Saturday, December 25, 2010


Sorry this post is like right after Conor's. He posted late and I posted early. Consider it a double bonus Christmas special. And actually the first time I posted it it somehow ended up before Conor's post...? We need to fix the time thing on this somehow...

I'd like to start off by wishing everyone a merry Christmas. This is hands down my favorite holiday of the year and perhaps even my favorite time of year overall. It's not because I get presents, because although those are nice, I could care less whether I get any or not. I tend to have a disregard for money and such, which I'm sure will be my downfall later in life. But anyway, back to what I was saying. I love this time of year because of this comfortable feeling that comes with it which is hard to put in words. And this year it feels better than ever.

Recently I feel like I've finally developed a close niche of good friends that I actually hang out with regularly. Since a lot of them read/write this blog, I just want you guys/girls to know that I really appreciate you. As corny as it sounds, I honestly consider you all as my best Christmas present. Thanks for putting up with my shit sometimes, and letting me know when I go too far. I'm sorry for my recent spurt of douchey activity, and I'm resolved to be less personally offensive. Don't worry though. I'll still be Classic. And yes Robert, I will still most definitely play The Game.

There are a shit ton of reasons why I appreciate each of you peoples, and it'd take forever to name them all, so lemme cite some specific examples. FFFF. I needn't say more than that. Finding fun in the littlest things that most people would just consider dumb. How long did we spend picking out bad sweaters and randomly assigning ties to monumental moments in our futures? Good work City Museum squad. We spent like 15 minutes finding words in peoples's last names and finding ways to make them insulting. I don't even care that I lost badly and ended up being “alone” for the rest of the night. I appreciate stuff like that. Being able to talk to someone when shit hit the fan for me in certain aspects of my life. Endless hours spent playing NBA 2K. Skype conversations. Being reassured that I'm a good person when I don't feel like one. Being compared to T.O. In perhaps the most negative way possible (hope you don't actually feel that way about me, baby). Dating Rikki. The blanket game that I have no idea how to guys know what I mean. Inadvertently recycling Robert's discarded personality and just going with it. How we can go forever with any joke (“Ze fuck you!”). Over-explaining every joke ever. Spite. Music interests in common/musical debates. Being Mada's fling while her bf is away (this is a joke) even though I never see her (LAME). Learning guitar with Hilldawg (this is so fucking happening). This blog. How the nickname Classic has stuck and has come so far. Puns. And countless other things.

I'm really glad I can say that this has been an overall good year for me. I've suffered some casualties in some hard fought battles, but I feel like I've come out victorious. I look forward to 2011 and all it holds, including my continued posting on this blog. Good work on keeping this blog going and making it thrive for so long everyone. Thanks to everyone who reads/follows us, too. You're all great. I hope you guys think I'm a decent guy. I like to think I'm fun to be around for the most part. I've always tried to keep this persona of not caring what people think, but when it comes to my friends, I obviously do. I love everyone today. Except Bill O'Reilly. He's still a jackass. Merry Christmas again to everyone besides him.


Conor - Top 10

It's Christmas Eve, technically Christmas right now. I cannot be expected to provide you with entertainment right now. Instead, I will provide you with my opinion. My raw, unadulterated, overly quantified opinion.

I've seen a few people say it was a mediocre year, or even a bad year for music. I didn't think so at all. Like number 7 on my list, Plastic Beach by Gorillaz? I listen to that album pretty constantly, but it's only 7 on my list. Because a lot of really awesome guys kicked a lot of really awesome ass this year. Good work, everyone. Also, I know there were a ton of albums I missed out on, and hopefully I'll remedy that soon.

Top 10 Albums of 2010
10. Undercard - The Extra Lens
9. Lonely Avenue - Ben Folds & Nick Hornby
8. Write About Love - Belle & Sebastian
7. Plastic Beach - Gorillaz
6. The Age of Adz - Sufjan Stevens
5. My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy - Kanye West
4. High Violet - The National
3. The Suburbs - Arcade Fire
2. This Is Happening - LCD Soundsystem
1. Contra - Vampire Weekend
Oh, oh shit guys. IT'S CHRISTMAS MORNING. IT'S THE FOURTH OF JULY. Anyway, yeah, it's 1:30 in the morning so I'm going to go ahead and call it a day. Have a great holiday, everyone.

