"On The Importance of Being Rash" Presents: The Top 25 Albums of 2010

In my other blog, On The Importance of Being Rash, two friends and I compiled a list of the top 25 albums of the year. We worked pretty hard on it, and this week we began to unveil the list in groups of five. Please read it, it's full of pretentious banter that I know is just so appealing.

Today: 25-21
Wednesday (12/8): 20-16
Thursday (12/9): 15-11
Friday (12/10): 10-6
Monday (12/13): 5-1

Amurrrican Idol

This is a piece I wrote on my other blog. It's a semi-satirical essay on my idols throughout the years, and subsequently, the beginnings of my love for journalism.

Whether it’s Rick Sanchez of CNN for all those aspiring news anchors, or Balto--if you’re a dog that has human intelligence--everyone has an idol. Subconsciously or not, we all look up to someone throughout our lives. Sure, they may change every so often, but it’s impossible as logical human beings to not look up to someone.

At 4, I wanted to be this kid named John in my preschool class. That kid had like three fucking girlfriends; he was set for life at the age of 4 (unless, of course, he contracted cooties). I guess I still aspire to be him? Then at 7, I was transfixed on being Stone Cold Steve Austin. Nothing would have made me happier than if I could Stone Could Stun my second grade teacher for giving us homework. At 12, I wanted to be a lawyer, and my idol at the time was Johnny Cochran—this was because I was so amazed that someone could get away with murder with the help cheesy, childish examples used by his defense. At 14, after reading a book on Margaret Meade, I briefly wanted to be an Anthropologist; however, that’s just dumb unless I actually WANTED to be a community college professor.

After a couple of years of having no idol, I was told to read an excerpt of Sex, Drugs, And Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto, by oft-wacky journalist, Chuck Klosterman. The first chapter of that book, This Is Emo, is probably the truest/funniest thing I have ever read. Concerning “fake love”, it details how the media and entertainment world has impacted our view of love; This Is Emo is an in-depth analysis as to just how much our ability to love is influenced by movies, songs, books, etc. Soon, Chuck Klosterman became my idol (most likely to his dismay, because I feel like every aspiring writer between the ages of 17-25 who considers his or herself a part of the counter culture wants to be him—then again, that sounds like one, big fucking over-exaggeration).

I then read the book Killing Yourself To Live, again by Chuck Klosterman, and I was sold: I wanted to be a journalist. I wanted to write, I wanted to experience human progression and regression. And hell, even though it'd have little to do with my career planning, I'd too--like Chuck--want to write for ESPN’s Page 2 on a monthly basis, JUST BECAUSE I FUCKING CAN. Needless to say, Chuck Klosterman has helped me find, what I hope is, my calling.

Klosterman is a rare breed of journalists, in the sense that he his kind of famous and successful. I just turned 20 last month, and as if that isn’t scary enough, I now have to start spearheading my future. As a sophomore majoring in journalism, my expectations in life are fairly simple. I know the journalism field isn’t necessarily an affluent one, however, I simply enjoy writing for the sake of the art. If I can at least put some goddamn cereal and skim milk on the table, I’ll be content with life. If that doesn’t work out, well, I guess I’ll just use my fallback: community college professor.

RE: My Blog's New Title/Theme

I was getting a little tired of using my poor excuse for an imagination to exaggerate and recount events in class. I haven't really picked a new theme to go by, so it'll just be a hodgepodge of stuff.

Also, you may have noticed that my blog name now mentions Abe Vigoda, the famed actor. There's really not much meaning behind it other than I respect him and the fact that he's still alive (http://www.abevigoda.com/).

Below: Abe Vigoda blesses humanity by appearing on a slice of bread.

The Problems of the Marquette Dining Experience (or, Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros suck; or, I'm Really Grumpy and I Apologize For The Following Choice Words I Have That Are Bound To Only Make Me Seem Like A Big Doucher; or, I'm Really Sorry You Like The Song "Home", I'm Just A Music Nerd With Too Much Time On My Hands)

It's always difficult writing for this blog, usually because everyone and anyone who reads this is already in my class, and so trying to recount previous classes just seems like it could be really redundant (which isn't the most attractive adjective in the English language). Nevertheless, I'm laying in my bed, listening to the Girls EP, Broken Dreams Club (which is probably the best short release of the year), and trying not fall asleep--this is only significant because I have to (a) piss like a race horse, (b) finish this post.

ANYWAY, I'm pretty excited to go back home (HUGE DIGRESSION: speaking of home, I really hate the band, Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros. They're terrible, inessential, and more overrated than Kings of Leon--who suck even more. The song Home by said band is probably one of the worst songs to have come out within the past year. If I had a dollar for every girl in Uggs and a Northface who sang that godforsaken song, Haiti would be the richest country in the Western Hemisphere. Note to record labels: have a back and forth duet between a man and a woman concerning cheesy, brainless emotions; you will make fucking millions while exposing thousands of kids who think they listen to good music. END DIGRESSION.), where non-Sodexo food and a larger bed await. Don't get me wrong, Marquette's food prowess--or lack there of--and use of beds that kids in the third world would find uncomfortable are charming in the Stockholm Syndrome kind of way, but it'd be nice to get a change of pace. I'm human, I can only handle MU "food" for periods no longer than 4 weeks; at that point, I might purposely eat tapeworm eggs just so I don't have to worry about intestinal problems (yes, I realize I'm talking about fairly personal stuff right here, but it needs to be said).

