It started on July 8th with a wave of disgust.
We had been hearing reports throughout day of Miami — a city who already laid claim to two of the league's best — but no word had yet been made official. The king wouldn't want his party pooped, after all. The cities of Miami, Chicago, New York and Cleveland awaited with anticipation, holding their collective breath.
I was at work. I had had it in mind not to get my hopes up, but nothing could stop my heart rate from shooting through the roof. As the night's seventh hour grew older and my productivity level shot through the floor, the anxiety became a petulance. It was no longer fun being strung along like this. After all, he probably wasn't going to choose us. He seemed to be hamming it up for the ratings, a bad sign for Cleveland, which was essentially an entire city watching the televised equivalent of its girlfriend "wanting to talk."
Finally, after a half hour of what has since been verified as bullshit, he uttered those famous words: "This season, I'll be taking my talents to South Beach."
Oh. Great.
In that hour-long television special that was somehow as warranted as it was unnecessary, LeBron James changed the face of the NBA. The league's top dog, instead of the savvy and vicious pitbull known as the Los Angeles Lakers, was now the Cerberus birthed to patrol the grounds of Miami. At this point, we had no evidence to suggest that the threesome of LeBron, Wade and Bosh would actually work. They were anointed as favorites at the moment of their inception by names alone, not play.
It sucked. I felt like I had lost at least three years of my NBA-loving life. It was hard to imagine any scenario in which Miami didn't rule the NBA with an iron fist for years. It'd be cool, you know, if I didn't hate them. They were sure to have a millennium's worth of highlights, all of which would induce momentary excitement followed by bitter disdain.
It wasn't the team's talents that caused anger. It was the contrived and pre-meditated nature of the team's comprisal. The fact that the Big Three cheated the system, taking less money (which we commend) for the purpose of dominating the rest of the league (which we hate). It was the fact that things like this were written months beforehand, the concept of a superduperteam was born, as ominous and seemingly avoidable as a train spotted miles down a track. It was the fact that the recipient of the gift of the most star-studded basketball team in the NBA's history was the city of Miami — a city four years removed from a title, with apathetic fans who enjoy infinite sunshine and beautiful beaches, not to mention some of the country's best nightlife.
The biggest objection I had personally was that LeBron James turned a backstabbing into a spectacular charity event (the proceeds were given to the Boys and Girls Clubs of America). The city of Cleveland needed LeBron more than any other place. They loved and worshiped him. They forgave his failures, and vicariously cherished his achievements. They treated their superstar like a superstar should be treated. And it wasn't even really a backstabbing, because the city of Cleveland was watching. But LeBron wasn't looking at them. It was some kind of weird no-look heartstab. It was televised and self-celebrating, and The Decision was rightfully bashed by the public as distasteful and strange. Never before had a seemingly simple career decision been turned into an hour-long nationally televised special event.
It was that big a deal, though, in hindsight. Contrary to what I anticipated, the world kept turning. The NBA execs didn't stop operations, yell at the Heat for being unfair, and reallocate the players. We were actually going to have a season like this. The Heat continued to make themselves a spectacle. Free agency continued, the Chicago Bulls netted Carlos Boozer, giving them the scoring forward they sorely needed. Joe Johnson did pretty much the exact opposite of LeBron, staying in Atlanta and taking a buttload more money (more per year than any Heat player).
The NBA had its first true villain in years. The Heat had become what USA basketball is to the rest of the world in international competition; unfairly stacked. The rest of the league braced for impact, contenders made moves to prepare for the oncoming storm. The Lakers, our defending champions and pretty much only team with a target on its back, suddenly became something of an only hope. It would have to be the Lakers to fend off the Heat this year, it seemed like the two teams were on a crash course. The only thing standing between them, it turns out, was the 82 games known as the regular season and a few measly rounds of playoff competition.
•••
Meanwhile, in a warm, dirty gym in Santa Monica, California, Derrick Rose, Kevin Love and Russell Westbrook were busting their asses. Rose and Westbrook were working to ensure their respective teams achieved more than first round playoff exits in the upcoming season, while Love was merely working to provide his franchise with a face. The three of them practiced six days a week, twice a day. Not at all mandatory, the sole incentive of these workouts was for each player to bring out the best in themselves.
The season began with a triumphant bang. In their first quarter together, the Big Three of Miami netted just 8 points, lower than any quarter the LeBron-less, Bosh-less Heat registered last season. Thanks to a pre-season injury to Dwyane (whose mom may or may not be dyslexic?) Wade, the Heat had virtually no time to jell before the season started, so they looked hilariously lost as Boston beat them 88-80. It seemed that there was hope for the rest of the league, so long as Miami didn't get eight points better over the course of the season. Uhh ...
Westbrook and Rose took center stage the following night against each other, and Westbrook's Thunder bested Rose's Boozer-less Bulls by ten points. The Bulls had relatively low expectations, the year was seen as a stepping stone. After all, the management had failed to get a shooting guard in the offseason. What was to be expected of the trio of Keith Bogans, Ronnie Brewer and Kyle Korver? Service by committee, as it turned out.
The Bulls' ambitious new head coach, former Celtics assistant coach Tom Thibodeau brought an extremely defensive mindset to the team, and Chicago became the gold standard for defense in the NBA. Defense has become a sort of novelty in the NBA in the last decade and more since Jordan retired, despite its consistently proven benefits. An intensive defensive focus kept the Bulls in games, leaving it up to D-Rose to win it in the end. This strategy usually worked, obviously.
Derrick Rose is not a shining personality. He isn't a jokester. He doesn't pander to the media (like those punks in Miami). He doesn't have much to pander. He's generally a boring person. Luckily for the world and Derrick, he plays basketball. He plays a lot of basketball. He plays the crap out of basketball, too. He's quick, strong, relatively big-bodied, and damn good. He's got heart. And that's often said about people who know when to give 100%. That isn't what heart is; heart is not knowing when to give 100%. Derrick doesn't know when to give 100%, so he's trying his hardest all the time. Good things happen when Derrick Rose tries, and he was clearly the Most Valuable Player in the regular season this year, and that doesn't change with his less-than-stellar postseason performance.
What many will point to as the biggest weakness that kept Rose's Bulls from reaching the top was the shooting guard position. Kyle Korver can shoot, but he can't defend. Ronnie Brewer can defend and slash, but he can't shoot. Keith Bogans sucks, but can defend and occasionally shoot. If we could combine them into one supershooting guard, we'd have a weak Reggie Miller. But we can't, so we have a merry-go-round of mediocrity. Not truly weak enough to sink the team, but weak enough to keep them from soaring.
The Bulls' second best player, whether they knew it or not going into the season, is Luol Deng. Despite looking very Kenyan, Luol is actually a Brit. A model of consistency, Luol could be counted on to keep his mouth shut, put his head down, keep his man in check on defense, never fear a big shot, and give you 15-25 fluff points a game.