*Bro's finna cry?
**Oh girl doesn't look anything like she sounds

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Life as a Metaphorist

Life is a metaphor.

Profound statement. Utterly ridiculous, utterly truthful, utterly made up by someone who was bored with the daily grind that is encompassed by life on earth. We live through a lot of days people, eventually we get bored and start drawing connections that aren't really there.

Now look, I know it's the holiday season and everyone's got people to see. There's more to do and less time to read this crap. I'll try to make this concise, but more for my benefit than for yours. And if you're one of those jerks who runs at the word "basketball", this post may not be for you. It involves sports.

Earlier this week I asked for five life anecdotes that I could use for my Classic Brian post, and I got six. Sorry, Conor.

But the fact is, if you have enough of an imagination, sports can serve as a metaphor for anything. Anything at all. And that's yet another reason why people like them so much. A lot of old football guys talk about "football as a metaphor for life," well that's not true guys. As George Carlin perceptively noted, football is a metaphor for war. YouTube the video yourself, as I do not have the time to go search for it and link it, I may update that later. But, I don't wanna be Conor, ya know, so. No promises. But sports, the grand spectrum, it can be likened to nearly anything that happens. I haven't found the sporting equivalent of the Holocaust yet, but, well, let's hope that correlation never surfaces.

If you look at the song "Bloodbuzz Ohio" by The National, the whole song can be analogized to the plight of LeBron James. I did it. I sent my findings to Katie O'Brien via e-mail. I cracked up a bunch. Who knew The National were so prophetic about The (supposed) King's decision making. The fact is, sports is more than dunks and touchdowns. It's home runs too. And stolen bases. And failed stolen bases. And strikeouts. Groundouts. Incompletions. Losing seasons. Fired managers. Disgruntled fans. Team rivalries. Sadness. Happiness. Success. Failure. Sports encompasses all the emotions of human life and puts them in an arena that everyone can observe and take in without the risk of real world implications. It's like politics. Except there are not countries and thousands of lives at stake. There's just the prize, the pursuit, and the cellar. But what lies between these facets is so much more than one would suspect.

Natalie Cheng told me the story of her and her friend missing a train on two separate occasions after running through the snow to get there. That's a hilariously sad story. A struggle to run through snow and get to the train and catch a train. All to watch the opportunity slip through your fingertips.

Now the part where I relate that to sports. To hyperbolize Natalie's traumatic situation and make it something a little more grand. Look back to 1990 when a young football team from Buffalo was busting through to the cream of the crop in the National Football League. That team was highlight by an outstanding quarterback, a dominant running back, and a dynamic wide receiver. I won't give you their names because you'll forget them. (Aw heck: Jim Kelly QB, Thurman Thomas RB, and Andre Reed WR) Anyway, this team experienced enormous success during the regular season and made it all the way to the Super Bowl, where they lost on a botched last-second field goal and were upended 20-19 by the New York Giants. The next year they made it back, only to lose again. The heartbreak at that point must have been tangible. Next year the team rallied the troops and put together yet another stellar year despite their previous shortcomings. Then they met the Dallas Cowboys, a team with a better QB RB WR trio (Troy Aikman, Emmitt Smith, Michael Irvin respectively) and got destroyed 52-17. That's like Nixon and Regan election numbers. Embarrassment. Third time was not the charm. Well neither was the fourth. The team got beat the next year by the same team 30-13. Four straight Super Bowl appearances, four straight crushing defeats. And if you think the Super Bowl is unimportant, check this stat out: People who voted in the 2008 election= Approximately 131 million. People who watched the Super Bowl last year: 106 million.

Jobin Kokkat revealed to me his serial cereal eating, as he destroyed 2 boxes of cereal in a seven-hour period. I could make several connections here. Obviously he is overindulging a bit. Sort of like the Yankees do every off-season. They cash in on free agents like nobody's business. Or more like there's nobody else in their business. They hog everybody. A-Rod, Jeter, Roger Clemens, Mark Teixera, Giambi, I could list on for four more paragraphs. But I won't Jobin, ya got one box of cereal down the hatch why scarf down another?

