of Harry Potter (before the movies came out) or a Converse-sporting ninja (trained in the martial arts by repeatedly watching the 3 Ninjas trilogy and Surf Ninajs [God bless the 90s]). Though in fifth grade I was Yoda...with my gardening gloves, painted green face and imitation Dagobahian ears (is Yoda's race even known?), I looked less believable than Frank Oz's puppet in the original Star Wars trilogy.

Just for kicks, here's great scene from Surf Ninjas, featuring Rob Schneider as a neurotic redhead surfer who is afraid of surfing and Tone Loc as a grumpy FBI agent.

Eighth grade was fun. I got away with technically "not trick-or-treating" by accompanying my friend's family as his little brothers trick-or-treated in their grandma's neighborhood. My friend and I still, in the true spirit of Halloween, deemed it apropos to dress up for the night, so we went as greasers, having read S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders in my mom's literature class earlier that academic term. I recall doing my own take on C.S. Thomas Howell's take on Ponyboy Curtis from the cinematic adaptation, while my buddy unintentionally more closely resembled Dally. Needless to say, he and I had more candy in our bags at the end of the night than his three-year-old brother in a full-bodied Winnie the Pooh costume.

By sophomore or junior year, people started having Halloween parties. However, in my post-eighth grade, post-Catcher in the Rye, post-Cold Stone blues, I didn't care to dress myself in an obvious manner, choosing instead to assemble various articles of clothing and materials from my house in order to fashion a costume of someone not usually imitated on Halloween. For a couple years I basked in my eccentricity and cleverness. For instance, junior year I wanted to be 70s singer-songwriter Jim Croce, so I wore one of my mom's jean jackets, threw on a pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt, and fashioned myself a mustache from fake hair I removed from a three-faced Cerebus mask made for an eighth-grade art project on Greek myths and legends. The resulting appearance was uncanny, amiright?

C'mon. C'monnn. Jim Croce! Wouldja just look at it!

The following year was a tough one. Unfortunately, it took me until the day of the big Halloween party for me to decide on something just obscure enough to preserve my uniqueness, but recognizable enough that I wouldn't have to tirelessly explain to everyone who I was. Ultimately, I decided on Bill Murrary's groundskeeping character in Caddyshack, Carl Spackler. My mother and I spent the day furiously driving from Kohl's to pick up a gray shit to Birds & Brooks Army Surplus store to buy a pair of once-used, high-waisted olive drab pants. I went home, threw on a pair of snow boots hidden in the Bermuda Triangle section of the closet in my foyer and found the khaki bucket cap I wore one Halloween to put the proverbial cherry on the top of my previous Gilligan costume sundae. Even more unfortunate than my last-minute scrambling to assemble an appropriate costume, I had some sort of weird disease on my face at the time. Yeah, I don't know, probably from scrubbing the communal bar of soap on my face one time in the shower. Whatever happened, I had a little bit of tenderness on my cheeks where I was healing up, but I was a mite shy, so I went in the front yard and spit in some dirt, thus creating mud to rub on my face, completing the Carl Spackler project and adequately deceiving my friends in the dimly-lit basement later that night. Here's a good photo:

 Here we have, from left to right, a "pussy," Shaun of the Dead & Carl Spackler.

Man, last year I wasn't prepared for Halloween at all. I figured that an idea would come to me, but it never did, and the long weekend began- two or three nights of parties, for which most people wear two or three different outfits. The day before, probably, I went to the local thrift store with my friends, where we searched for clothes and/or accessories that would aid in the construction of a makeshift costume or two. I came across a woman's leather jacket and felt terrible for buying it as a joke costume when there were rather less-fortunate-looking families and individuals in there buying clothes, I'm assuming, because the prices are cheap. I bought the jacket anyway because it was dirt cheap and dressed up as Jemaine Clement of Flight of the Conchords. I even shaved all of my facial hair except my long sideburns. I did a good job; however, no one recognized who I was. Understandable, I guess.

The next day, trying to come up with an idea for that night's festivities, I was about as fruitful as someone with writer's block struggling to come up with a five-page paper due the next day. Finally, I decided to cut up my new jacket into a leather vest, under which I wore a white t-shirt. I knew it looked stupid, but it was the closest I could get to looking like a member of the Warriors, from the 70s gang film of the same name.

"Warriors! Come out to pla-a-ay!" A tense scene.

In hindsight, I guess I didn't look too bad. And that's me on the right. Though I feel I bear a slight resemblance to John Cena on the left there.

So what should I do this year? I've been growing out my facial hair for a while, and now I have a healthy beard which I should like to shave, but I don't because there might be a good costume I can do this year that involve a beard or a mustache. I mean, there are like four nights of this year's Halloween weekend, so I have to be prepared for any possible outfit. Can you think of anything I should go for? I'm open to all suggestions.

Being boy

The three of them move in a swirl around the keen brick-patterned pavement, shuffling their feet at what they'd call a run, and losing control of their vocal chords — due in part to the harsh disruption caused by their pace and in part to the ecstasy they don't even realize they're feeling. Of all the wealth smeared around the Illini Country Club today, any eyewitness will inform you; the ones living it up the most were under the age of seven.

One, to the naked eye, dons a Batman shirt. Another pound-for-pound champion grits her teeth and growls so ferociously her diaper-equipped swimsuit nearly bursts. The third, the team's leader, patrols his troops as they employ (giant) leaves for cover to make a move on the base of whomever. Little do we know, the first isn't merely commercializing the Dark Knight, he is Batman, or so he tells my co-worker Brita. The reason for the team's mission is simple: dinner is boring. The outcome of the operation is staggering: pure, sweet, holy innocence — on display in front of the most primped and toxic crowd in town.

That isn't to say these kids were causing mayhem at a packed restaurant; they weren't. There were maybe three or four other occupied tables at the time, but these kids put on a show. And I — manning my post at the tiki bar awaiting 40 men to finish a round of golf — had the best seat in the house. At first the parents in the situation acted, perhaps as they should have, against the three children, spouting empty threats and offering inconsequential countdowns. Eventually though, the urge to unwind prevailed. They let the kids do their own thing for a while, as long as they weren't crowding anyone else's space.