The team's big free agency acquisition, Carlos Boozer, provided the team with an invaluable element.
You see that beautiful and ever-useful blue bottle in the clip? Yeah, that's Carlos Boozer, metaphorically speaking. All last year we had an excuse for not being a top contender; youth and the lack of a scoring big man. We wanted Chris Bosh, which like, thank God we didn't end up with Chris Bosh. But here's hoping you're wondering the connection from Boozer and Michael's Secret Stuff. Well, Carlos Boozer is the league's best placebo-forward. I mean, he can score, he does do that. But did he not miss a large portion of the season, as we trudged to the best record in the NBA? He provided us with an awesome form of false confidence that we would beat people we should beat now. Additionally, we always played up to the level of the top competition. We swept the Miami Heat in the three regular season games we played against them (Impressive, as they are on their way to a title.) In two of those games, we were missing one of our best two bigs. We managed, however, and came out with W's in all three. Apparently this confidence was temporary, maybe we lost it in the first two rounds of the postseason when Boozer showed his unfortunate and presumably true colors? Taj Gibson and Omer Asik (and Kurt Thomas too, yeah) stepped their asses up, prevailing with hustle and that thing we discussed earlier, Heart.
But in the center of this well-oiled machine was the season's biggest secret disappointment; Joakim Noah. Bulls fans love Joakim, other fans think he's a tool. I would too, were I not a Bulls fan. Regardless, he played tough, but he was missing a couple things. First off, health. He was injured for a long stretch in the middle of the season, and played injured for a long time as well. It was his wonderful excuse for lacking the fire and energy Bull-backers are accustomed to seeing from the long-haired and lanky seven-footer. He was occasionally bullied, and he would do something rare for Joakim in certain instances: he would accept it. This was the second thing Joakim lacked — Heart. He wouldn't scrounge and fight like the old Joakim would. Blame it on the new contract, whatever.
Despite their sparse flaws, the team operated on a higher plane than most other teams for the majority of the year. In the last month, we edged past Boston and Miami to earn the top spot in the Eastern Conference playoffs.
•••
Maybe this was another problem. Being favored — we weren't used to it. We didn't handle ourselves like superior playoff teams do, we didn't handle ourselves like underdogs either. We handled ourselves ... differently. Or maybe we didn't handle ourselves at all. We went in without expectations, and so we were oddly hindered, playing, imitating maybe, our opponent. Folks, the Indiana Pacers are not really a good team to imitate. They play feisty above their collective skill level, old-Bulls style. They played us in three close games, a real confidence hit, before we finally lost one. We finished them off in Game Five, but it was a bad five games. Not what you wanted to see from a team you're still trying to trust in the postseason.
Next series, we were surprised to face Atlanta. Things were definitely getting hairy. Not working out the way we Bulls fans were hoping. Unfortunately it was a hope, it wasn't an expectation. The Hawks shocked us in Game One, beating us by ten points. To boot, Derrick Rose muffed his foot on the floor when the game was out of reach with about ten seconds left. A first sign of a first year coach, not taking his go-to guy out in a game that was decided. Confidence was hailing on the city of Chicago, melting away and disappearing beyond recovery. The problem wasn't anything anymore, it was a number of things. Luckily we ran the Hawks out in the next five games (a way more encouraging five games than those it took to dispatch Indy.) We were on our way to the East Conference Finals.
Had you told me that before the season? "Bullshit," I would have called.
So, we headed into the Conference Finals, not really sure if we could actually beat Miami in a series. Game One eased those worries as we dominated Miami in the second half to win by 21 points. Unfortunately, we lost control of the series in the next game when the Heat erased our homecourt advantage to tie the series at 1-1, and Miami had three games to play at home in the series.
Then the unthinkable happened: Miami reached its full potential. Like Frieza in his final form, the Heat terrorized us and simply became the closest thing to unbeatable that the NBA has seen this year. They didn't particularly blow us out in any given game, but, when the game was in question, it was LeBron's Miami Heat who were the answer, contrasting the regular season matches when Derrick Rose was the answer in the closing minute.
This became hard to watch. A team that had been hated all year long, suffered noticeably because of this hatred, and seemed to not have the answer when it mattered most, was killing us. Watching, you kept expecting the Bulls to dig deeper — deep enough to get a game when they needed it. They didn't.
Most gut-wrenching of all was the Chicago Bulls' last stand in Game Five in the United Center in front of the faithful home fans. The Bulls were up 77-65 with three minutes left. It appeared we had finally bounced back, and we were going to get one. Then Miami unleashed a metaphorical spirit bomb, conjuring the world's energy and turning it into an 18-3 run that left us crushed, windless, and most importantly of all, dead.
83-80. In a shocking comeback. It brought memories back to a regular season game against Atlanta. One in which the Bulls were dominating throughout the first half, up by (I want to say) 17 points, before the team seemingly quit in the second half and gave up the lead for the first time all game with under a minute left. We lost to Atlanta, 83-80. This game was a learning experience for us, we went on a huge tear after the embarrassing defeat. No such opportunity is available this time. We're just dead. Coach of the Year. Most Valuable Player. Best regular season record. Phenomenal team chemistry. Not enough.
You have to revert to the pre-season mindset; this season is a stepping stone. We took a pretty huge step, considering all the awards and winning we experienced. But we aren't a perfect team. It's hard to say whether we're going to be better next year. The youth excuse is no longer relevant. I think the key is to get a shooting guard, someone who can fill out the lineup and allow the trio of shooting guards to take their rightful spots on the bench.
It hurts to lose to the Miami Heat. The No. 1 team we'd rather not see ourselves lose to. And what's worse, we did so timidly. When the final buzzer sounded, we had no choice but to be cordial and respectful. They outplayed us. They beat us. They deserved to win, and we didn't.
Things will be different next year. How? I don't know. But the circumstances will be different. Right now the championship isn't yet decided, and if it's the Heat that will be the most painful thing of all. I really think this year, preseason, my top concern was that Miami not winning, rather than the Bulls winning. Of course, the second goal accomplishes the first, so I was hoping more for that, but I can still consider this NBA season a success if the mighty Heat get taken down. It will be hard for me to watch LeBron tell the haters (aka me) to shut up and that they were wrong. I will do so, but despite the talent advantage being clearly in Miami's favor, that round ball has bounced odder ways before. If Miami plays with a three-man team, they're probably going to lose. Then again, when three of those guys are All-Stars, you stand a pretty good chance no matter what.
So the season is over. We may not yet have a champion, but the Bulls are done. I won't cower away from watching the Finals, and if the Heat win, they will have certainly earned it. But something is definitely at stake, and I don't think there's a single way you can honestly root for the Heat. A monstrous team of Bosh, Wade and James will have their successes. But like every up and coming basketball dynasty, the Heat need to be humbled. You cannot just choose success and have it. You have to earn it.
