After this post, Classic Brian will be a blog consisting of 620 published posts, 100 of which are tagged with my name, Eliot.
While it is unknown as to whether Nick or I have accumulated more blog posts over CB's existence (it's certainly turned into a two-man game of late), let's just pretend that I own the lion's share. If you were wondering whether I would mention this being Eliot post No. 100, I'm sorry to potentially disappoint you.
Today, just now in fact, I was at an ATM. The ATM has become a depressing place for me recently, as my lack of employment rings in louder and louder harmony to my dwindling funds. But I was taking out money today so that I could go to St. Louis and see The Dark Knight Rises in OMNImax, which I feel is the best way to format that word. As 6 o' clock approached and the store wherein I made my withdrawal reached its close, I staggered up to the ATM behind a middle-aged black lady.
She was sensibly dressed, wearing something of a gray and maroon full-length floral outfit. She was even wearing a sunhat. It suited her. As I stood behind her in line, she turned around and met my gaze for just nearly a brief second before turning back to the ATM, whether she bore a stern face or not, I did not know.
ATM etiquette is one of the most nominal and silly social norms of today. It's right up there with male bathroom etiquette in terms of unnecessary caution. But I am not fully educated on ATM etiquette, and began to question myself as to my standing position — was I too close? Did she distrust me? I don't know how to take advantage of a PIN number, unless I follow that person around until they inadvertently lose their debit card where I can easily retrieve it. Even then, she's a woman. Someone somewhere would probably track me down before too long if I was using a card belonging to Linda Johnson. Just like in the bathroom, if some guy sees your penis, keep in mind, he is still miles away from sucking that thing. You don't have to file assault charges quite yet.
Anyway, I was unsure if our gaze had been a infinitesimal signal of "back off" or merely an intersection of two careless people taking money out of their accounts to spend it and bring their net worth to a new, regrettable low. I stood back, and pretended to focus on a bronze floorpiece that commemorated the University of Illinois on "Agriculture and Science." The two subjects were imprinted in the circle on opposite pages of an open book. Agriculture was hyphenated, because it would be unrealistic if the word went across both pages. There were symbols surrounding the book, one a spade tucked into the earth, another a microscope, and a third appeared to be a agricultural AND scientific object, but I could make no mental connection as to what the piece actually was. I decided the bit of bronze floor was a shabby artifact, not vital to the University.
As I came to this conclusion, the black lady in front of me pulled away from the ATM muttering utterances I could not understand. Whether she was condemning me in a foreign language or rapping Lil Wayne lyrics under her breath, I could not tell. Then I looked at her hands, she had a lot of cash, and was organizing it. One of her bills had an approximate third of it torn off. She was talking about it, but again, I didn't know if she was inviting conversation or if she was ticked off at my intrusion. If she was mad, I feared, she would present me with of some of that patented black-lady sass (patented black-lady sass is preferable to stereotypical black-lady sass, I am hoping).
I resorted to my only plausibly safe recourse: the nervous but entirely audible laugh. She looked at me and, in agreement, shook her head. We were on the same team, I was almost sure of it.
"What?" I said, realizing that I hadn't heard her legitimately.
"One of my bills is torn in half," she said, content to have her complaint heard.
"Man."
And there it had went, by far the most efforted social interaction I had all day. For some reason, this felt like enough. Like just talking to that alone, middle-aged black lady was satisfactory to think "I talked to someone at the ATM today." For what it's worth, I think her 20 was still usable. I didn't mention that, however, because now she got to go inside the store and talk to a clerk about it, and that would be two conversations on this ever-wilder ATM quest. Tired, hot and full of a Buffalo Chicken footlong from Subway, I stepped up to the ATM, when it hit me.
I turned my head in her direction as she faded into the store.
"That's quite literally a rip-off," I said.
She stopped. "What?"
"I said, 'That's quite literally a rip-off.'"
"Ha ha ye-es," she replied with on-the-go humored enthusiasm.
I grinned alone in that lobby even as I threw away my receipt with depressing figure-based reality imprinted upon it. Out the door with $30 I went, and headed toward my still un-air-conditioned apartment. To tell the world of my brave adventure.
This glamorous life I have.