Because cereal's delicious. And nothing in life tops it. Just like in baseball nothing tops a perfect game. Enjoying whizzing pitches by opposing batters and watching them look dumbfounded as you continually gun them down with your rocket arm. Roy Halladay nearly duplicated this feat. He threw a perfect game in May (no hits allowed, no walks, no batters hit, and definitely no runs) and a no-hitter in October (no hits allowed) both of these guaranteeing certain victory as eliminating every bit of cereal guarantees certain satisfaction. And to do it all within such a short span? Even more amazing. Jobin, you need to tame your appetite.

Charles Yang posted a joke about the movie Air Bud. Okay, but an unlikely basketball star has before risen up through adversity and inspired the shit out of people. Ladies and gentlemen, J-Mac.

Robert Langellier told me he made a mix CD. Did he really? Well, I'm familiar with his (and Conor's) methods. They meticulously search their iTunes libraries and find all the songs that fit the moods and all the transitions that work well together and what-not. Kids, your General Managers. GM's put teams together. They build the roster adding and dropping players. A GM's job isn't done at the outset of the season. It takes many in-season moves to perfect your roster. Some great players don't work well together, just like how you can't have 19 smash hits on your mix CD. Songs have to work together, and they have to flow well. You like to have your big hit be your number two or three song? Well many basketball teams like to have their best player be their shooting guard or small forward, then you add in some complementary players and you end up with the Lakers. Now if I put "Wake Up," "1901," and "Bad Romance" on a mix CD you'd have the Miami Heat. I got that joke. Maybe Classic Brian did. Nobody else (who reads this) can put those two opposite ends of the entertainment spectrum together. Maybe.

Classic told me he's made fun of people and burned bridges in the process. Sounds to me like Brendan's pissed. Anyway, Brian is a real T.O. Terrell Owens is a great receiver, but a maniac. He is obsessed with himself and if everybody else isn't in line with him then its their fault, obviously. He's a great receiver, he can catch anything you throw his way, he can block, and he can make a play with the ball. Having a guy like Brian is great until things start to go badly, then he's pointing fingers and acting like he's doing nothing wrong. Then he starts feuding with the quarterback and eventually breaks the whole team apart. Classic, you are a cancer to the team. And yes, that phrase is politically correct. But it's okay because one day you'll find another cancer to hang out with and you guys will be 2-12 but you'll be really entertaining and have your own TV show in which you blame other people for your failures. Is this bridge lighting?

Conor told me he DD'd. Cool. Don't care. I said five for a reason, Con. Conor's story can be metaphorized (not a word) to someone who didn't make the team. A story that never got its chance to play out because Conor was just too slow to pull the trigger on his suggestion.

Well that's all I've got for today. Enjoy the Holidays. What'll you be doing on Christmas? I know I will be watching the five consecutive NBA games that ABC is broadcasting this year, and figuring out all my life's troubles in the process.

--Eliot Sill

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

This is a terrible post.

This is a terrible post. The premise is uninspired, and the execution is sloppy. I waited until the last minute but couldn't think of something to make a list of. So you get this. A post about something that happened to me today that I weakly connect to a larger idea. It doesn't really fit, but I apply it to myself for proof. You don't read it. Not really. You read the intro and the conclusion and you skim the body. My outro joke is good, my intro joke is bad. I write it in 5 minutes and don't proofread. You read it in 1 minute and wonder if I know there's spellcheck. You're impressed that it says I posted at ten but that's only because the post clock is two hours behind. Tomorrow you'll do this all again with the next post and forget that this one even happened. The only thing you'll remember is that I actually posted this time. But you'll continue to read this daily because it's still more interesting than Facebook. See you next week.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Nick - The Most Dangerous Game

I'm on top of the world; I rush forward, utilizing my overwhelming speed to close in on my helpless prey. I bear down mercilessly as he swerves, trying desperately to break my pursuit. And then, in an instant, it's over; in a satisfying crack his vehicle is crushed. He lets out a cry of anguish and despair as I drink the sweet nectar of his demise.