Dirk Nowitzki lost to the Miami Heat in the 2006 Finals and has been fighting to get back to that point ever since. Future Hall of Famer Jason Kidd made two NBA Finals with the New Jersey Nets, only to lose to the Lakers and Spurs. He's 38 now and very likely to retire before too long. This past offseason, Nowitzki was a free agent. He was the third most highly sought after free agent behind James and Wade. He could have gone to any number of organizations with diabolic plans for league takeover. Unlike LeBron he stuck to his guns. Unlike Dwyane Wade, he didn't beg and plead for the league's best player to come save him. He and his team have made it back to the Finals at long last, and this is the best shot they'll have to win it all.
I wouldn't pin this Finals as a battle of good and evil, not quite. But as far as building teams is concerned, it's a battle of the right way versus the wrong way. LeBron and D-Wade aren't wrong for wanting to win titles, but they couldn't do it alone so they decided to essentially combine two of the league's top teams into one superforce. Worst of all they're surprised that people don't respect them. I appreciate greatness, but I appreciate even more someone elevating themselves to greatness in order to beat greatness.
If the Mavs can't do it, then it seems as though this summer will be worse than the last, with all the Heatles worship and whatnot. Oh, and don't forget, the NBA will spend this summer trying to figure out a new collective bargaining agreement.
Sigh ... the NBA. It's a love-hate thing.
--Eliot Sill
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Nick - Gold Rush
One of my favorite stories takes place in 1848 in the small town of Westhaven, California. Westhaven was settled very early compared to the rest of California, so when the gold rush rolled around they had already been settled into a pleasant, peaceful lifestyle for a long time. The problem? Westhaven was right in the middle of a gold vein passing under the city.
Fearing that the incoming rush of gold miners would overpopulate and eventually destroy their town, the city council of Westhaven acted quickly: they passed a law. The law stated that no one could mine, search for, or even posses gold. Period.
Despite the best effort of the town, nothing can come between people and money. Eventually tunnels were dug from outside of town to the rich gold mine sitting directly below it. In fact, three such tunnels were made, all from separate sides. Eventually the tunnels grew wider, wider, and wider, until the mines spanned underneath the entire town.
And then, one day in late 1850, the town collapsed. The tunnels caved in, and Westhaven sunk into the Earth in seconds. In trying to prevent their gold from being taken and their lifestyle being upset, they ended up stripped of both.
Only a few people survived the cave in. Not a single structure was left standing, save the statue in the dead center of town. A stone statue of the founder of the town, who had ventured west in an effort to escape the greed and conflict of large cities.
It stands there to this day, bearing the inscription, "Greed is the bane of humanity."
-Nick.
Fearing that the incoming rush of gold miners would overpopulate and eventually destroy their town, the city council of Westhaven acted quickly: they passed a law. The law stated that no one could mine, search for, or even posses gold. Period.
Despite the best effort of the town, nothing can come between people and money. Eventually tunnels were dug from outside of town to the rich gold mine sitting directly below it. In fact, three such tunnels were made, all from separate sides. Eventually the tunnels grew wider, wider, and wider, until the mines spanned underneath the entire town.
And then, one day in late 1850, the town collapsed. The tunnels caved in, and Westhaven sunk into the Earth in seconds. In trying to prevent their gold from being taken and their lifestyle being upset, they ended up stripped of both.
Only a few people survived the cave in. Not a single structure was left standing, save the statue in the dead center of town. A stone statue of the founder of the town, who had ventured west in an effort to escape the greed and conflict of large cities.
It stands there to this day, bearing the inscription, "Greed is the bane of humanity."
-Nick.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
A Murderer Interviews His Victim
By Robert Langellier
I wouldn’t say a murderer, really. I mean, I gave life more than I took it. Specifically, from my and my friend Jimmy’s mutual uterus sprang 19-year-old Cassie Tipping.
I’m not going to tell you the story in full, because the topic has been exhausted in full by the blogosphere this week (you should read those to fill yourself in), but I will tell you the story in short. My friend Jimmy and I put in countless hours this past year creating a false Facebook persona, first to fool our friends Garrett and Molly, then later others like our friend Joel, and then finally just Garrett as people began to catch on.
It’s hard work keeping up an internet profile: adding a realistic amount of friends, maintaining an interests section, getting other people in on the joke, commenting on their walls, posting frequent statuses, writing Facebook notes, taking Facebook quizzes, and finding the Tumblr of a minor actress from “The Last Song” starring Miley Cyrus and uploading all of her down-to-earth photos we could find onto Facebook. All just to see if Garrett’s sappy lovey-dovey girlfriend would friend request her as she did with countless other Mizzou friends of Garrett. Lot of work for a small punchline.
But as everyone at Mizzou knows, she quickly grew larger than the joke, and we went to greater and greater efforts to make her seem realistic. She developed an extensive backstory of high school life in Oak Park, Illinois. She took part in her sorority ADPi’s events. She penned an article for Mizzou’s student newspaper, The Maneater. She guest rapped a verse on acclaimed local rap duo Twain Tokenz’ song, “fuckyou.docx.”
Many months later, the cat’s out of the bag, and it’s interesting to see the reactions of the people we ended up deceiving in our creepy little puppet trick. Joel made his stance clear in his blog, and it’s as important as the rest of this post, so I’d recommend reading it. I wanted to give something unique to the Cassie blogosphere, so I thought I’d interview the biggest butt of the joke, Garrett, and get his view on the subject. I edited a bunch of it out so it would fit; here are the important parts:
-------------------------------------------------
Robert: Could you talk about your thoughts or opinions of Cassie as you started to hear more about her?
Garrett: She slowly became this hyperbolized “slut” character. I think there was one status that was like, “Apparently waking up in a random guy’s bed isn’t acceptable here. Whoops.” And then she started typing like Jimmy does via text, which I’m surprised I didn’t pick up on, spelling “like” l-y-k-e, and stuff like that.
Robert: Those were probably Jimmy’s.
Garrett: Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, I read Joel’s post, and I was obviously flattered because I was just getting compliments out of the blue, but I never was offended by it. I thought it was hilarious. Anyone who’s seen “Get Him to the Greek,” I just felt like I had been deeply mind-fucked, as I think I said that day, because literally I had never ever ever ever ever doubted that she was real, once. I don’t know why. Looking back and seeing how Brandon talked about his slipups, I remember him saying at the Maneater about how she moved in after first semester, which was completely contradictory to everything I thought about her. I never once suspected that she was fake.
*click*
Robert: Oops.
*ring*
Robert: Oops. Pressed “End.” Well, to give some context to the joke, we never thought it would be anywhere near as big as it did. And then, eventually, one-by-one, the pins got knocked down, and you were the last one standing for a couple months, so for those last couple months…
Garrett: Wait, me and Joel were the last ones for a couple months?”