Here's to going for it when there's no reason not to, and in return receiving modest-but-positive results; the very essence of Classic Brian itself.
--Eliot Sill
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Nick - Wait, I Can Explain
Dear guy who works at the bank I work at (but never directly interacts with me),
Wait, no, that look wasn't for you. You have to understand that you just so happened to walk by right after my scanner jammed and I looked the universe in the eye and gave it my most intimidating death glare. You just happened to be standing right in front of the universe at that particular moment. I would have followed it with a reassuring smile, but you quickly scuttled away from me as if afraid for your life. Listen though, I don't want this to be a thing between us because we are coworkers (who never directly interact) and we should be able to get along in the workplace (without any actual verbal communication).
Dear tiny slut at the Springfield Mall,
Hey now, don't give me that look, this totally isn't what it looks like. I was definitely not checking out your body, being like, "man, I want to bang this clearly underage chick who has no boobs," I was just thinking to myself how crazy it is that you are so young and also dressed so slutty. I was trying, in my head, to guess your age, which, I'll admit, is sort of similar to checking you out, but the difference is in the intentions. Also, and this is tangential, but I think that I'm young looking enough that I should be able to look at you without getting a pedophile look because I'm not even old enough to be a pedophile really, probably.
Dear snobby rich neighbors of my rich uncle,
Listen you guys, I know that your first impulse when looking over a fence into my uncle's yard while he is out of town and seeing a teenager wandering around aimlessly is to think that I am casing the joint, or something, but I promise that that is the opposite of what I was doing. See, I'm supposed to be watering their garden, but I like to sort of wander through it and check out the flowers sometimes. And while I guess it's kind of weird that you're playing D on my uncle's house, what's really weird is that you seemed to think it was some sort of elaborate ruse when I actually started watering the flowers. Like that was just my cover story, or something. I thought about entering their garage door code to show you that I do, in fact, belong here, but I was afraid that might be the point at which you actually call the police.
Until my next awkward and totally-not-my-fault interaction,
Cheers!
-Nick.
Wait, no, that look wasn't for you. You have to understand that you just so happened to walk by right after my scanner jammed and I looked the universe in the eye and gave it my most intimidating death glare. You just happened to be standing right in front of the universe at that particular moment. I would have followed it with a reassuring smile, but you quickly scuttled away from me as if afraid for your life. Listen though, I don't want this to be a thing between us because we are coworkers (who never directly interact) and we should be able to get along in the workplace (without any actual verbal communication).
Dear tiny slut at the Springfield Mall,
Hey now, don't give me that look, this totally isn't what it looks like. I was definitely not checking out your body, being like, "man, I want to bang this clearly underage chick who has no boobs," I was just thinking to myself how crazy it is that you are so young and also dressed so slutty. I was trying, in my head, to guess your age, which, I'll admit, is sort of similar to checking you out, but the difference is in the intentions. Also, and this is tangential, but I think that I'm young looking enough that I should be able to look at you without getting a pedophile look because I'm not even old enough to be a pedophile really, probably.
Dear snobby rich neighbors of my rich uncle,
Listen you guys, I know that your first impulse when looking over a fence into my uncle's yard while he is out of town and seeing a teenager wandering around aimlessly is to think that I am casing the joint, or something, but I promise that that is the opposite of what I was doing. See, I'm supposed to be watering their garden, but I like to sort of wander through it and check out the flowers sometimes. And while I guess it's kind of weird that you're playing D on my uncle's house, what's really weird is that you seemed to think it was some sort of elaborate ruse when I actually started watering the flowers. Like that was just my cover story, or something. I thought about entering their garage door code to show you that I do, in fact, belong here, but I was afraid that might be the point at which you actually call the police.
Until my next awkward and totally-not-my-fault interaction,
Cheers!
-Nick.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Out of controll
My mind only produces commentaries in brief, tweet-length bursts. See scenario. Comment on scenario. Edit on comment to make it fit. And flick the two-cents of information into the wishing well of hopeful and righteous life analysts. Check back in five minutes for possible feedback. Check back in ten minutes for next subject. Check back in an hour because you've lost your way and forgotten what else it is you actually do in a day.