How my intestines (after eating NORMAL food) would look if they were represented by a cartoon character:

 "Herp Derp, m3 l1k3y g00d füd."

How I'm single is beyond me...

This One's Long; Ergo, Makes Up For My Lack of Blogging The Past Few Weeks

(Preface: I'm PURPOSELY trying to be a dick in all of my posts, so I hope the people that actually read this don't think I'm one; albeit, the fact that I said that is pretty dickly.)

This week, Bill Frakes--the marginally famous Sports Illustrated photographer--came to our class for a bit of a question-and-answer forum. Despite some oft-condescending comments ("I can get a hold of someone at the White House whenever I want"), Frakes had a lot of pertinent things to say about the the future of journalism; more specifically, the use of multimedia as an advantage.

Unfortunately, our projector was most likely made in Soviet-Era Russia, so we could not view Frakes photos and videos on it. However, he had his laptop, and so the class had to crowd around it like homeless people at Quizno's for "Free Quizno's Day."

Frakes was adamant on the thought that our generation lives in the most exciting time in Journalism (which would be completely true if it weren't for the fact that 4/5ths of us will probably be making sandwiches at Quizno's since the job market is about as stable as Courtney Love). On a more optimistic note, Frakes showed us a hilarious production concerning the Nascar way of life.

(Digression: The Nascar way of life is a charming piece of Americana. I mean, think about it: nothing is more American than booze, tits, Jeff Gordon, and fast cars. I'm serious about this, I'm not trying to be cynically ironic; I truly enjoyed watching that video. It's those little subcultures that make this country what it's meant to be: A collection of contrastive ideas and ideals blended together.)

We actually did learn a fair amount from Bill Frakes, especially the importance of teaching yourself. Unfortunately, I don't possess the sort of discipline (because I have the attention span of a squirrel) to do that. 

Dr. Byers Faces His Most Difficult Challenge: The Common Cold Pt. II

Oh, well time took its toll on the Common Cold, so Dr. Byers is back to normal.

Yes, I did intend to be anti-climactic.

We had a test this week that was cleverly in the guise of a quiz. Dr. Byers mentioned that only he (within the realm of this dimension, at least) has the ability to cloak tests so that they seem "quiz-like." Magic indeed. Dr. Byers also stated that he gave the gift of intelligence to everyone in our class so that we could all get a great score; this, obviously, was solidified by the fact that we were able to use a prepared study guide for the quiz (of which all the questions were from).

Magic indeed.

Dr. Byers Faces His Most Difficult Challenge: The Common Cold

Since the dawn of time, the Common Cold has destroyed civilizations upon civilizations. Pillidging and raping the human immune system has been the Cold's only mission. Like a bat out of f**king hell, the Common Cold is a relentless, cold-blooded killer (HA, cwutididthere? #punny).

For Dr. Byers, nothing has ever presented a challenge to him. He's gone through all of his life without a single regret, or a need to ever proofread his written material.

However, this past week, the Common Cold drew blood from a god.

It began last week, when Dr. Byers first mentioned how he thought he was getting sick. Little did he know, however, that it was in fact the Common Cold. The same Common Cold that sank the Titatnic; the same Common Cold that started the Vietnam War; The same Common Cold that turned Matt Lauer into a douchebag. It was a test unlike any other. Dr. Byers knew deep in his mind that this wasn't child's play.

Tuesday: Dr. Byers came into class; it seemed as normal as any other day (except it wasn't). Dr. Byers spoke, and the roar of the Common Cold's damage to his throat was evident. This was no longer a game.

Tuesday Night (the following is assumed, and therefore, more credible): The war inside Dr. Byers was waging. Hour by hour, the bacteria from the Cold barraged the unsuspecting cells of Dr. Byers. Cilia clashed, cytoplasm dangled from the corpses, nuclei were impaled; the battle was an all-encompassing event of carnage.

Wednesday Morning: The aftermath of Tuesday's battle proved it was a stalemate. Millions upon millions of dead cells lay on both sides of the battlefield. It made the battle at Gettysburg look like a damn peace conference. Both army's rested from Tuesday's battle, as it was Wednesday--we all know the Sabbath for all Cells, regardless of bodily affiliation, is Wednesday.

Thursday: Silence was the only sound heard during the early hours of the day inside Dr. Byers. The enemy, the Common Cold, lay asleep, still resting from an eventful Sabbath (punch was served after the sermon!) The cells protecting Dr. Byers, however, devised an ambush. While the Cold slept, nestled into the crevices in Dr. Byers' muscle lining, the Byers' immune system attacked. BANG! White Blood cell bombs were dropped onto the unwary enemy. It seemed as though Dr. Byers' immune system was finally taking control. The siege went on and on without a single hitch.

What Dr. Byers' cells didn't know, however, was that the Cold had billions upon billions of reinforcements heading to the battle. These Cold cells are more brutal, and more barbaric.

To be continued.