Robert: No, you were the last one for a couple months. Ashley blew the beans to Joel a couple months before you found out.
Garrett: Ohh my gosh, I thought Joel caught on a matter of hours before I did. That’s even worse! Oh my gosh. And the thing is, Joel was throwing out this conspiracy against his friends, but honestly, if I were in that position, and I had started the small joke and was completely killing you and Jimmy with it, of course I would’ve kept going for the whole year. That’s like, literally, you’ve been handed a golden ticket. You cannot waste that. That was like the ultimate joke, and to blow that by thinking I would be offended would be dumb.
Robert: Well there were some moral issues. But still, it was worth it.
Garrett: Oh yeah, of course if I was like, “wow, this feels like a betrayal of trust”… It’s not like that. I don’t care. You know what I mean? Like, whatever. It’s not like I found out you were sleeping with Molly when she was here, which I actually still have not verified.
Robert: Oh, no, I did.
Garrett: She gets this awkward blush whenever I say your name. I’m like, that’s awkward, why are you blushing? So, I don’t know. It’s one of those good experiences overall. I think Joel took it a little harder than I did.
Robert: Yeah, probably. I don’t think we were expecting Joel’s post. I would’ve expected you to be offended more than Joel. Not because that’s your personality, but just because you eventually became sort of a bigger target.
Garrett: The weird thing was, Joel was surprised I hadn’t blogged. For some reason, it literally never crossed my mind to blog about it.
Robert: At any point, did you Facebook stalk Cassie? Be honest.
Garrett: Oh, yeah, definitely.
Robert: Muahaha.
Garrett: Looking back, I really have no room to critique you guys, because I fell for it 100%, but there was this weird gap where she had no pictures that I remember thinking, “There are no pictures in here with a clear shot at her face that I could recognize.” For some reason I thought she was Kristen Herhold for a while. I thought that was Cassie Tipping.
Robert: That’s really funny also. That’s brand new news.
Garrett: Oh yeah, like, I didn’t know Kristen. She was in journalism classes, but we never hung out with each other. I never ate lunch with her, so I thought it could’ve possibly been her, but then I found out that was Kristen Herhold and I was like, “Okay, who is Cassie Tipping?” I’ve even seen “The Last Song.” I didn’t even know that girl was in “The Last Song.” Like, I couldn’t even recognize her.
Robert: Well, she did play a minor role.
Garrett: And then, the makeout pic, at the same time.
Robert: Yeah, that was Elizabeth Downy.
Garrett: She lent me tanning oil once.
Robert: That’s good. Do you think you will ever be able to trust again?
Garrett: No. I mean, ever? Yes, obviously I can trust again. Or actually, I can’t really answer that, because I don’t really know. How am I supposed to know if I can ever trust again after you guys fucking with me for literally an entire year? I guess yes, with a side of no. God, this is so frustrating!
NO REGRETS.
I wouldn’t say a murderer, really. I mean, I gave life more than I took it. Specifically, from my and my friend Jimmy’s mutual uterus sprang 19-year-old Cassie Tipping.
I’m not going to tell you the story in full, because the topic has been exhausted in full by the blogosphere this week (you should read those to fill yourself in), but I will tell you the story in short. My friend Jimmy and I put in countless hours this past year creating a false Facebook persona, first to fool our friends Garrett and Molly, then later others like our friend Joel, and then finally just Garrett as people began to catch on.
It’s hard work keeping up an internet profile: adding a realistic amount of friends, maintaining an interests section, getting other people in on the joke, commenting on their walls, posting frequent statuses, writing Facebook notes, taking Facebook quizzes, and finding the Tumblr of a minor actress from “The Last Song” starring Miley Cyrus and uploading all of her down-to-earth photos we could find onto Facebook. All just to see if Garrett’s sappy lovey-dovey girlfriend would friend request her as she did with countless other Mizzou friends of Garrett. Lot of work for a small punchline.
But as everyone at Mizzou knows, she quickly grew larger than the joke, and we went to greater and greater efforts to make her seem realistic. She developed an extensive backstory of high school life in Oak Park, Illinois. She took part in her sorority ADPi’s events. She penned an article for Mizzou’s student newspaper, The Maneater. She guest rapped a verse on acclaimed local rap duo Twain Tokenz’ song, “fuckyou.docx.”
Many months later, the cat’s out of the bag, and it’s interesting to see the reactions of the people we ended up deceiving in our creepy little puppet trick. Joel made his stance clear in his blog, and it’s as important as the rest of this post, so I’d recommend reading it. I wanted to give something unique to the Cassie blogosphere, so I thought I’d interview the biggest butt of the joke, Garrett, and get his view on the subject. I edited a bunch of it out so it would fit; here are the important parts:
-------------------------------------------------
Robert: Could you talk about your thoughts or opinions of Cassie as you started to hear more about her?
Garrett: She slowly became this hyperbolized “slut” character. I think there was one status that was like, “Apparently waking up in a random guy’s bed isn’t acceptable here. Whoops.” And then she started typing like Jimmy does via text, which I’m surprised I didn’t pick up on, spelling “like” l-y-k-e, and stuff like that.
Robert: Those were probably Jimmy’s.
Garrett: Yeah, I don’t know. I mean, I read Joel’s post, and I was obviously flattered because I was just getting compliments out of the blue, but I never was offended by it. I thought it was hilarious. Anyone who’s seen “Get Him to the Greek,” I just felt like I had been deeply mind-fucked, as I think I said that day, because literally I had never ever ever ever ever doubted that she was real, once. I don’t know why. Looking back and seeing how Brandon talked about his slipups, I remember him saying at the Maneater about how she moved in after first semester, which was completely contradictory to everything I thought about her. I never once suspected that she was fake.
*click*
Robert: Oops.
*ring*
Robert: Oops. Pressed “End.” Well, to give some context to the joke, we never thought it would be anywhere near as big as it did. And then, eventually, one-by-one, the pins got knocked down, and you were the last one standing for a couple months, so for those last couple months…
Garrett: Wait, me and Joel were the last ones for a couple months?”
Robert: No, you were the last one for a couple months. Ashley blew the beans to Joel a couple months before you found out.
Garrett: Ohh my gosh, I thought Joel caught on a matter of hours before I did. That’s even worse! Oh my gosh. And the thing is, Joel was throwing out this conspiracy against his friends, but honestly, if I were in that position, and I had started the small joke and was completely killing you and Jimmy with it, of course I would’ve kept going for the whole year. That’s like, literally, you’ve been handed a golden ticket. You cannot waste that. That was like the ultimate joke, and to blow that by thinking I would be offended would be dumb.
Robert: Well there were some moral issues. But still, it was worth it.