To my mother: to check your email, simply type "comcast.net" into the URL bar above (wherein it says classicbrian.blogspot.com/etc.) and hit enter on the keyboard. When the page loads, select "Email" or "Inbox" or whatever option presented that reminds you of an email account. It may ask you to sign in. If you need a reminder your email address is jetmusic@comcast.net and your password is songbird — no capital letters or spaces.
My mother used to rant about how society was becoming so out of touch with itself because it spent long hours mindlessly staring into the space occupied by a television screen and clicking ever so purposelessly through a web browser — something my mother could not define, should you ask her — instead of reading books and playing hopskotch or learning to cross-country ski.
Now my mother is technologically crippled, a symptom of long snubbing her nose at a generational nuance she considered not worth her time. She needs help accessing her email account, the equivalent of walking to the refrigerator as far as technology's concerned, let alone actually utilizing the Internet for its more lucrative and fulfilling benefits, such as promoting a business, writing a blog post or tweeting about whatever it is you just saw on SportsCenter.
She is the overlooked sliver of pie in the graph that shows how computer-based our society is today. The kind that didn't move forward to that era of technology because they didn't want to, rather than because they couldn't afford it or didn't know about it. She could have been told by someone somewhere down the line that she was going to end up out of touch with the same society she claimed was getting out of touch with itself, but she wasn't. She was left behind to teach violin and play music on wooden instruments that require horse hair to make them sing. Her office didn't upgrade its computer network, get wireless Internet, require her to get a company app, or use Skype at a budget meeting. My mom doesn't know what the hell Skype is, but if you told her, I'm sure she'd be amazed.
The phrase "simpler times" is so sweet in its truth, so loyal to the notion that technology isn't making the world better, only easier. As long as your wired in, you're clear to float on in peace. But once your technology comes undone, you go ape. We keep pushing technology forward because we can, and because it's cool and useful. But at some point, maybe my mother is less handicapped than we are. My mother's computer will be out of commission for months at a time and it causes her little to no strain. If she wants a recipe for something, she doesn't go to Pinterest, she thumbs through a cookbook until she finds what she wants, perhaps discovering a couple other interesting recipes in the process.
The notion that we can't live without technology is pathetic in how close it is to being accurate. If I got stuck on a deserted island, I know I would really miss Twitter (This is serious! If I don't get found soon, my phone is going to die! #NoOutlets @barackobama). We're reaching an age where we're becoming engrossed, drenched to the bone, undryably soaked in technology. Television is becoming outdated. What in the hell does that say? The mere fact that I'm saying this at age 19, not age 45, convinces me that technology is moving rapidly, and that I will soon be behind the times, whether it be now or when I'm 35 or 60 or 90 or 130, because lord knows we're all going to start living that long.
Meanwhile, as the world begins to quiver under the sheer weight of all the people it now holds (7 billion? That's a billion more than when I was growing up!), we continue to pretend there's room for everyone, jobs for everyone, happiness for everyone. If you can't have real happiness, well you can still have an iPhone. We create social media networks to try and lessen the amount of people in our universes, to try and recreate our own personal society filled with people we like, are interested in, and care about, and no one else. We try and add something that hasn't already been thought of or added, we try and make music like we've never heard, and then we wonder why that band is playing such weird shit. There's too many people to do anything anymore.
We have to realize that this system isn't sustainable. The foreseeable future grows shorter and shorter every year. If the world ends in 2012 with a bang or a series of natural disasters, we'll have the solace of knowing that it didn't come to us pruning the race ourselves. I'm not saying we need to do something about it, because who cares what I think? I'm a hair follicle on the testicles of a jester compared to someone who makes a difference, who just might be nobody anymore in an age where being the President merely makes you famous and blameable.
I woke up Sunday with a rash that I got from God-knows-where doing God-knows-what, and all my friends don't seem to like it very much when I show it to them. There won't be any pictures of it on Facebook or Instagram, though it's an accurate depiction of what my life's been for the past four days. I got disgusted looks when I mentioned it on the radio, because people don't want to hear about it. But I've been thinking about rashes a lot lately, specifically the one I have that has been begging me to itch it the entire time I've been writing this post, and I think they're a fair reminder that some things take time, no matter how fast your wireless loads, and that anything other than having a disgusting, itchy rash all over your torso is grounds for a good day.