Meanwhile, these two boys began falling deep into their imaginations and the girl (the youngest of the three) followed blindly while working to enjoy herself as much as possible. Before long, the adults revert their attention to the lot and observe an unprovoked bliss. Instead of inhibiting their children, they reached for their cameras. They wanted to capture the moment. If only.

The kids strutted their stuff and began to show off with wild antics as my manager comes outside to talk to a nearby couple to make sure they weren't pestered. Eventually the digital version of this phenomenon is sufficiently chronicled and the kids wound down a bit before the group leaves. These are the kind of nights that, as a kid, you forget about, until you see someone else doing it when the world comes back around.

When I was a kid, I was adventurous. Sufficiently rambunctious, I was a leader to an extent and a follower to some degree. In other words, I was a boy. I did stuff I was told not to. I came home with dirty feet. I went out the next day with dirty feet. I liked bugs, I liked digging. I liked trees, I wanted a house in one. I feared strangers and craved the unknown, I prepared for the worst with the utmost confidence that I could get out of it. I ate clover, I sold lemonade, I plotted, I carried out, I lied, I cheated, I stole, I broke, I fell, I cried, I came home and I lived to fight another day.

But today I stood still. Today I wore a nametag. Today I sold things for someone else to profit from, unlike that lemonade Pam and I cooked up way back when. Today, in my uniform, I watched someone else lead a carefree life while I pondered how I would be getting home from work. I became envious of the legs Batman was running around on; they were so tiny, at their thickest point the width of my wrist. More importantly, they were going to get so much bigger. I'd be willing to bet he wished he were my size. I bet he envies all the cool teenager stuff I do. And I envied that fact about him. More than anything, I wanted to be an old man and tell him how much I envied him. How he should appreciate being young, and that his whole life was ahead of him. As if, somehow, he would hear the words differently than I did when I was that age.

Every boy at some point figures out they're going to grow up. We see the fiction in Peter Pan and begin placing direction in our lives. Others do it for us, too. Because well, unfortunately we need it. Schools, churches, friends and family all start providing living standards we can't choose. That direction takes us away from our innocence, burying our creative instincts, so that we have to dig for them if we wish to use them later in life. Some are good at digging them up, and others have them shallowly buried, but if you think you can think like a kid, you're wrong. Because I said so, if you will.

Every guy wants to be Atticus Finch, with a steel nerve and a perfected moral code. To understand how kids think, even as an adult. We want to have good values, and know how to instill them into our children. There is something so fulfilling in teaching. Just the feeling that you've provided another person or group of people with helpful tools and information, it's enough to get high off. But some things you just can't teach, and being a child is one of them.

Today I remembered how to be a kid. If only I could remember how to have the time.

--Eliot Sill 

Nick - PK Barnjam!

With the semester coming to an end, I thought it would be appropriate to talk about many of the people whom I've met this year that have made it special for me. So brace yourself for an Overly Sentimental tag, and let's get down to business!

At the beginning of this school year, I didn't know what to expect from college. I was kind of scared and timid about the whole ordeal, and I would have rather just stayed at home. I went to classes and studied. I went to parties that I didn't like. I wrote about how I didn't like parties at least once. I never really had a social circle. But then everything changed when I started auditioning for improv.

The improv community here is so big, and so nice. When I saw how cool and friendly everybody was, I made it my goal to become one of them. One of the happiest moments of my life was getting the acceptance call from The Titanic Players.

And then, almost instantly, I had a really supportive group of friends. Most of the older Titanic members really took me, and all of us freshmen, under their wing. It made a big difference for me just knowing older people who could answer any freshmen questions I had.

Most importantly, my Titanic team is made up of 8 of the nicest and coolest people I've ever met. So allow me to briefly introduce, for those of you who haven't seen us, team PK Barnjam!

Paul: Energetic and clever, Paul comes up with some of our most hilarious ideas.
Kate: Totally versatile, and Kate has the funniest reactions of anyone ever.

Bill: Loud! Level-headed! Bill is good at starting new scenes.
Amy: Our most veteran member, Amy is master of strong relationships.
Robel: Animated! Robel is awesome with voices and interesting characters.
Nick: Hey, that's me!
Julie: Super easy to work with. Julie is very in tune with her scene partner.
Anna: Anna does what the piece requires her to do, and she's good at it.
Marnie: Our late-game secret weapon, Marnie makes things fresh when they get stale.

So let me take a moment here to thank everybody on PK BJ for sticking with me all year. They've made this semester a blast for me.

Thanks, guys.

This year has also been the last year of improvising with team Kaboot, Titanic's most senior (and most mindblowing) team. They've done such a great job of being mentors and role models for us, and they've consistently showed us time and time again what a truly awe-inspiring performance looks like. I hope I can reach that level one day.

So thanks, Kaboot.

Finally, tonight is my last performance of the year with De Bono. I made it onto De Bono at the beginning of second semester, and they've taught me a ton about improv, music, and sometimes fashion. It's my secret fantasy to one day play music as well as Robby while dressed as nicely as Gaschler.

So one last thank you for De Bono.

There's not much else I can say: these guys made this year great for me. So I look forward to improvising with you next semester, PK Barnjam.

Cheers!
-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.

Religion

The three of them sit there, practically submerged in snow. Lying down on their backs, the icy dunes cannot touch them. Despite the fact they are wearing little more than jeans and their very specific replica jerseys, an aura of sublimity wraps them warm in “their” accomplishment. Tossing chunks of snow in the air as a means of celebration and exchanging disbelieving giggles and full out laughs, the only words spoken between the three are “we fuckin' did it.” This is what bliss is.

In actuality, all the “they”s and “we”s in that last paragraph should be switched. This is the scene that my two brothers and I experienced on February 6th in front of my dad's house. "They," meaning the team, won the big game, and “we” didn't really do anything. All we did was watch. We watched for the entire year. We have for our entire lives.

The Green Bay Packers have been a staple of Tweet-Sill family living for years. And by years I mean ever. In addition to all the standard Disney films, I watched the NFL Films production entitled The History of the Green Bay Packers regularly. NFL Films, might I add, are some of the finest documenters in the world, and this tape, an introductory crash course on Packers lore, kept me enraptured in the history of the green and gold. My parents raised me a Packer backer, and that part of my identity has burgeoned every year. Let's just say, I was raised by my parents, and then my siblings, and then the Packers, and then my friends. My parents and siblings were raised on the Packers too, so, the effect increases.