Garrett: Oh yeah, of course if I was like, “wow, this feels like a betrayal of trust”… It’s not like that. I don’t care. You know what I mean? Like, whatever. It’s not like I found out you were sleeping with Molly when she was here, which I actually still have not verified.
Robert: Oh, no, I did.
Garrett: She gets this awkward blush whenever I say your name. I’m like, that’s awkward, why are you blushing? So, I don’t know. It’s one of those good experiences overall. I think Joel took it a little harder than I did.
Robert: Yeah, probably. I don’t think we were expecting Joel’s post. I would’ve expected you to be offended more than Joel. Not because that’s your personality, but just because you eventually became sort of a bigger target.
Garrett: The weird thing was, Joel was surprised I hadn’t blogged. For some reason, it literally never crossed my mind to blog about it.
Robert: At any point, did you Facebook stalk Cassie? Be honest.
Garrett: Oh, yeah, definitely.
Robert: Muahaha.
Garrett: Looking back, I really have no room to critique you guys, because I fell for it 100%, but there was this weird gap where she had no pictures that I remember thinking, “There are no pictures in here with a clear shot at her face that I could recognize.” For some reason I thought she was Kristen Herhold for a while. I thought that was Cassie Tipping.
Robert: That’s really funny also. That’s brand new news.
Garrett: Oh yeah, like, I didn’t know Kristen. She was in journalism classes, but we never hung out with each other. I never ate lunch with her, so I thought it could’ve possibly been her, but then I found out that was Kristen Herhold and I was like, “Okay, who is Cassie Tipping?” I’ve even seen “The Last Song.” I didn’t even know that girl was in “The Last Song.” Like, I couldn’t even recognize her.
Robert: Well, she did play a minor role.
Garrett: And then, the makeout pic, at the same time.
Robert: Yeah, that was Elizabeth Downy.
Garrett: She lent me tanning oil once.
Robert: That’s good. Do you think you will ever be able to trust again?
Garrett: No. I mean, ever? Yes, obviously I can trust again. Or actually, I can’t really answer that, because I don’t really know. How am I supposed to know if I can ever trust again after you guys fucking with me for literally an entire year? I guess yes, with a side of no. God, this is so frustrating!
NO REGRETS.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
My Bear Snuggles
"Annie, don't you ever put that bear down?", sneered her mother's boyfriend, Ted.
"No, she doesn't", replied Annie's mother, an edge of frustration in her voice. "We can't get her to let go of the damn thing. It's probably the only friend the little snot has..."
Annie sat quietly in the corner, seemingly unaffected by the insults. She rarely ever spoke anyway. She was content to nibble at her meal and stare deeply into Snuggles's eyes, as if they were mentally having a very important conversation with one another.
Snuggles wasn't much to look at. By many little girls' standards, he would be considered ugly. He was old and rather dingy. He had a crooked smile and was covered haphazardly in stitching from the many times he had ripped. Annie took good care of Snuggles, but sometimes her mother, when she was drunk, would try to take her bear from her, which almost always ended in a tug-of-war between the two of them. Annie always won because her mother was a clumsy drunk and Annie was exceptionally strong for a little girl, but Snuggles did not always escape injury. Of course her mother did not care enough to try and mend the teddy bear for her, so Annie always had to do it herself after her mother had passed out for the night.
"Well, can't you make her?", said Ted, his voice laden with contempt. "Little girls should do as they're told. If she were my kid I'd make her." He got up out of his chair, knocking it over in the process. Annie did not react as it clattered to the floor. She did not even look up. She just kept staring into Snuggles's deep black eyes.
Ted stumbles over towards her, the contents of the bottle he was holding splashing all over the floor along the way. "Hey, you stupid little girl! Fucking look at me when I talk to you! Are you deaf or something!?" He pulled his foot back to kick her, but at that moment, Annie looked up. She met his gaze unflinchingly, her steely blue eyes burning into his dull, watery browns. Ted froze, transfixed.
"What is it, Ted!? Did that little bitch hurt you? Why are you just standing there like that?", shouted Annie's mother.
Ted couldn't move. His brain was screaming at his foot to continue forward, but nothing happened. Was he having a seizure or something? He didn't understand. He started to panic, his alcohol-inhibited mind struggling to come up with an answer.
And then he realized. It was Annie. With a mere glance, she had paralyzed him. She had resumed staring at Snuggles now, but Ted still couldn't move. His panic was quickly replaced by a wave of utter terror. And then the pain came. His whole body felt like it was on fire, as if his muscles were being torn apart.
"Please, help me! She's killing me!" As he lost his voice, his screams slowly turned into sobs. "Oh God...I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."
Annie's mother, dazed and confused, finally jumped into action. She grabbed a knife off the counter and started running toward Annie.
Annie looked up again, but this time, she smiled. "Can Snuggles come out to play?", she whispered.
"No, she doesn't", replied Annie's mother, an edge of frustration in her voice. "We can't get her to let go of the damn thing. It's probably the only friend the little snot has..."
Annie sat quietly in the corner, seemingly unaffected by the insults. She rarely ever spoke anyway. She was content to nibble at her meal and stare deeply into Snuggles's eyes, as if they were mentally having a very important conversation with one another.
Snuggles wasn't much to look at. By many little girls' standards, he would be considered ugly. He was old and rather dingy. He had a crooked smile and was covered haphazardly in stitching from the many times he had ripped. Annie took good care of Snuggles, but sometimes her mother, when she was drunk, would try to take her bear from her, which almost always ended in a tug-of-war between the two of them. Annie always won because her mother was a clumsy drunk and Annie was exceptionally strong for a little girl, but Snuggles did not always escape injury. Of course her mother did not care enough to try and mend the teddy bear for her, so Annie always had to do it herself after her mother had passed out for the night.
"Well, can't you make her?", said Ted, his voice laden with contempt. "Little girls should do as they're told. If she were my kid I'd make her." He got up out of his chair, knocking it over in the process. Annie did not react as it clattered to the floor. She did not even look up. She just kept staring into Snuggles's deep black eyes.
Ted stumbles over towards her, the contents of the bottle he was holding splashing all over the floor along the way. "Hey, you stupid little girl! Fucking look at me when I talk to you! Are you deaf or something!?" He pulled his foot back to kick her, but at that moment, Annie looked up. She met his gaze unflinchingly, her steely blue eyes burning into his dull, watery browns. Ted froze, transfixed.
"What is it, Ted!? Did that little bitch hurt you? Why are you just standing there like that?", shouted Annie's mother.
Ted couldn't move. His brain was screaming at his foot to continue forward, but nothing happened. Was he having a seizure or something? He didn't understand. He started to panic, his alcohol-inhibited mind struggling to come up with an answer.
And then he realized. It was Annie. With a mere glance, she had paralyzed him. She had resumed staring at Snuggles now, but Ted still couldn't move. His panic was quickly replaced by a wave of utter terror. And then the pain came. His whole body felt like it was on fire, as if his muscles were being torn apart.