The balance in the world has shifted, and it's now whatever you want it to be. Hell, they make different versions of the news to cater to different people anymore and interpret the Bible to mean whatever necessary to back their beliefs. They write books where the main character is dead or alive based on the reader's preference, and life's cruel subtleties — rashes and the like — are locked in a box and shoved in the corner with dirty clothes thrown over them to hide their presence. As the world becomes a niche-based society, people stop mattering.
I've been in my apartment all day doing next to nothing. This slothlike behavior has affected no one. I am experiencing what it's like to be utterly inconsequential. I've often said I would prefer to have lived in a previous era. This rapid crescendo of technology overpowers the buzz a single bee such as myself produces. I just float around, not able to hear myself think because darn it all there's no room for isolation in the modern world, searching for a flower to pollinate. But there's so much more to it than that when you're a real socially functional person, isn't there? I envy them. The bees seem just as happy as I do. Simpler times, I suppose.
--Eliot Sill
To my mother: to check your email, simply type "comcast.net" into the URL bar above (wherein it says classicbrian.blogspot.com/etc.) and hit enter on the keyboard. When the page loads, select "Email" or "Inbox" or whatever option presented that reminds you of an email account. It may ask you to sign in. If you need a reminder your email address is jetmusic@comcast.net and your password is songbird — no capital letters or spaces.
My mother used to rant about how society was becoming so out of touch with itself because it spent long hours mindlessly staring into the space occupied by a television screen and clicking ever so purposelessly through a web browser — something my mother could not define, should you ask her — instead of reading books and playing hopskotch or learning to cross-country ski.
Now my mother is technologically crippled, a symptom of long snubbing her nose at a generational nuance she considered not worth her time. She needs help accessing her email account, the equivalent of walking to the refrigerator as far as technology's concerned, let alone actually utilizing the Internet for its more lucrative and fulfilling benefits, such as promoting a business, writing a blog post or tweeting about whatever it is you just saw on SportsCenter.
She is the overlooked sliver of pie in the graph that shows how computer-based our society is today. The kind that didn't move forward to that era of technology because they didn't want to, rather than because they couldn't afford it or didn't know about it. She could have been told by someone somewhere down the line that she was going to end up out of touch with the same society she claimed was getting out of touch with itself, but she wasn't. She was left behind to teach violin and play music on wooden instruments that require horse hair to make them sing. Her office didn't upgrade its computer network, get wireless Internet, require her to get a company app, or use Skype at a budget meeting. My mom doesn't know what the hell Skype is, but if you told her, I'm sure she'd be amazed.
The phrase "simpler times" is so sweet in its truth, so loyal to the notion that technology isn't making the world better, only easier. As long as your wired in, you're clear to float on in peace. But once your technology comes undone, you go ape. We keep pushing technology forward because we can, and because it's cool and useful. But at some point, maybe my mother is less handicapped than we are. My mother's computer will be out of commission for months at a time and it causes her little to no strain. If she wants a recipe for something, she doesn't go to Pinterest, she thumbs through a cookbook until she finds what she wants, perhaps discovering a couple other interesting recipes in the process.
The notion that we can't live without technology is pathetic in how close it is to being accurate. If I got stuck on a deserted island, I know I would really miss Twitter (This is serious! If I don't get found soon, my phone is going to die! #NoOutlets @barackobama). We're reaching an age where we're becoming engrossed, drenched to the bone, undryably soaked in technology. Television is becoming outdated. What in the hell does that say? The mere fact that I'm saying this at age 19, not age 45, convinces me that technology is moving rapidly, and that I will soon be behind the times, whether it be now or when I'm 35 or 60 or 90 or 130, because lord knows we're all going to start living that long.
Meanwhile, as the world begins to quiver under the sheer weight of all the people it now holds (7 billion? That's a billion more than when I was growing up!), we continue to pretend there's room for everyone, jobs for everyone, happiness for everyone. If you can't have real happiness, well you can still have an iPhone. We create social media networks to try and lessen the amount of people in our universes, to try and recreate our own personal society filled with people we like, are interested in, and care about, and no one else. We try and add something that hasn't already been thought of or added, we try and make music like we've never heard, and then we wonder why that band is playing such weird shit. There's too many people to do anything anymore.