Peder, Eliot and Andrew Sill. How f*&king adorable. Also notice the green and yellow vegetation.

We had gatherings at our house pretty much every weekend the Packers were on TV. My parents had friends over, I mingled with their kids, I pissed everyone off by standing in front of the TV, and I grew to love football, and the culture surrounding it.

Every Packer game for like twelve years. And we never won a(nother) Super Bowl. We had won one when I was 4, and lost one when I was 5. We had never gotten back, but damn we had gotten close. Each of the 16 regular-season football games is so important. You win it, you can be happy about it for a week. You lose, it nags at you for a week. Week to week, being a die-hard will mess with your mood. In the post-season however, you win and it means you are elated for a week. You lose in the post-season? And you go into a mild (or severe, depending on your level of passion) depression. Until July or August. I can remember this happening to me seven times. I can remember zero times how it feels to not lose out in the NFL. Either you don't make the playoffs (depressing, let me tell you) or you get beat in the playoffs (yeah, just told you that).

That all changed on February sixth. My Packers brought the trophy home.

Green Bay is by far the smallest city to own an NFL team. Their measly population fails to match that of Springfield, as of 2000 it was roughly 102,000. Yet they have a 72,000 seat stadium and they fill it up every time their boys take the field. And I say “their” boys because the Packers are indeed a team that belongs to the fans. Because of the city's small size, the team sells shares of ownership to its fans. The team has more shareholders than residents in its city. Amazing. The town itself is quaint and non-assuming. The only attractions being the Packers and the Oneida Casino, located on an Indian reservation in the city's metropolitan area.

Green Bay has three things in it. These are those three things.

As Ben Roethlisberger's 4th and 5 pass was broken up with 50 seconds left, and our victory of all victories was sealed, I realized something I've dreamt about since I was seven and watched the clock tick down and the Packers win the Super Bowl. The team's run can positively be constituted as improbable due to the ridiculous amount of players who were injured for the length of the season (15 players landed on the Injured Reserve, football teams have 53 active players) and even in the Super Bowl itself where team leaders Donald Driver and Charles Woodson had to leave the game with injuries. The consensus by mid-season was that “next year we'd have a real good shot at it,” but here we went and won it this year. How about that?

My brother and I committed to going to the ceremony back at Lambeau Field if the team won the title, and when they did, we made good on our promise. We took my brother's '93 Buick Skylark (a real shitty car, let me tell you) to Wisconsin on Monday night, then to Green Bay on Tuesday morning. The city greeted us with feet of snow lining the roads and an unforgiving wind blowing the 8 degree temperature to a negative 18 degree wind chill. Also we forgot gloves. That was a bad idea.

In Illinois, if I see someone donning Packer gear, I compliment them on it. Since we won the Super Bowl (and I've been wearing nothing but Packers stuff) I've turned that to high fives. In Green Bay, if someone isn't wearing Packer gear, they are the black sheep in a flock of thousands of green and yellow ones. Packers fans are referred to as Cheeseheads. This aspect of Packer culture originated with Chicago White Sox fans using the term to insult Milwaukee Brewers fans for the love affair the state has with dairy (so many damn cows...). Packers fans took this mantra and spun it positively, adding the iconic  cheesehead hat to boot, turning the insult into a source of pride. The whole city is electrified by this team, and the community is so in love with their team that it truly does break down any barriers in a way that only religion can. If a town of 100,000 all practiced the same religion, and all went to the same 72,000-seat church. That's how much they support the team, and seeing that first-hand is truly awe-inspiring.

The hallowed gates. Love this place, would live here if I could.

The players and the fans' relationship is second-to-none in professional sports. At the team's training camp in July and August, the team practices for the public's enjoyment at the outdoor field across the street from Lambeau, and when practice ends, the players usually walk and sign autographs or the neighborhood kids bring their bikes to practice and the players will ride back to the facility with either the kid on the pegs or running excitedly alongside. This happens. And it only happens in Green Bay. Every time I visit the town, I have some sort of interaction with the team. Tuesday, I was perusing hats in the team's pro shop, and Super Bowl champion defensive tackle Ryan Pickett sneaks up on me from behind (hard to do, being 300+ pounds), “excuse me,” he says. My brother and I, flabbergasted, laugh in disbelief and Andrew chimes in “no, excuse us sir.” I wanted to give him a hug and thank him for his service, but I also didn't want to be that guy. Only in Green Bay will you see players mingling with fans in a team gift shop on a Tuesday afternoon.

Bad picture. Great player.

Even on this day, cold as hell, fans line the fence to thank the players 

as they walk from their cars into the facilities.

One of my favorite players to talk to is Donald Driver. Oh my God, he has the best smile in the world. When you think of football players, you may think of this guy, or this one, but Donald is none of the above. He is an absolute class act who has been a Packer for 12 years, basically as long as I have been in love with the team, and has a mutual relationship with his team's fans. He never acts too good for anyone, and the whole team does to a degree, but Donald's a politician. He makes you feel like you could invite him to dinner and he'd agree to it and then pay. Donald comes from Houston, Texas. He was at one time homeless, living out his family's car. He sold drugs and stole cars to survive, he was utterly desolate. Yet, he had a dream, and refused to give up on it. He quit the criminal life and told his brother “I'm going to make it.” He went to Alcorn State, a small predominantly black school of 2,500. He was gambled on by Green Bay in the seventh (final) round of the 1999 NFL Draft. Since then he has come within 41 yards of being Green Bay's all-time leading receiver (which is impressive–the franchise got its start in 1919). Tuesday he was paid his dues by the fans, who gave him the loudest ovation of all who were introduced. Donald's first Super Bowl appearance was Sunday, and he was knocked out in the second quarter, an ankle injury disallowed him from playing. That couldn't stop him, or our team, from becoming a Super Bowl champion.

We didn't take this picture. I would date him. Who wouldn't?

I'm pretty sure we are the only franchise to have its very own Hall of Fame, a testament to our franchise's rich history. My brother and I paid a visit to this, where the team's three previously won Lombardi trophies rest and where the fourth one will go. The Packers won 9 NFL titles before the inception of the Super Bowl, which originally matched the NFL's champion with that of the rival league AFL's champion, (now the two are separate conferences in the NFL). And after this we set out to find our seats for the ceremony.

