Saturday, September 3, 2011

Re: Immortality - Robert

When we think of immortality, we commit the fallacy of immediately limiting ourselves to positive things, as if we need to be remembered favorably.

I have no such intention. I will be dead when I am remembered, and so my aspiration to immortality is entirely a vanity project, as well as a competition with Conor. The petty details are insignificant to me. Think about it: It's so damn hard to be remembered in a positive light. Generally, you have to be good at something, to have some remarkable set of skills, which generally requires two things: good will, and decades of hard work and determination. Most people graced with these attributes are remembered momentarily as head of the volunteer fire department. I consider that pathetic finishing goal and not a worthwhile use of my time. Clearly, legend is not achieved reasonably through socially-acceptable means.

(Elephants... Those are not socially acceptable things.)

On the other hand, it's almost too easy to achieve legend in a negative light. It requires two things: sheer evil or stupidity, and anything from a trigger finger to a camera and a nipple. As you can see, reader, the possibilities open up into the infinites. I, for one, choose evil over stupidity, because Hitler is more famous than the guy that decided to speed the Titanic through a field of icebergs. Hitler was smart — he knew how to not be forgotten. I consider him today to be an ally and an idol.

Genocide and world war, unfortunately, are out of my range of ability. I need something effortless, because when Conor sends the golf ball spiraling through the loop-dee-loop on Hole 10-ish and cups yet another hole-in-one, he does not do it with effort. And neither may I.

I imagine it likely that, at some point during my lifetime, I will run across an elephant. With 25,000 days of life, that seems like a reasonable assumption to me, right? And this elephant, Ralph, Ralph will be his name, I might mount him and perhaps ride gallantly through suburban streets, crying for a militaristic revolution and shooting roman candles at children playing on the street side. This, hopefully, will continue long enough that Ralph and I reach the downtown region, where I might begin violently destroying public property and police cars. At various points along the way, I will remove articles of clothing before I am entirely naked and, as bullets from the national guard or local militia rip into my howling frame, I will use the last inkling of strength within me to light myself afire and burn slowly, brightly, in the middle of the town square.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Conor - My One Shot At Immortality

In relatively short time, I won't be here. Within a handful of decades, I'll return to the earth, from whence I came.
Mother Earth shall reclaim her child.

I recognize that there is no escaping this fate. Sooner or later all of us will heed death's call. So what do I do with my time on earth? Being a narcissist, it seems like the only sensible option would be to make sure that I am remembered. I am going to die and years from my death they will have remembered that I died and then decades and centuries will pass and still every now and then someone will bring up Conor James O'Brien, son of Dennis.

Why? Well that's the big hang up, here.

I would go with one of my usual talents, like being really funny and charming, or super great at music, or my slowly improving frisbee skills, or how much body my hair has, but it's become obvious to me that there's always some cooler than me. Thanks, Ben. So no matter how much I practice piano, smile winningly at the mirror or shampoo and condition, there's always going to be some smarmy asshole who tops me.

So what do I do? An event? Let's assume I want to be remembered for something positive, so let's count out martyrdom and the like. I could start a charity? Lame. Adopt an orphan and change a kids life for the better forever? Boooooo. I could grow the biggest beard ever? Just never shave ever again? Oh thanks, genetics/Dad.

It came to me in my Music History class. The oldest piece of music that music historians know they have  recreated with 100% accuracy was on a grave. Some smart old dead guy was like "before you bury me, throw that ditty I used to love so much on that pillar there. That would be sick."

Of course. My epitaph. Epitaphs are forever.

What should I put on my epitaph oh that's right screw originality let's just take that one guys idea and do it again. So I'm putting a piece of music on my gravestone. Hundreds, maybe thousands of years from now people will uncover and use it to represent an entire era of human life. They're going to say "this is what all people listened to back then. This was art."

Fuck yeah.

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Catching up

I like my friends; love them. They're great. They treat me nice, provide for me when I become needy, and put up with my shit when I act out of line, and aren't afraid to hold me accountable for myself throughout it all.

At times I feel like a little brother. Of my guy friends, I'm constantly the youngest. It isn't an issue that barges to the forefront of most situations, but rather it settles in a deep subconscious layer of my brain that alters all my actions by 0.05%.

Because they're typically chunks of months older than me, I expect my friends to generally be smarter than me, better at new things, more experienced, more organized and top of shit, and even exhibit leadership better. For example, on long drives, I would always defer driving duty. Not out of fear of killing us all, but out of a general submissiveness when it came to doing adult things. That and the year of driving experience they all had over me.

I should have clarified this earlier* — my birthday is September 9, 1992. A majority of my friends are '91ers, or at least have the decency to catch up before the beginning of the subsequent** school year. This is because I skipped Kindergarten, an accomplishment that I can not justly appreciate — that is, I'm either caring too much about it or being overly modest.