We have to realize that this system isn't sustainable. The foreseeable future grows shorter and shorter every year. If the world ends in 2012 with a bang or a series of natural disasters, we'll have the solace of knowing that it didn't come to us pruning the race ourselves. I'm not saying we need to do something about it, because who cares what I think? I'm a hair follicle on the testicles of a jester compared to someone who makes a difference, who just might be nobody anymore in an age where being the President merely makes you famous and blameable.
I woke up Sunday with a rash that I got from God-knows-where doing God-knows-what, and all my friends don't seem to like it very much when I show it to them. There won't be any pictures of it on Facebook or Instagram, though it's an accurate depiction of what my life's been for the past four days. I got disgusted looks when I mentioned it on the radio, because people don't want to hear about it. But I've been thinking about rashes a lot lately, specifically the one I have that has been begging me to itch it the entire time I've been writing this post, and I think they're a fair reminder that some things take time, no matter how fast your wireless loads, and that anything other than having a disgusting, itchy rash all over your torso is grounds for a good day.
The balance in the world has shifted, and it's now whatever you want it to be. Hell, they make different versions of the news to cater to different people anymore and interpret the Bible to mean whatever necessary to back their beliefs. They write books where the main character is dead or alive based on the reader's preference, and life's cruel subtleties — rashes and the like — are locked in a box and shoved in the corner with dirty clothes thrown over them to hide their presence. As the world becomes a niche-based society, people stop mattering.
I've been in my apartment all day doing next to nothing. This slothlike behavior has affected no one. I am experiencing what it's like to be utterly inconsequential. I've often said I would prefer to have lived in a previous era. This rapid crescendo of technology overpowers the buzz a single bee such as myself produces. I just float around, not able to hear myself think because darn it all there's no room for isolation in the modern world, searching for a flower to pollinate. But there's so much more to it than that when you're a real socially functional person, isn't there? I envy them. The bees seem just as happy as I do. Simpler times, I suppose.
--Eliot Sill
Monday, July 9, 2012
Nick - Stats!
Robert
HP - 55
Attack - 65
Defense - 80
Special Attack - 55
Special Defense - 40
Speed - 89
Type: Ghost
Nick
HP - 80
Attack - 60
Defense - 50
Special Attack - 80
Special Defense - 95
Speed - 70
Type: Bug
Mada
HP - 45
Attack - 70
Defense - 50
Special Attack - 90
Special Defense - 60
Speed - 92
Type: Electric
Eliot
HP - 50
Attack - 60
Defense - 70
Special Attack - 60
Special Defense - 70
Speed - 99
Type: Ground
Brendan
HP - 65
Attack - 50
Defense - 90
Special Attack - 50
Special Defense - 90
Speed - 40
Type: Rock
Conor
HP - 100
Attack - 70
Defense - 90
Special Attack - 30
Special Defense - 30
Speed: 71
Type: Fighting
Classic Brian
HP - 55
Attack - 95
Defense - 60
Special Attack - 65
Special Defense - 45
Speed - 50
Type: Dragon
HP - 55
Attack - 65
Defense - 80
Special Attack - 55
Special Defense - 40
Speed - 89
Type: Ghost
Nick
HP - 80
Attack - 60
Defense - 50
Special Attack - 80
Special Defense - 95
Speed - 70
Type: Bug
Mada
HP - 45
Attack - 70
Defense - 50
Special Attack - 90
Special Defense - 60
Speed - 92
Type: Electric
Eliot
HP - 50
Attack - 60
Defense - 70
Special Attack - 60
Special Defense - 70
Speed - 99
Type: Ground
Brendan
HP - 65
Attack - 50
Defense - 90
Special Attack - 50
Special Defense - 90
Speed - 40
Type: Rock
Conor
HP - 100
Attack - 70
Defense - 90
Special Attack - 30
Special Defense - 30
Speed: 71
Type: Fighting
Classic Brian
HP - 55
Attack - 95
Defense - 60
Special Attack - 65
Special Defense - 45
Speed - 50
Type: Dragon
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
My cave is a human
All my wretched and diabolical plans for this summer appear to be in mid-thwart. Originally, I was going to snooze through a job at the Country Club, earning way more cash than is necessary, while raking in a fair check from Illini Media in my work as assignment editor. I would scoop up some easy credits from Parkland in an online course or two, thus eliminating the need for me to slog through the bitches that are economics and political science during a real semester. My friends here and I would go out on a bi-nightly basis, scoring cheap drinks at bars, eating grease foods while inebriated and engaging in general goodhearted brouhaha. And I would write six or seven brilliant endeavoring feature stories while chipping in a couple dinky beat bits for the paper. And I would have an apartment to myself for a negligibly cheap sum, where I could play PS3 and Final Fantasy X at my leisure.