"Please, help me! She's killing me!" As he lost his voice, his screams slowly turned into sobs. "Oh God...I'm sorry...I'm sorry..."
Annie's mother, dazed and confused, finally jumped into action. She grabbed a knife off the counter and started running toward Annie.
Annie looked up again, but this time, she smiled. "Can Snuggles come out to play?", she whispered.
The teddy bear in her hand emitted a pulse of blinding light that filled the room, and when it faded, the teddy bear was no longer there.
Before Annie stood the real Snuggles. He was massive, his head nearly touching the ceiling, but there was no mistaking him. He still had the same scars, the same crooked smile, and the same dark black eyes. Annie let out a shriek of sheer girlish delight as she scrambled onto his shoulder. Snuggles growled in approval.
Together, they turned their gaze toward Ted and Annie's mother. Annie's mother dropped the knife she had still been holding, cowering back into the corner with Ted. "Please...please no....", she whimpered, as Annie and Snuggles slowly moved toward her with ground-shaking steps.
The sound of dying screams rent the night as they mixed with Annie's high pitched laughter.
-Classic
-Classic
Conor - Sometimes You Just Have To Fight The Wu-Tang Clan I Guess
Thursday night I was hanging out with Classic Brian, Wednesday Eliot, Monday Nick, and our less-significant-because-they-don't-write-for-Classic-Brian-friends Tynan and Caitlin, when a sad truth dawned on us.
Looks like we're going to have to fight the Wu-Tang clan in a gang fight.
We could spend our time trying to avoid this fate, saying "No, Conor, there has to be some other way" or "try to talk it out" or "the Wu-Tang Clan has done nothing to earn your fury" but it would be no use. This must happen. Somehow I always knew it was going to come to this. Somehow I always knew that it was going to be us or them.
"Us" being this very specific group of my friends who happened to be in the same room Thursday night.
"Them" being hip-hop collective Wu-Tang clan.
According to Wikipedia the Wu-Tang clan is a highly influential hip hop group from New York. There are 8 core members of the Wu-Tang clan not including the late Ol' Dirty Bastard, and there are lots of other rappers associated with the clan, but bullshit, Wu-Tang clan, if you think we're going to let them enter this gang fight. Have you no honor. You already outnumber us by 2.
So let's set out some rules. There must be some order in this chaos.
NO FIREARMS - Yeah, no guns. 10 points deduced for every shot fired.
KNIVES ARE OKAY, KNIVES ARE FINE - I accept that this fight will be to the death, and I don't like the idea of having to beat a fool named Inspectah Deck to death with my fists. I want it to be quick.
IT SHOULD PROBABLY HAPPEN AT NIGHT IN A DRAMATICALLY LIT ALLEYWAY PROBABLY - I'm thinking a blueish tint, with a harsh yellow light sortof bleeding in from the street.
THE FIGHT SHOULD LAST NO LONGER THAN 2 MINUTES AND 50 SECOND AND IT SHOULD BE SOUNDTRACKED BY THIS - Well I got the main idea here out of the way in the bold, underlined print.
Let's take a good look at our crew. (What should we name our crew?)
Caitlin
Weight: Somewhere in the 90 pound range
Height: Around 5'6"?
Fighting Style: Timid, Bird-like
Pros: Fearless, Has Killed Before
Cons: Approval Seeking, Would Probably Show Up To The Fight 15 Minutes Late/Leave Early
Nick
Weight: Also probably somewhere in the 90 pound range
Height: 5'10", 5'11"?
Fighting Style: The Annoyed Crab
Pros: Has Been Working Out A Lot This Year, Brilliant Tactician, A Robot, Unfeeling and Unemotional
Cons: Would Probably Get Our Crew Mocked By Skipping Around
(It should be something tough, like Da Kool Kidz or something.)
Tynan
Weight: Probs like 250kg
Height: Height is a useless category
Fighting Style: Detached Criticism
Pros: There Is Literally No Way The Wu-Tang Clan Would Be Able To Beat Tynan In An Argument, His Dad's A Doctor
Cons: He Might Not Take It Terribly Seriously Even Though It's A Real Gang Fight With Real Death
Classic Brian
Weight: The Ideal Weight
Height: The Ideal Height
Fighting Style: Winning
Pros: Our Star Player, Has A Six Pack, Really Pretty
(Das Kool Kidz. Done.)
Eliot
Weight: Weightless
Height: 5'9"ish?
Fighting Style: Confusion
Pros: Hostile, Quick, Probably Most Familiar With the Wu-Tang Clans Music
Cons: Poor At Communicating, Will Probably Make Terrible, Unforgivable Puns
Conor
Weight: Right around that 90 pound range we were talking about
Height: 6 feet mutha fuckaaaa
Fighting Style: Over-Confidence
Pros: Willing To Bring Guns Even Though I Said No Guns
Cons: My Ultimate Frisbee Skillz Are Probably Less Transferable Than I Believe Them To Be
I'm going to admit I'm not terribly familiar with the work of this "clan," but from the light research I've been doing I've drawn up an rough plan.
First and foremost, we need to get rid of the two killas. Both Ghostface Killa and Masta Killa have intimidating names that scare me, so they're done. After that Inspectah Deck and U-God need to go, I feel like they're probably wild cards.
RZA and GZA are probs brothers judging from their names, so if we take down one the other will probably be filled with unbelievable anger, so why don't we see if we can get them simultaneously.
Method Man and Raekwon, iunno. I see them being sortof the cheerleaders of the group. They probably won't get their hands too dirty.
I'm getting excited just talking about it.
Let's just do this! Are you guys free tomorrow night?
I know the perfect alleyway.
Looks like we're going to have to fight the Wu-Tang clan in a gang fight.
We could spend our time trying to avoid this fate, saying "No, Conor, there has to be some other way" or "try to talk it out" or "the Wu-Tang Clan has done nothing to earn your fury" but it would be no use. This must happen. Somehow I always knew it was going to come to this. Somehow I always knew that it was going to be us or them.
"Us" being this very specific group of my friends who happened to be in the same room Thursday night.
"Them" being hip-hop collective Wu-Tang clan.
According to Wikipedia the Wu-Tang clan is a highly influential hip hop group from New York. There are 8 core members of the Wu-Tang clan not including the late Ol' Dirty Bastard, and there are lots of other rappers associated with the clan, but bullshit, Wu-Tang clan, if you think we're going to let them enter this gang fight. Have you no honor. You already outnumber us by 2.
So let's set out some rules. There must be some order in this chaos.
NO FIREARMS - Yeah, no guns. 10 points deduced for every shot fired.
KNIVES ARE OKAY, KNIVES ARE FINE - I accept that this fight will be to the death, and I don't like the idea of having to beat a fool named Inspectah Deck to death with my fists. I want it to be quick.