Me and Donald Driver (frozen in carbonite) having a chat outside the stadium.

HOLY CRAP IT WAS COLD. The locals were practically used to weather, and they had at least brought gloves. But the negative wind chill bit at my brother and I. Yet we braved the weather to see the Return to Titletown ceremony, one that has little apparent importance, just a bunch of dudes talking about how awesome their football team was, but historically, it bears significance. It is the last time our team's current roster will probably be together. It reminded the both of us of the time we stood at the Old State Capitol in the freezing freaking cold waiting for some guy named Barry to tell a crowd of folks that he would run for Prez. Except, that was the beginning of something. This was the culmination of something great. The off-season approaches, and we can't keep everybody, which is damn unfortunate. But, we will get some of those 15 IR players back and be ready to seek out a repeat next year.

Packer nation out in full force, all for the purpose of saying thanks.

I love the Green Bay Packers. I feel at home in this city. The security guards at the stadium treat you like your aunt or uncle. The players treat you like you would want them to, and the organization treats its fans like owners, partially because they are. More than the Green Bay Packers, I love loving the Green Bay Packers. It brings my family together, which is nice. Being a football fan is a cumulative effort. Winning it this year has made me feel like, not only did we overcome all the obstacles our team faced this year, but all those years where we weren't any good or where we lost in the playoffs. It feels like all that has led to this.

All in all, a great trip.

I can always count on the Pack to pick me up on Sunday, if not with a victory than with an honest effort and hope for a Lombardi Trophy. That hope, now, has become a reality. And it's the best feeling in the world.

--Eliot Sill

NOSTALGIA

by Brendan Cavanagh

I'm only nineteen years old, but I get about as nostalgic as an eighty year-old man sometimes.  And not just about the good times, but about the bad times, too.  I don't know why.  Do I wish I could go back and relive certain experiences in order to relive their value?  Do I wish I could correct past behavior?  Or am I dissatisfied with the present?  All of the above?  Yeah.

What causes my reminiscent behavior?  I believe a big factor is my indulgent pastime of listening to way too much music, and aligning my experiences with specific songs or albums.  Of the 7,000+ songs I've amassed so far in my iTunes, record and CD collection, almost every one relates to a particular period of my life.

Let's take The Band, for instance.  In the summer of 2009 I was faced with the task of completing six large novels for my AP English class, not to mention as many volumes of Harry Potter I could squeeze in between.  That summer I was infatuated with my mother's old portable turntable and my then-growing record collection, so certain favored records were played frequently as soundtracks to the books I was reading.  I had had a copy of The Band's 1969 eponymous album (jokingly referred to as the Brown Album, a take on the Beatles' eponymous White Album) since the previous Christmas, but before June I had really only acquainted myself with Side A, erroneously assuming off limited exposure that the album was front-loaded.  As I progressed through the first few novels, I simultaneously grew to appreciate all aspects of the Brown Album, which surprisingly displayed no wear-and-tear after so many revolutions.  By the time I worked my way into William Faulkner's As I Lay Dying, The Band had quickly become one of my favorite albums of all time, and so much so that the visage of each member of the group became assimilated into my envisioning of the novel.  For example, my favorite character, Darl, was portrayed by the Band's drummer, Levon Helm, and his brother Jewel was played by Garth Hudson, the stellar organist (to name a few).  Now, whenever I listen to that album, which is drenched in deep-South Americana, all I can conjure up in my mind are scenes from As I Lay Dying, but more significantly my exhilaration from spending each day that summer poring over six incredible novels (make it five, I hated Toni Morrison's Beloved).  I haven't been able to recreate those circumstances since then, since no summer is ever the same, and then again, what kind of favorable situation is ever the same twice?

The Band has also found its way into another one of my most recalled memories.  The summer of 2009 was my last summer running with Sacred-Heart Griffin's cross country team, one of the few organizations I've been affiliated with in which I've felt I truly belong.  After practice each morning I'd come home, drink a glass of grapefruit juice with a multivitamin as the main course, take a shower and jump into bed at about 9:30 a.m., iPod in tow.  I'd usually listen to one song on the album ("Look Out Cleveland," for instance) and then follow that up by "Whispering Pines", which would knock me out for a couple hours (but I may have passed out each day from the gripping turmoil of the abominable combination of an empty stomach and a multivitamin).  That was something I looked forward to each day.  Feeling productive for running the most amount of mileage I had ever done and being rewarded by laying in bed in a dark and cool bedroom, listening to music that had a certain resonance at the time.

Cross country is probably what I'm most nostalgic about these days.  There was something about growing as a runner and a person as I matured and progressed through each season.  Nothing makes me happier to think about than warm, soft, sleepy summer light streaming down through trees in bloom along Feldkamp, heading towards Washington Park.  Running with my friends, or even running alone (because if I ran alone, I allowed myself to stop short and take a bathroom break in the veritable sauna that is Washington Park's bathroom).  The memories are strong enough to recall on their own, but what really helps is listening to the music I listened to at that time each year.  For instance, when I listen to the Kingston Trio's Greatest Hits or Bob Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited I imagine myself sleepily driving my sister and myself to and from practice, as those CDs were played heavily in the family minivan at the time.

And like the summer of 2009, each summer meant a new set of novels to complete for school, though from freshman-junior year I was only required two texts.  I'd come home from practice in 2006 and cruise through Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer or George Orwell's 1984 on my mattress which was then placed groovily on my bedroom floor rather than on a frame.  I believe the soundtrack that summer was Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" and Willie Nelson's album Stardust.  Sophomore year I'd curl up on the couch every morning after practice and read Alan Paton's Cry, the Beloved Country or Linda Sue Park's When My Name Was Keoko (a wild card; this book was purely juvenile) while jamming to the latest Harry Potter soundtrack- the Order of the Phoenix in particular.  Then I'd sprawl out and watch episodes of Monty Python's Flying Circus while munching on this awesome white pasta dish my mommy would make specially for me when I asked for it.  Junior year was a bit different- I recall trying to replicate what I had done the previous summer by reading John Knowle's A Separate Peace on the couch with my iPod, but unfortunately I was unable to evoke the same feelings I felt when I'd fondly recollect the previous summer.  And when it came time to read Cormac McCarthy's The Road (my least favorite book ever), I was all over the place- on the road, in fact, touring colleges with my cousin, which turned out to be a highly memorable, now nostalgia-inducing vacation.  As you can see, no summer is ever the same, but each has some facet about itself that cause me to look back and miss it.