He wanders off, a downtrodden nomad and another helpless victim; everything he worked for is naught. As I gloat in victory, something comes up behind me. There's no time to react; there is no chase, no pounding heart, no fear. I hear the horrible crack that was my ally just moments ago, and now I too am crushed. Knocked from my place at the top of the food chain, I never even saw what hit me. It was something blurry, something moving incomprehensibly fast. It was something... pink.

This cycle of predator to prey, this dynamic story of betrayal and back-stabbing, is typical of a game of Kirby Air Ride. Kirby Air Ride is a 2003 Gamecube racing game starring Kirby. The reason that you've never heard of it is because it is, by all counts, a bad game. It got terrible reviews, and the main game is slow and boring.

But tucked away as just another feature, is a second gameplay mode called "city trial." It's advertised as a fun alternative way to play; you run around the city and collect power ups and then compete in a friendly race after the timer runs out.

What they don't tell you is that if you smash someone, you can ruin their vehicle, take all their powerups, and leave them broken and helpless.
There are several things wrong with the above picture: first of all, they look like they are having fun. In reality, Kirbys are disposable. They should be huddled in fear, preparing for their imminent demise. Any great vehicle you get, and power ups you receive, they all can be stripped from you in an instant. And then your assassin will have your precious power ups, feeding further into his strength and your oppression.

The second thing wrong with that picture is that exciting things are happening in the background. If you're lucky, maybe meteors will fall from the sky for a little while, or a secret stash of power ups will appear somewhere. But more often, the in-game events are things like the sky getting foggy for a minute, or the lighthouse turning on.
Another thing of note in Kirby Air Ride is that there is absolutely no balance. See that machine up there? That's Hydra. If someone manages to get Hydra, it's all over. Hydra is indestructible, overwhelmingly fast, and capable of destroying you and everyone you love with a single tap. If your friend gets Hydra, you had better pray that the round is almost over, because it will be misery for you. Your friend is no longer your friend. Now he is the oppressor. The enemy. The tyrant. A monster, bloated with his own strength.

. . .

I love playing Kirby Air Ride. It's unbalanced and cruel. When I play it, I am subhuman. You are no longer my friend or my brother. You are a target, and your only salvation will be the moment of relief you feel when the clock runs out.

If you want to play, call me up.

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Robert - Italians

This is a profile on Italians. Why the fu*k are they all so hot? I've been thinking about this question for years now, and I can only come to the conclusion that they are of a higher and more evolved species than us common ethnicities.

This is Gino. He's a friend of mine from back in the day. This is him as a freshman in high school. I assume he's looked like that since kindergarten, when he hit puberty. He had a five-o'clock shadow the first time I met him and a mysterious gaze that stared right past my soul and into my heart. My knees weakened considerably. Needless to say, he's in a band.

This is Ben and another identical looking Italian. He has pecs and a stoic sense of humor. He is the current leader of the Easily Amused Improv Troupe and can do backflips. He likes the classy things: an old Bob Dylan record spinning on a record player, dimmed lighting, and scotch glasses. He does not wear shirts and I can prove it. I like to envision him as either the evil villain in a James Bond movie or as James Bond. Yes of course he rides a motorcycle. And yes of course he wears leather.

These are just two examples. Time and time again, Italians seem to coolly and effortlessly swing themselves to the top of the social ladder. Something about them oozes sex. Sexiness. Or both. I mean, look at them. By nature, they have more defined cheekbones. They have an automatic store of muscle that they have a physical need to display when women are present. Racially, they are often mysterious, tan and sexy. They are impeccably intelligent and use their advanced knowledge that they receive at birth to stun and woo onlookers. Their women are known to be powerful, also tan, slender, and well defined. They are among the sexiest species of woman, perhaps rivaled only by the saucy latino senorita and the Swedes.

Their weaknesses are few, not enough to stop the hordes of charging women. Many are slightly under average height, and they have been known to be sort of greasy. And I think they sweat a lot. They are also frequently really really angry, but are sometimes able to turn this into a positive by pulling a "getting-business-done" card or by drumming in a band.

I bring this issue to the table because I am threatened by them, and so are you. I think over half of my heritage is Polish and German. This puts me at an extreme biological disadvantage.

A Stereotypical Pole

I have no solution to this epidemic of sexy. I have only fear and admiration. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go learn French, the violin, and the guitar in my futile attempt to catch up. Goodnight.