IT SHOULD PROBABLY HAPPEN AT NIGHT IN A DRAMATICALLY LIT ALLEYWAY PROBABLY - I'm thinking a blueish tint, with a harsh yellow light sortof bleeding in from the street.
THE FIGHT SHOULD LAST NO LONGER THAN 2 MINUTES AND 50 SECOND AND IT SHOULD BE SOUNDTRACKED BY THIS - Well I got the main idea here out of the way in the bold, underlined print.
Let's take a good look at our crew. (What should we name our crew?)
Caitlin
Weight: Somewhere in the 90 pound range
Height: Around 5'6"?
Fighting Style: Timid, Bird-like
Pros: Fearless, Has Killed Before
Cons: Approval Seeking, Would Probably Show Up To The Fight 15 Minutes Late/Leave Early
Nick
Weight: Also probably somewhere in the 90 pound range
Height: 5'10", 5'11"?
Fighting Style: The Annoyed Crab
Pros: Has Been Working Out A Lot This Year, Brilliant Tactician, A Robot, Unfeeling and Unemotional
Cons: Would Probably Get Our Crew Mocked By Skipping Around
(It should be something tough, like Da Kool Kidz or something.)
Tynan
Weight: Probs like 250kg
Height: Height is a useless category
Fighting Style: Detached Criticism
Pros: There Is Literally No Way The Wu-Tang Clan Would Be Able To Beat Tynan In An Argument, His Dad's A Doctor
Cons: He Might Not Take It Terribly Seriously Even Though It's A Real Gang Fight With Real Death
Classic Brian
Weight: The Ideal Weight
Height: The Ideal Height
Fighting Style: Winning
Pros: Our Star Player, Has A Six Pack, Really Pretty
(Das Kool Kidz. Done.)
Eliot
Weight: Weightless
Height: 5'9"ish?
Fighting Style: Confusion
Pros: Hostile, Quick, Probably Most Familiar With the Wu-Tang Clans Music
Cons: Poor At Communicating, Will Probably Make Terrible, Unforgivable Puns
Conor
Weight: Right around that 90 pound range we were talking about
Height: 6 feet mutha fuckaaaa
Fighting Style: Over-Confidence
Pros: Willing To Bring Guns Even Though I Said No Guns
Cons: My Ultimate Frisbee Skillz Are Probably Less Transferable Than I Believe Them To Be
I'm going to admit I'm not terribly familiar with the work of this "clan," but from the light research I've been doing I've drawn up an rough plan.
First and foremost, we need to get rid of the two killas. Both Ghostface Killa and Masta Killa have intimidating names that scare me, so they're done. After that Inspectah Deck and U-God need to go, I feel like they're probably wild cards.
RZA and GZA are probs brothers judging from their names, so if we take down one the other will probably be filled with unbelievable anger, so why don't we see if we can get them simultaneously.
Method Man and Raekwon, iunno. I see them being sortof the cheerleaders of the group. They probably won't get their hands too dirty.
I'm getting excited just talking about it.
Let's just do this! Are you guys free tomorrow night?
I know the perfect alleyway.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
You Shouldn't Let Other People Get Your Kicks For You
by Brendan CavanaghThis is a post I wrote for a blawg my friends from college and I have. Enjoy.
One night two summers ago my cousin approached me with a serious look on his face. He gripped my arm tightly and vehemently expressed his concern that perhaps one is entirely unable to watch a movie or read a book or listen to a musician without first hearing about it from a reputable source- be it a friend, relative, magazine or website. He said, "Would we have watched Dr. Strangelove last night if it hadn't been named one of the greatest films of all time?"
At the time, I understood what he meant, but his qualms have stuck with me and influenced me to retain as much autonomy and individual interest as possible when encountering unexperienced aspects of media. So when I flipped through someone's copy of the latest Rolling Stone this weekend and discovered an article listing, in depth, the "70 Greatest Bob Dylan Songs," I experienced an amalgamation of several feelings: elation at seeing many of my favorite songs on the list, confidence that just like Rolling Stone writers and Dylan-worshipping musicians, I knew what made these songs great, disgust with certain songs I felt should have made the list but didn't as well as the ones included that I felt shouldn't have been, and inspiration to listen much closer to songs I may have previously ignored or misunderstood.
Obviously, everyone has different taste. But when it comes to Dylan's greatest songs, it's understandable that many people would share the same favorites. I think it's important to have this sort of mutual understanding, but I am really proud to have my own choices in my own order, be them on The List or not. So I'll list here my five favorite Dylan songs to give you a taste of how I view Dylan's work, but keep in mind my favorites vary depending on my mood,. the weather, the time, where I am, what I'm doing and blah blah blah blah blah. The following is the most enduring Top Five:
1. Don't Think Twice, It's All Right [Demo-Recording] - No Direction Home Soundtrack (The Bootleg Series, Vol. 7) - 2005
The studio recording was the eighth track on 1963's The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, but I prefer the demo because although it excludes the bluesy harmonica, its stripped-down and mournful sound more accurately paints a picture of desolation and leaving a relationship.
2. Santa-Fe - The Bootleg Series, Vol. 1 (1991)
The lyrics are indecipherable and don't match up to their written documentation, but from what I can understand, they detail a life of endless wandering, the thoughts of a man who can't e tied down to a single place or person. It was recorded in the basement of Big Pink with The Band before they were The Band, so of course, the musical accompaniment is richer and upbeat. The seemingly comforting line "Don't feel bad, no no no no don't don't don't feel bad" kills me every time.
3. Like A Rolling Stone - Highway 61 Revisited (1965)
Honestly, this is one of the most important songs of all time, so it would make sense that it would be Rolling Stone's number one pick (though the fact that it is the magazine's namesake and that it was already chosen as their pick for the greatest song of all time eased any anticipation). Over time the song takes on added significance, and I find myself singing it scornfully and acidly in my head to certain girls I hate to love. Bruce Springsteen has rather articulately expressed his first encounter with the song, in a way speaking for most people, saying "The first time I heard Bob Dylan, I was in the car with my mother listening to WMCA, and on came that snare shot that sounded like somebody'd kicked open the door to your mind."
4. Idiot Wind [Alternate Take] - The Bootleg Series. Vol. 2 (1991)
Dylan haphazardly recorded most of the material on 1975's Blood On The Tracks without much help from a backing band in Minneapolis before revamping his songs and releasing them. This song is notable because it features simply Dylan on acoustic guitar and harmonica, desperately whining a depressing nine minutes of heartbreak and anger with a past love who done him wrong. In the end, though, Dylan places the blame not only on his ex-lover, but on himself, too, stating, "We're idiots babe, it's a wonder we can even feed ourselves." However, the lyrical imagery is overshadowed by the minute-and-a-half harmonica solo at the end of the song, a solo which most vividly relates Dylan's pain.