A short list of songs/albums and their corresponding, recent memories:
1. Richard Pryor's Anthology 1968-1992
 - Late school nights hanging out downstairs in deep winter of 2009
2. Kid Cudi's Man on the Moon
- First good high school parties on late winter nights in 2009
3. "Santa-Fe" by Bob Dylan and "Ragged Wood" by Fleet Foxes
- A week's stay at my cousin's in St. Louis in Summer 2009
4. "I Am Trying to Break Your Heart" by Wilco
- Driving down MacArthur Blvd. in snowy weather
5. MGMT's Congratulations
-Driving through Leland Grove aimlessly at 6:30 a.m. the morning after Springfield High's Prom/morning of my graduation (same day), looking for someone's house (never made it) in spring 2010.  Also reminds me of the entirety of 2010 from April on, as I listened to it every day (I just want to link this song, it's been stuck in my head for a few days because it's awesome)
6. "Dance Yrself Clean" by LCD Soundsystem - Summer nights of 2010

I realize nothing in this post is applicable to anyone who reads it besides me (and maybe I'm the only one reading it, therefore YEAH! 100% applicable blog post).  What I hope I impart to you is that this is the modus operandi of my mind; this is how I go about most of the time- not only hearkening back on past experiences, but relating them to the present, problem-solving and all that jazz.  At the very least, I hope I've made it clear that music and how it ties into my life is very important to me.  If anything, you've got a number of solid links.  But my point is that I'm the kind of guy who will detect the unmistakable scent of a certain shampoo and immediately be drawn to winter of freshman year when I was reading the abridged version of Charles Dickens' Great Expectations for my English class, which further makes me remember that I supplemented that reading with the Essential Dean Martin.  Maybe it's simply some sort of idiot-savant, audiographic or scenographic memory, but these are memories that are somewhat comforting to me, which is ironic because they only make me pine after the past and momentarily fail to acknowledge the current pleasures of the present.  But as a matter of fact, I've actually gotten better at living in the present lately.  Well, not entirely.  I'm still unbelievably nostalgic, but I don't let it bother me.  I just realized that what's happening to me in the present is something that I will indubitably will become nostalgic about in the future.  If I immediately look back fondly on classes I used to despise the moment I begin the next school year, then yeah, I'll probably enjoy my present situation sometime in the future.

In Which I Proceed To Make A Parody Of Something That Perhaps Should Not Be Parodied, Or, Look How Awesome I Am!, Or, Lists

DISCLAIMER: The following material is not subject to your god damn criticism. However, this company does apologize for what will surely be offensive to certain individuals. We ask that you take it like a champ, and not bitch out on us like other certain individuals have in the past. This will prevent us from having to remove the following post in order to appease tender hearted people who may get their feelings hurt. This is just what we do. Thank you.

-Classic Co.

Being pretentious is a delicate art that must be refined over a lifetime. It's like a lump of coal in that it appears hideous at first and people don't really think it's all that great, but over time, if it survives under pressure for long enough, it can become a beautiful diamond to be adored. By one's self. And after all that time has passed, it turns out people still hate it, but now they're just annoyed at how self-absorbed it is, despite it being pretty.

Here I shall make a list of certain attributes and facets that can accurately guide one to pretension:

1. After completing any paper or article on the computer, go back through and haphazardly use thesaurus to replace those "lesser" words with great big ones that considerably less people will be sure to understand. (randomly--->haphazardly) FYI: According to thesaurus.com approximately 9.6 million pretentious people wrote some sort of article on the computer today.

2. Know how empyreal you are at all times.

3. Make sure everyone else also knows this by incessantly smothering them with stories of your countless triumphs in life and how you reign supreme over all.

4. Never relent your point in an argument. Remember, you cannot be wrong.

5. Do not deviate conversation from stuff about you. Nothing is more important than you. That's all you ever need to talk about. Don't ever forget that.

6. Make sure to keep your guard up and be as defensive as possible with every quip. Those lower beings are always trying to drag you down to their level somehow...

7. Swiftly reject opinions that conflict with your own as utterly wrong, especially if involving musical taste.

8. Never let people mistake you for a decent human being. This is a sign of weakness.

9. Always wear clothes that give the impression of saying, "Oh, judging by what YOU'RE wearing, I'd say I overdressed for the occasion." Then flaunt how good you look for the entire night and make everyone else feel shitty for being dressed more casually than you.

10. Always assume everyone will always agree with you, then act terribly shocked when they don't.

These 10 points cover the basics of the douchey spectrum. The Golden Commandment is essentially #2. If you can follow that rule, then all others shall fall into place without much trouble. Now, if this post were 100% true to the pretentious code, it would be about 5 times this length. However, I'm not an asshole and I know none of you are THAT interested in what I'm writing, so I'll cut it off here.

-Classic

"Things Change," Or, How I Have Progressed As a Writer, Or, a Series of Situations in Which I Tease Kevin, Or, How I Used to Suck

The author writing at age twelve

by Brendan Cavanagh

In the summer of 2004, my family made its second voyage to Door County, WI in order to make a repeat appearance at our favorite vacation spot, the Alpine Resort. At this time, I was twelve years old, a pusillanimous, highly inquisitive and entirely innocent boy. I decided to follow in my father's footsteps and record my thoughts during the trip in my Platform 9 3/4 journal, just as he had four years previously. It's always been great to come back to every now to laugh at and rehash good times. But now I have a blog and the ability to embarrass myself in front of...TENS of people (most of which reside in Denmark. word.)!

I've taken the liberty of transcribing my journal (because a diary is too effeminate) word-for-word, complete with mistakes, non sequiturs and a hell of a lot of now-regrettable comments. Between the descriptions of the banality of daily life, one can find countless scenes of mirth, wistfulness, anxiety, nerdiness, sorrow, thematic undertones, various musings on life and a heavy nostalgic overtone. Peppered throughout one will encounter brackets [ ] containing modern muses on what I wrote six years ago, so as to avoid confusion for the reader and perhaps make a joke or two. Without further ado, I present to you, dear reader:

Return to the North Woods II: The Sequel: A Son's Journal
(In the Year of our Lord: 2004)

[Inscribed is what I thought was an elaborately-constructed replication of the Cavanagh family crest flanked by two pillars, which made up the "II" in the title.]