By the sheer amount of good things referenced in the preceding paragraph, you may have correctly assumed by process of elimination that I'm not having the best of summers. One of my larger concerns at the moment is this what is becoming chronic shoulder pain and odd discomfort of the lower back. Because they make moving harder, which translates to every thing being slightly harder. Luckily, one of my roommates left behind a bottle of Ibuprofen that is currently blanketing those pains. It wears off at night, though. Bummer. Additionally, I was rejected by the Country Club, then everywhere else I applied (read: Chipotle and IHOP) and oh hey, it's July on Sunday. Furthermore, I wasn't able to sign up for classes, partially because I didn't have a job to fund the $300 credit nuggets, and partially because I was late in beginning the process of registration. My job at the paper has been a double-edged sword. In that it gives me first pick of all story ideas, then full power to assign them to whomever I like. As in, not myself. Meanwhile, I'm clinging to the pithy salary I'm getting, trying to fund my life and buy food that I can feasibly cook. And socially most of my nights have consisted of light reading and boredom, as I've only been out to the bars a couple times. It's senseless to go spend money there when I have no job.
Which brings me to my apartment. My home. My cave. The air conditioning is broke. I'm hesitant to call the landlord because technically I don't live here. It's a no-table-involved lease agreement that I have with Gordon Voit, a swell chap I might add, that I get this apartment for the summer for $500 bucks. That figure looked way less threatening when I was banking (literally) on $12.50 an hour, 20 hours a week. It's as hot as a human mouth in here right now. The thermostat tells me we're at or north of 90. The only light right now is from the relenting sun and this computer screen, the only other electricity being used is to power my fan, which is admirably blowing right at my face, doing its very best to keep up.
Earlier today I was wearing my fall jacket to keep me cool. But eventually I made Chunky chicken and gumbo soup, and put Frank's Red Hot in it (read: gave up). I followed that with the coldest shower I've ever taken (a bookend to the hottest shower I've ever taken, which occurred at Blaisdell Hall of PAR after getting back from the Return to Titletown celebration in Lambeau Field), which I took with the door open for good measure.
The remaining of my two roommates moved out (for a month) yesterday. So how's living alone? Well, it's lonely. But I have no problem with that. The problem is that I'm not miraculously self-motivated sans the presence of others. I'm still making good excuses not to do necessary things (what if he flips a shit and kicks me out? I'm lambed). I can't even find a good place to hang this disco ball. The one thing I need right now is for this weather to go the hell back to Texas or wherever it belongs and to let things cool around here so I can stop being all hot and bothered.
That or a vacation. My cave is a human.
--Eliot Sill
By the sheer amount of good things referenced in the preceding paragraph, you may have correctly assumed by process of elimination that I'm not having the best of summers. One of my larger concerns at the moment is this what is becoming chronic shoulder pain and odd discomfort of the lower back. Because they make moving harder, which translates to every thing being slightly harder. Luckily, one of my roommates left behind a bottle of Ibuprofen that is currently blanketing those pains. It wears off at night, though. Bummer. Additionally, I was rejected by the Country Club, then everywhere else I applied (read: Chipotle and IHOP) and oh hey, it's July on Sunday. Furthermore, I wasn't able to sign up for classes, partially because I didn't have a job to fund the $300 credit nuggets, and partially because I was late in beginning the process of registration. My job at the paper has been a double-edged sword. In that it gives me first pick of all story ideas, then full power to assign them to whomever I like. As in, not myself. Meanwhile, I'm clinging to the pithy salary I'm getting, trying to fund my life and buy food that I can feasibly cook. And socially most of my nights have consisted of light reading and boredom, as I've only been out to the bars a couple times. It's senseless to go spend money there when I have no job.