5. Chimes Of Freedom [Live] - No Direction Home Soundtrack (The Bootleg Series, Vol. 7) 2005
In my opinion, maybe the greatest of Dylan's folk-protest songs, and perhaps the greatest protest song of all time. Though instead of pointing fingers Dylan describes a truly epic thunderstorm whose violent lightening and thunder clang out the unjust derogation of all types of people and which is seen by everyone in a strange experience of global unity- from the outcast, the mistitled prostitute and misdemeanor outlaw to the poet, the lonesome-hearted lover and ultimately, "every hung-up person in the whole wide universe." I don't often listen to the original studio version on 1964's Another Side of Bob Dylan, instead favoring the live concert version recorded in 1964 at the Newport Folk Festival.
I love Bob Dylan. And you should, too.
...And the Livin's Easy
It's four in the morning; this is not a problem. I'm typing this on my house PC. I just came back from a run, I went shirtless. I'm following the it's-not-tomorrow-until-I-go-to-sleep rule in posting this now. My close friends are at my fingertips, and my family a shout away. It is positively summertime.
So here we are, back where it all began. Classic Brian is nearing its one-year anniversary, and as someone who has put a hefty bit o' work into this thing (approximately a post's work more than Sunday Robert), to me I kind of think of CB's birth as the mark of a changed era. When I look through my slow-glass mirror to see myself a year ago, I see someone of a completely different mindset; feeling undisciplined, but not quite free. I see someone who had yet to recognize life itself as authority and proclaimed himself untamed. I see someone ogling, wishing the mirror would show the future and not the present. Summer 2010 changed that reflection. It created an over-the-hill sentimentality in me that I didn't think I would find. It left me more equipped but less ready for the future, and it left me coming off a high that I still fear I'll never be able to replicate.
Yet here we are, stepping up to the plate for at-bat No. 2. After a couple practice hacks, I've come to realize I'm swinging a different bat. That is to say, things are different now than they were a year ago. This year there's going to be no Robert. Not to gush, but I can't put into words (and I'm a WRITER! lol!) how much that sucks. He's not the only one of my friends who I'm going to have to learn to be without. For instance, Old Conor. It's just weird, how throughout the year there was the desire to "get back" to summer. Well I'm back, but it's different from how I left it, and I'm just going to have to be okay with that.
We rolled into last summer riding a wave of graduation festivities and caught between an ending and a beginning, at a point where there was truly nothing to lose. Here we come in staggered, waiting for all the troops to come home, wishing they wouldn't go to summer school so you could retain them for a while, wishing that Conor would've come to Robert's cookout so we could take another Classic Brian picture before the opportunity was lost pretty much forever. Also we're in the middle of college. We came from it, we're going back, there's four years to be had there too, and did we not just learn our lesson to make the most of them?
But I can't shove Summer 2011 off a cliff. First off, we're in Illinois and that would be far from practical, given the landscape. Secondly, it's different, man. Like that second child who has maybe a 6% genetic difference from the one before it; you can't raise it the same way as you did the last one. Summers, much like kids, cannot be crafted on an assembly line. You have to take into consideration your circumstances. I've voiced this thought before, I'll voice it again: I want to do big stuff. I want to travel a bit. I want to be in new situations. I want to get close to some people, and catch up with others that I've strayed from (Side note: the term "people" as used in the current sentence may or may not also include Final Fantasy characters).
I don't really think there's a wrong way to live out your summer, unless you decide to see how many children of family friends you can get away with murdering or something like that. As long as you make your time worthwhile and remember to make each day count for something, you can accept the fact that it's not as great as last year. Maybe this summer will be for you, hell, maybe it will be for me. But it's here, so take it by its brain and make it do your bidding. Summer comes, passes, and is passed in the blink of an eye, and when it's gone it isn't there anymore. If you wanna make stupid decisions, now is the time. Growing up sucks, but fortunately it's summer, and you aren't graded on acting your age.
--Eliot Sill
So here we are, back where it all began. Classic Brian is nearing its one-year anniversary, and as someone who has put a hefty bit o' work into this thing (approximately a post's work more than Sunday Robert), to me I kind of think of CB's birth as the mark of a changed era. When I look through my slow-glass mirror to see myself a year ago, I see someone of a completely different mindset; feeling undisciplined, but not quite free. I see someone who had yet to recognize life itself as authority and proclaimed himself untamed. I see someone ogling, wishing the mirror would show the future and not the present. Summer 2010 changed that reflection. It created an over-the-hill sentimentality in me that I didn't think I would find. It left me more equipped but less ready for the future, and it left me coming off a high that I still fear I'll never be able to replicate.
Yet here we are, stepping up to the plate for at-bat No. 2. After a couple practice hacks, I've come to realize I'm swinging a different bat. That is to say, things are different now than they were a year ago. This year there's going to be no Robert. Not to gush, but I can't put into words (and I'm a WRITER! lol!) how much that sucks. He's not the only one of my friends who I'm going to have to learn to be without. For instance, Old Conor. It's just weird, how throughout the year there was the desire to "get back" to summer. Well I'm back, but it's different from how I left it, and I'm just going to have to be okay with that.
We rolled into last summer riding a wave of graduation festivities and caught between an ending and a beginning, at a point where there was truly nothing to lose. Here we come in staggered, waiting for all the troops to come home, wishing they wouldn't go to summer school so you could retain them for a while, wishing that Conor would've come to Robert's cookout so we could take another Classic Brian picture before the opportunity was lost pretty much forever. Also we're in the middle of college. We came from it, we're going back, there's four years to be had there too, and did we not just learn our lesson to make the most of them?
But I can't shove Summer 2011 off a cliff. First off, we're in Illinois and that would be far from practical, given the landscape. Secondly, it's different, man. Like that second child who has maybe a 6% genetic difference from the one before it; you can't raise it the same way as you did the last one. Summers, much like kids, cannot be crafted on an assembly line. You have to take into consideration your circumstances. I've voiced this thought before, I'll voice it again: I want to do big stuff. I want to travel a bit. I want to be in new situations. I want to get close to some people, and catch up with others that I've strayed from (Side note: the term "people" as used in the current sentence may or may not also include Final Fantasy characters).
I don't really think there's a wrong way to live out your summer, unless you decide to see how many children of family friends you can get away with murdering or something like that. As long as you make your time worthwhile and remember to make each day count for something, you can accept the fact that it's not as great as last year. Maybe this summer will be for you, hell, maybe it will be for me. But it's here, so take it by its brain and make it do your bidding. Summer comes, passes, and is passed in the blink of an eye, and when it's gone it isn't there anymore. If you wanna make stupid decisions, now is the time. Growing up sucks, but fortunately it's summer, and you aren't graded on acting your age.
--Eliot Sill
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