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This Issue 02/01/2007

Also in this issue

• Oh Snap!
• Street Beats
• Reviews
• Street beats
• Youtube clip of the week

GEORGE BUSH HATES THE HIGH RISE ELEVATORS

On January 29, 2007, the following tape-recorded exchange was recovered and transcribed outside elevator #3 in High Rise East.

As Peter Kuperman's number one supporter, I've pledged to spend 24 straight hours in a Harnwell elevator as a physical representation of the millions of precious moments lost by high rise residents as they wait for the elevators each day. I'm recording my thoughts and feelings in this diary.

8:00 a.m. - Hour 1

I'm now inside the elevator. I've got rations for the next few hours: peanut butter and jelly from C^3, as well as an issue of First Call that I picked up by the front desk. I'm mentally preparing myself for the morning rush, though the thought of hundreds of high rise residents pushing the LF button twice, even three times in succession chills me to the marrow.

Side note: I watched Peter's mission statement video on YouTube again last night for inspiration, and I truly believe my sacrifice can only lead to a gain for the greater good.

3:03 p.m. - Hour 7

Now I'm in the thick of it. The lunch hour brought sights I had hoped I'd never see. A freshman cheerleader actually rode the elevator to the 2nd floor. The Asian fellow next to me scoffed while another said, "Can you believe that?"

My previously unflappable conviction that man is inherently good is quickly waning.

11:32 p.m. - Hour 15

My urine bottle and left shoe are almost full. I'm feeling light-headed and introspective.

2:39 a.m. - Hour 18

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch liiiike meeeeeee, I once was up, but now I'm down, Lord take me to floor threeeeeee.

5: 27 a.m. - Hour 21

I've been visited by an angel! He calls himself Frank and he wears a magical tunic upon which the words "Allied Barton" dance, chimerical little beasties that they are! I've stolen Frank's penknife in case he turns on me later.

7:43 a.m. - Hour 24

The blood is dripping from my chest, but no matter. Once the scar tissue forms, the Penn community will know that "Yes, I want to fix the high rise elevators" every time I venture to the community pool. I feel faint. or is that just the dull ache of activism pulsing through my veins.