Wednesday 8/4/04

Preparations having been made, we wait till the morn.

[In my opinion at the time, this was among the greatest opening lines of all time]

Just one more night! I believe this is better than Christmas. We will be going to Plateville, WI for a night and hopefully seeing the House on the Rock. We'll be going to Milwaukee to stay with Uncle Jim. Then, for a glorious week, we will be staying at the Alpine Lodge in Door County! We had gone 4 years ago in the summer of 2000 and Mom and Dad went for their honeymoon in '91. We love it. We will then go home via Evanston to visit the Wambachs.

[Brigid's godparents and dear friends of my parents]

*-and Jim's again for 2 nights and a ball game. Today was spent getting prepared. I got my Lionel Richie CD (Greatest Hits). We all hope to sleep well tonight. (Me and the kids have started cross country Monday! We will train in WI)

Thursday 8/5/04

And sleep we did! I had an all right sleep. I went to bed writing at 11:00 and woke up at 3:00. I went back to bed and woke up at 6:00 and then 7:15. Brigid woke me up at 8:00. We got dressed and watched tv (the Magic Bullet blender in which we were particularly engrossed in). We left at 9:15 and spent a few hours in the car. We went NW through IL (couldn't make the Dixie)

[our favorite nostalgic truck stop/gas station]

and went through Iowa, and back to IL. We stopped in Galena, IL to view the Scenic Overlook Tower and Grant's *-Ulysses S. Grant house. It was cool. We were led by Rita Anger, a bossy tour guide, through the house. Speaking of Iowa and the Scenic Overlook Tower, the views were awesome! Quoting my Dad, "we kids would die in the Dakotas!".

[A butchered quote from his first journal, in which he described the reactions of my siblings and I upon first seeing large, sloping hills outside of Illinois]

We went through Galena to get ice cream and me, a caramel apple. We left thinking it looked like Diagon Alley. We spent another half hour driving to Plateville, WI. Me and Brigid competed in the Alphabet Game *-You have to see 26 words that each start with a letter in the alphabet We both needed X. I won at the hotel with Xamer (in the phone book). We got sidguated situated and went in the pool/jacuzzi while Dad napped. We then took showers and are watching Wild Wild West. We don't know what to eat and it is 8:25. We're thinking Culvers. Guess not. We drive out a little and see a play in the act. We decided to stop and see it. Kevin said, "It's Jesus Christ Superstar!" It was Cinderella. We watched the end and searched for food. We saw a Steve's Pizza Palace and stopped. Turns out we had to go in the Captain's Cove to eat. It was still pizza. Our waitress was Monica, a resident of the Midwest who did not like cheese. She was from Detroit, Chicago, and Rockford. We got a half Hawaiian- half cheese (extra). It came with free chessy bread. Two slices of Hawaiian and two pieces of cheesy bread were all that was left, in which will comprise of my lunch tomorrow. There was a neat war memorial we looked at. But then, we went to Dick's, some mall where Dad had to get some razor blades. Now we're back at the hotel watching Everybody Loves Raymond. Tomorrow we'll go to Milwaukee.

Postscript- Today at the Scenic Overlook Tower, Kevin (who's obsessed with Jaguars) started petting the hood ornament on a Jag not knowing there were people inside the car, watching his every move. We started laughing and rushed in the car. The man and his probable mother, started inspecting the hood ornament and the front of the car. Freaked out and sure they were anal

[a word I had learned that day]

people, we left. Then, at Grant's house, we spotted the same people again! We were freaked! Ahh, the highlight of our day...

Also, we stopped in a city in Iowa to see a thing called Driscoll's Island. My great grandma's name was Driscoll. We got some pictures.

[In this chapter, I drew my only picture of the entire trip, depicting Kevin petting the Jag's hood ornament, bearing the legend "In Which Kevin Spots A Jag And Spotted Himself By An Anal Couple."]

Friday 8/6/10

At 11:30 (after an episode of the Nanny) we went to bed. I slept very well. We woke at 7:45 and dined around 8:30. I had 1 piece of a homemade waffle and some of Brigid's yogurt, cocoa, and orange juice. At 9:30, we left. After a while, we stopped in Mineral Point to see the town and the minor's cottages. The town looked like Diagon Alley *-It was called Shake Rag Alley. That was okay. We then went to the House on the Rock. That was awesome! There were statues of wizards with wands, owls, and staffs. They looked like Dumbledore...

Taking refuge under a tree on the "Street to the Past" in the House on the Rock.
Note the bearded wizard in the background

There was also a "street to the past". It looked like Diagon Alley. I knew- after the statues and Hogwarts-like rooms, this was what my treat was. It all looked Harry Potter-ish. After being halfway through, after 3 hours, giant whales and squids, Mikaido rooms, and Diagon Alleys, we were hungry, tired, and clausterphobic. We left. My favorites were the giant carousel, the Mikaido Room, and the Infinity Room, which stretched forever with no support underneath. We got caught in a traffic jam leaving, but left okay. We stopped at Gordon's a burger shack. They were good. I was stuffed withe 3/4 of a double cheeseburger. Now we're driving through Madison on our way to Milwaukee.

The Cavanagh clan at the House on the Rock

After a while we made it! We found Jim's house but we couldn't reach him. We were using the wrong doors. We finally went through a black door and rang his doorbell. He came down and we all said hi. We went upstairs, dropped our stuff and caught up with him. Later, we went to a Mexican stand resturant called Conejitto's (I think). It was great! They accidentally gave us a bunch of salted rimmed glasses but then they got the drinks right. How old did they think we were???

Then we went to Kopp's Ice Cream. I got a Hot Fudge Sundae. We loved it! We got back in time to see Monk, and it was a good episode. Then we kids and Mom watched the Simpsons and Lizzie MacGwire. At 11:00 we went to bed.

Saturday 8/7/04

I woke up at 8:00 and slept well. After everyone woke, we watched tv and talked. We decided to go to Usingers. At 9:00 we went. Got a bunch of brats and sausages. Then we went back to Jim's, packed, said our good-byes, and left. He was a great host. We stopped at a gas station and a woman working there told us where a brat festival was. This was in Sheboygan. It was cool. I had a burrito.