I used to be everyone's short, smart, young, wisecrackin' pal. That was I, hangin' out with the cool kids who were secretly a grade above me (basically).  My best friend in elementary school had the same birthday as me, though we were a year apart in age.

I know, I know. It doesn't seem like a lot. And I suppose in the end, there are greater socially distinguishing characteristics to be had. But every generational experience one gains through the process of getting older, I was deprived of, or rather, delayed in receiving.

Becoming a teenager was a sixth-grade thing to most, but not I. Being 16, getting a license, having a kickass birthday party and all that jazz were things I was pulling off in my junior year of high school as opposed to my sophomore year like everyone else. I remember sneaking past security at the theaters just to see The Hangover with all my 17-year-old friends. By the time I was old enough to buy porn and cigarettes, it was no longer cool to buy porn and cigarettes for the sake of buying porn and cigarettes in a celebration of age-earned American freedom. It was cool to drink though, because college.

The relevance of this issue is rearing its head once more for the second to last time. The difference between 19 and 20 is practically negligible, unless you're that*** person that still cares about being a teen versus being 20. Nerd. I will be damn tired of this routine by the time I'm waiting to turn 21, I'm sure. After that, however, I get to be younger than everyone. But being 19 is a big deal. Well, it's a big deal here.

My former editor's in town tonight. Alex Iniguez is someone whom I respect the crap out of and may just try to mooch a good word or two off one day, because it may hold value. May. He's out at bars and, while I'd love to go catch up with the guy, I can't because I'm not old enough. The bars are like a party for 19+-year-olds in Champaign that goes on every night that I'm never invited to. This changes in 8 days. By the way, it's now officially September.

To Alex, I'm sorry for being an infant. I'll grow up one day. To everyone else, I'm sorry for being an infant. I'll stop complaining now.

--Eliot Sill

*-I could have clarified it earlier. I still can go back and change that. But I won't. Fate ordered it that way.

**-I originally had "next" here. But I went back and changed it. Judge me however you will.

***-Use of the word "that" as opposed to "a" designed to make you feel alone if you are, in fact, a person who cares about being a teen versus being 20.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The Homework Process- Mada

Pick music to listen to.

Open book.

Get distracted by music.

Get out notebook.


Think about sleep.


Don't understand.

Get frustrated and mad.

Text people.

Check facebook.

Check my email.

Ignore all important emails.

Go back to reading.




Answer one question.

Feel awesome for five minutes.

Read next question.

Get mad and frustrated again.

Check Facebook again.

No sleep.


Monday, August 29, 2011

Nick - The Best Game Ever

We've all heard the arguments about which video game is the best game ever: they say that Super Mario changed the tides of gaming; they say that The Legend Of Zelda: Ocarina Of Time was the most innovative game ever.

But of course, we all know which game is really the best ever.

Final Fantasy X - 2 has everything a good video game needs. It has interesting characters, a meaningful plot line, and you can play dress-up.

Just looking at the cover, we can see out three main characters. Rikku is sassy and fun. Yuna is smart and relatable. And Paine is strong and don't take sass from nobody.

Unfortunately, the rest of the Final Fantasy series is sorely disappointing; it's filled with confusing plot lines and repetitive gameplay. But hey, I won't complain since it gave us one of the greatest games of all time in the form of X - 2.


Robert - Wilfred

I'll be brief. Have you seen this show?

This show is like the Wire, except funnier, and not serious at all, and with a dog and Elijah Wood, and without any police.

Yeah, this guy.

Premise for those of you who haven't seen it yet, and if you aren't sold then you aren't a human being with jokes: Elijah Wood, a jobless former lawyer, is the only person who sees his neighbor's dog Wilfred as a human. To everyone else, Wilfred is a normal dog, but to Elijah's character, he's an unshaven man who smokes pot and motorboats random women, only to receive affection and giggles in return. Kind of like Calvin and Hobbes, if Hobbes were about 25, a dick, and actually exploited his stuffed disguise. The absurd costume that Jason Gann (dog) wears makes every joke exponentially hilarious, and that almost seems like cheating, but that's the way it is. It doesn't even matter that the plot and character development on the show is questionable and blatantly lacking, respectively. It's more than made up for, usually, for the humor. The obvious bizarreness of the scenario goes wholly unacknowledged throughout the series, as if all were totally normal, and the disparity between what Elijah sees and what others see when they look at Wilfred makes for some pretty great scenes.

One of the really cool parts of the writing is the way the script every once in a while offers possible reasons for why Elijah's character sees the dog as a man in a dirty Halloween costume. Each one is equally lame, and each time convinces you that they're actually going going to pull some awful cop-out, be it drug-induced hallucinations or a bad dream, and right when you're caught in their trap, they debunk the possibility entirely. 

Plus, they took our god damn "Cats" video. They did. I swear it. They do the exact same thing. With the laser pointer and everything. And it was funny. It was the maddest I've ever laughed.