Which brings me to my apartment. My home. My cave. The air conditioning is broke. I'm hesitant to call the landlord because technically I don't live here. It's a no-table-involved lease agreement that I have with Gordon Voit, a swell chap I might add, that I get this apartment for the summer for $500 bucks. That figure looked way less threatening when I was banking (literally) on $12.50 an hour, 20 hours a week. It's as hot as a human mouth in here right now. The thermostat tells me we're at or north of 90. The only light right now is from the relenting sun and this computer screen, the only other electricity being used is to power my fan, which is admirably blowing right at my face, doing its very best to keep up.
Earlier today I was wearing my fall jacket to keep me cool. But eventually I made Chunky chicken and gumbo soup, and put Frank's Red Hot in it (read: gave up). I followed that with the coldest shower I've ever taken (a bookend to the hottest shower I've ever taken, which occurred at Blaisdell Hall of PAR after getting back from the Return to Titletown celebration in Lambeau Field), which I took with the door open for good measure.
The remaining of my two roommates moved out (for a month) yesterday. So how's living alone? Well, it's lonely. But I have no problem with that. The problem is that I'm not miraculously self-motivated sans the presence of others. I'm still making good excuses not to do necessary things (what if he flips a shit and kicks me out? I'm lambed). I can't even find a good place to hang this disco ball. The one thing I need right now is for this weather to go the hell back to Texas or wherever it belongs and to let things cool around here so I can stop being all hot and bothered.
That or a vacation. My cave is a human.
--Eliot Sill
Monday, June 18, 2012
John Michael and His Inescapable Joy
robert langellier
John Michael is filled with inexplicable joy. It is a joy that builds, and it has been building for several years, but it is only very recently that it has exploded into a new realm of inexplicable joy. This is for a number of complicated reasons that happened by chance to coalesce together in time.
But now his happiness is consuming him. It is wrung from his feet when he walks and wrought from his nostrils when he breathes, reflected in magnified degrees from the light running wild into his pupils. Everything from John Michael radiates and booms and swells, pushing forth into the world in a swirling surge of questionable sincerity, questionable only because this new level of inexplicable joy is so radically new to him that he cannot bring himself to bow fully to the notion that this John Michael is truly even John Michael.
This joy is strange to him particularly because nothing is going particularly well for him these days. It goes, it goes, but there is no brilliant thing that has tangibly changed around him. The joy brings big smiles on him when there is nothing really to smile about but the wind and its gallivanting into his body. They are big grand smiles. Banished and despised are simpers, no wry grin on his face anymore, but big grand openings, great invitations to his happiness. It is enough to set John Michael on fire. Enough to bring on an urgent sensitivity that is so riveting it is almost sexual. Where another less recent version of himself would twitch, an anxious twitch, his current body will swell and rise, a sinful-feeling tingle that reaches the root of every follicle of hair. It covers him, and traps him in the sense of overwhelming, inescapable, and paralyzing pleasure.
I suppose that in consuming it is also becoming. John Michael is turning into nothing, nothing but a practice ground for glee to spread its wings and swing its hips and not have to answer any questions like why, or for how long. He is nothing at all but the very concept and outlet of happiness. Nothing, or perhaps everything, for it is as if all feelings and stimuli are churning within him at once, churning in the vacuum void of his soul and riving him from that old beast who tried filling it with single, unannexed emotions. These sensations are even the bad ones, which when thrown into the mix are on some universal perspective still great things because they are definite things, and I can find no other quality truer and more pure than definition. And so, by some vantage, John Michael is now becoming either nothing or everything, which perhaps makes him a character and not a person, because if he is nothing or everything then he is understandable and noncontradictory, which are two things I know people are not. And maybe this would trouble John Michael if it did not bring him so much joy.
Nevertheless, there is still the vague notion in John Michael that everything he has been lately is stacked together like hundred dollar bills on a summer day, and any breeze, this one or the next one, might send everything loose. But as he thinks now in waves of joy and not in time, it is of little bother to him.
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