A Bratwurst Festival called "BRATXOTIC!" Every meal had bratwurst in it-
burritos, sandwiches, egg rolls, pizza, etc.

Then in Two Rivers, we stopped at a playground and McDonald's that we stopped at last time. After a while, we got to the Alpine! We were really excited! We settled and unpacked,. We went to the pool for a while. Then we had to go to 5:30 mass. We then went to Fish Creek to go to the Confectionary, the greatest candy shop on the planet. I got a Hear no Evil- Speak No Evil- See No Evil monkey. We came back to the lodge and decided to go to a pizza place to take out a pizza. Earlier, we went to the grocery store. We came back, watched SNL, and ate pizza. Then we went to bed.

Sunday 8/8/04

I woke up and found out we'd go to Whitefish Dunes! We got ready and left. It got kind of cloudy but we still swam. After a while it rained and we left. We got dressed and went to Fish Creek to find a laundromat and the Irish Store. Didn't get anything. Went to Sister Bay to look around and we found a laundromat. Then we went to the bowling/resturant place. I won at bowling with 91

[I have not scored that high since]

and I ate a cheeseburger. We went to Fish Creek to get ice cream- me, buddhas, and go to the Confectionary. We came back and stayed at the lodge's rec room for a few hours.

[This was the first situation in which I had a rec room at my disposal, and the first time I was able to use the term "rec room" in a sentence. I mainly hung out there so much so I could be that cool older kid playing pool and pinball, but mostly so I could use the term "rec room" freely.]

The Confectionary

Now we're back and just doing stuff.

I forgot to mention that we went to the Oshkosh store. I got rabbit's feet. Dad had a long discussion with the storekeeper. That brought back good memories.

Goofing off in Chief Oshkosh's teepee

Monday 8/9/04

I woke up and found out we had to run to town and back. BORE! We warmed up, stretched, and ran. After, we all went swimming and took showers at the Fish Creek "Y". Then we went to Bailey's Harbor to go to the library we went to 4 years ago. After we went to the Sandpiper and I got a cheeseburger. Went back to the library and left for Egg Harbor to go to the Alpine Beach. Swam and played for a few hours. That was cool. We all went to the Rec Room for a while. Mom and Dad walked in with the key to the Alpine Tower. In case you don't know, this was where, 4 years ago, we kids and Andre

[an Alpine employee from Belarus that babysat us in 2000 and ultimately became a good friend of ours]

started climbing to, but stopped for Kevin was to afraid. What a view! We then came down the "mountain". Dad took us on a 1 hour cross country drive to Gills Rock and back. We saw Pebble Beach only to find out it is now a no trespassing zone. Things change. We went to the Confectionary once again. We all were starved so we went to the supermarket in Egg Harbor. When we left, a store lady helped us with our groceries. Kevin did not know that and started singing "Whiskey Girl" by Toby Keith. She started laughing. We came back, ate, and hung out at the rec room for a few hours. Mom and Dad came and said there was a racoon at the cabin. We went dancing for a while and came back and scared the racoon away. Now me, Dad, Brigid, and Kevin are writing on Dad's bed, as we are now accustomed to doing at night. It was a busy day.

There was also a dance. We stayed for the end.

Pebble Beach

Thursday 8/10/10

Today we woke up and ran. It was about 3 miles. After, we all went to Cana Island to visit the Lighthouse. We took lots of pictures. Helen asked if we could eat and Dad said every food she ate and Helen was mad so she stormed off. Then Mom was heard to say, "I think you went one fudge too far," so we all laughed. After the lighthouse, we went to Ephraim to get a pizza at Sonny's. Our waitress was Agneska, a resident of Poland (Warsaw). She was given a choice of Door County or Cyprus, Greece *by Greece, sorry. She chose Door. I'd have chosen Cyprus. The pizza was good though. After we shopped in Ephraim and Fish Creek. I got a buddha. Then we had supper at Pennsylvania.

[the Alpine names each cabin after a state in the U.S.]

After, we went to the Bingo for a few hours. Helen won $1.50 We left and we watched tv at Pennsylvania. Then we went to bed.

Playing Bingo at the lodge and trying to look like we are drinking beer

I want to mention that every bench in WI is dedicated to someone. Weird...

Wednesday 8/11/04

We woke up and ran. After we had a great breakfast at the Hof resturant. I had a sausage, ham, and cheese omelet. That was good. We then went in search of a wallet and belt for Helen. We first stopped at Made in Britain LTD, a British store for me. I got a hat and fruit pastilles. Then we stopped at the leather store. Brigid took a jacket off the hanger and showed Mom. The store owner thrust the jacket out of Brigid's hands and said, "I don't think we'll be playing with that, it's a $1800 jacket!" Mom said, "I don't think we'll be shopping here." 2 one-liners for Mom! Whooo-hoooo! We left in a hurry. We just shopped all day. I got a mini bow (no arrows) at the Chief Oshkosh store, and candy at the Confectionary. Later, Mom went shopping and Dad and me and the kids stayed at the lodge for a while. Dad played checkers and chess with a 6-year-old named Charlie. Dad almost lost. He later picked up a game with with Charlie's grandpa Dan. We went back to Pennsylvania to eat hang out. Mom and Dad went shopping together. Me and the kids watched tv. When they came back, we ate dinner at the Hõf resturant. It was very good! I had a half rack of ribs. Mmm! For the rest of the night, we danced and played games.

We are having very chilly weather lately. I like it 'cause it reminds me of the Fall.

By the way, the racoon that has been making repeated visits to the dumpster by our cabin needs a name. We all agreed on "Sonny". That gets my vote.

Thursday 8/12/04

We woke up later to run today. After, we went to Sturgeon Bay to take Dad to their "Y". While he worked out, the rest of us went to Perry's Cherry Diner. I had a cheeseburger (no doubt). We went to the Confectionary and the Bear Shop. They didn't have the same bear we saw last time, but we found a different one to take a picture with. We picked up Dad and drove to Sister Bay, to the laundromat. I finished my Barry Trotter book. It was really good. We left Dad there and went shopping in Ephraim. We got Dad a burger and shake at Wilson's. He liked it. For a while, we goofed in the game room at our lodge. Then at 8:00, we went on the Hayrack Ride. That was awesome! I talked to this guy who had a daughter Ashley (11) and Austin (7). I liked Ashley.

[The grossest understatement I have ever made]

Then we roasted marshmallows at a bonfire. Then we hung out at the lodge, till we went home and went to bed.

Trying desperately to entice Ashley

Friday 8/13/04

Today is our last day! I'm really sad. I don't want to go. I'll miss the Alpine, and Ashley. We woke up early and ran. When I came back, we ran into Ashley and her Dad. So we talked. By the way, they live in Wheaton, IL.

[I spied them from a distance talking to my mom as I finished up my three mile run, so I oh-so-casually jaunted up to them, red-faced and quasi-surprised. Very debonair.]

We caught the end of the Price is Right to see a strange, little man named John *-we played card games at the lodge. We played Urf, Concentration, Crazy 8's, and Blackjack. We went to Fish Creek to drop Dad at the "Y". we made our last stops their. We left, and got sandwiches. We ate, then swam at the beach one last time. We hung out at the lodge and rode bikes for a while. then we left for Bailey's Harbor to Weissgerber's or Weissburger's or something. Then we danced and played at the lodge till 10:30. We said our goodbyes to Robi, the bartender.

[We drank about ninety orange cream sodas each time we hung out in the rec room, and consequently made good friends with the young, hip bartender]

Constructing a bathtub at the Alpine Beach

We (me) are all really sad to leave tomorrow. To quote Frank Sinatra-

Let's forget about tomorrow for tomorrow never comes!

[We listened to Frank Sinatra's Greatest Hits on cassette tape in the car the whole week]

We're nearing the end of our vacation. We still have to go to Milwaukee and Evanston.

Saturday 8/14/04

We woke up early and packed. After getting dressed, we hung out at the lodge for a while. Kevin creamed me in pool. When Mom and Dad came, we got sodas and said bye to Robi. Mom gave him $20 and said, "How much do I owe you?" Robi said "That'll come to a total of- have a good trip." That was really nice of him.

[Another gross understatement. I was not that emotional of a kid at the time, and even I about bawled my eyes out when he said that. Also I should mention that I failed to acknowledge in my journal that the morning we left, I had terrible diarrhea. I say this because it was humorous the way I delayed our departure by going to the bathroom at the lodge, then for some reason at the cabin, then got in the car where we went as far as the lodge at the end of the street, when I had to go again. I think after three sittings (so to speak) I was good to go.]

We drove for a while and stopped at a hotel in Kewanee. We got lunch their. I got a cheeseburger (per usual).

[And my Dad lost his wallet, a real bummer]

A little while later, we made it to Milwaukee! It was fast! At Jim's, we talked and watched tv. Then we went to Usinger's, a chesse place, and candy shop, and an art fair. Then we went to Conejitos. Yummy! Then we went to Kopp's. After, we went to Jim's and watched tv and went to yellow bed.

[Okay, now here is the real reason why I have brackets in this blog post. While I wrote that line, my mind began wandering and I started to think about this book of famous people back at home, which featured Richard F. Outcault, who in 1894 created one of the first American Sunday comic strips, The Yellow Kid. I was at the time envisioning what a weird-looking character the Yellow Kid was, and absentmindedly substituted "yellow" for bed."]

The Cavanagh children with Uncle Jim at the Art Fair

Sunday 8/15/04

Yesterday was good, but today was great! We woke up and got dressed. We then went to the ball game. Brewers vs Marlins. I got 3 autographs.

[On the underside of the bill of my St. Louis Cardinals hat]

Marlins won 5-3. It lasted 3 hours, 9 minutes. Then we got burgers and ice cream at Kopps. Then we watched tv at Jim's and went to bed.

At the Brewers game, suffering from inexplicably sharp bowel movements, hence the pained smile

Monday 8/16/04

This morning we woke up up and saw Jim wasn't there. We took showers, packed, and left. Not so long after, we got to Evanston with a little help. At first we were with Ann.

[Brigid's godmother]

Then as we started eating Caroline walked in from volleyball. She's a few months older than me. Later, Jack (17) came in. Then Caroline and the kids and I went and played basketball for a while. After, we came in and watched Olympics and talked. Doug had come in.

[Brigid's godfather]

Later Ann came back from picking up Claire from tennis. By the way Jack did cross-country today. After talking a while, we left. But not before taking pictures! We said our goodbyes, and drove off. We went to Portillos, a hot dog place. I had gone 23 hours after my birth.

[A popular legend in my house- My mother and father, less than a day after enduring my birth, decided to treat themselves to some delicious dogs at Portillo's, thus exposing me to my first "taste" of quickly-prepared, greasily-wrapped, Chicago-style, outside-world food.]

Hours later Kevin had to go to the bathroom so bad, he was crying. He went in a cup in our car. Ha ha =:S Hours later we made it to the Dixie. This took a while. I got some Chex. Soon, we made it home.

This was the best vacation ever! I had so much fun.

To quote my Dad:

This'll be the vacation we'll remember FOREVER!!!

(sorta)

[Yet another butchered quote from Dad, and I even felt obligated to admit it in the journal, which explains the let-down after the epic, rousing final sentence. Lame, but the meaning is still powerful all the same.]

As one can see, I've made long strides grammatically and thematically in the last six years. Despite any misspellings and language confusion, this journal is an admittedly cute account of my worldview at the tender, innocent age of eleven. I remember it being longer back then...

I think the main theme I extract from it these days is that "Things change." People grow older, gain (or shed, in my case) an extra couple waist sizes and become corrupted by increased exposure to violence, drugs and pessimism. Landscapes become more rugged due to years of erosion and human waste. Employees and proprietors move on to college or new jobs, and some of them die. Resorts operate under new management or close down. At the end of the summer, regular patrons return to their homes in various cities, states and countries. Things change. Yet we're occasionally given the cruel capacity to revisit old haunts and try to conjure up feelings and emotions of the past, which almost always is fruitless, if not fleeting. However, the fact that as humans we're imbued with this critical flaw- nostalgia- allows us the opportunity to embrace the present rather than take it for granted, to cherish the moments as they come, to live each day as if it belongs to the Sun-dazed, penultimate weeks of summer.

Dedicated to Ashley, wherever she is today.