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(12/01/11 7:48am)
I have a secret to share with you. Ready? I hate writing these letters. I'm not particularly funny (at least on purpose). I'm not witty or clever or profound. I'm just me. And as you've learned this year, I love TV for tweens, emo music from middle school and poop jokes, and I mention my mom in almost all of these.
(11/17/11 7:25am)
Rather than use this space as a letter, I’m going to make you a list. If you remember from a few weeks ago (for the three people who read these beside my beloved Mom and Dad), organized girls love lists. I am, in fact, an organized girl. So here’s my list for today.
It's called…
(11/10/11 5:01am)
Penn’s changed a lot since I first settled into a cramped Hill double three and a half years ago. No more happy hour specials at LTs. No more terrible service from Marathon. No more almost drug deals at Cream and Sugar.
But apparently the Penn landscape's changed infinitely for many alum traipsing back to campus this weekend.
Choruses of “OHMIGOD THIS IS SO WEIRD” rang throughout Smoke's on Saturday night. "Nothing's the same!" a nostalgic sorority girl turned consultant cried. And then she took a shot.
Well duh, ya weirdos. Of course nothing's the same. You all graduated. New babies moved in. Penn chugs along without you.
That doesn't mean we don't miss you (because damnit we do) but it's probably a sad notion for alumni to face: Penn does not revolve around you.
And this is pretty sad for seniors, too. You mean to say that the entire undergraduate body won’t welcome us back next year with open arms and free pitchers? You mean there will be no red carpet rolled out embellished with Kweder lyrics? How dare you! How will we get through the next few months?
Oh wait. There’s a ton of things to look forward to. Especially in Street. Like two (not one, but two!) more sets of Shoutouts (p. 12). Cultural Elite’s coming out next week — will you make the cut? And a Joke Issue to boot.
There are other things on the horizon, too of course. Walnut Walk. Senior Formal. Fling. Being a second semester senior part deux. Oh, and getting a job or something like that. Maybe. Hopefully.
But until then, it might be time to try something new. Work at a homeless shelter (p. 8). Do some drugs at a concert (p. 10). Make some donuts (p. 6). Or just take a nice walk courtesy of Kevin Bacon's father (p. 16).
Street your heart out,
(11/03/11 5:07am)
I have a theory about being brilliant. If you do something I don’t know how to do, then you must be the best at it. Take architecture. If you are an architect, I think you are the most brilliant architect that ever existed, simply because I have no idea what an architect does or how one would architect anything anyway. You are brilliant. You can show me a model of a decrepit house, but if it looks complicated and is on a computer, I'm impressed.
(10/27/11 6:53am)
Halloween makes people uncomfortable. Some can’t handle all the costumes, all the candy, all the frat parties named with terrible rhymes.
But others get into it. Like really into it. Especially at Penn. For some reason Halloweekend becomes a Fling–like extravaganza… with fewer clothes and even less dignity. The party starts on Wednesday and ends on Tuesday.
It’s quite the spectacle, one we all try to take advantage of in one way or another. A few of my friends live in a house on Beige Block with a large second floor porch, overlooking 41st Street. Perfect for people watching. This comes in handy at times like NSO, Fling and of course Halloween.
From our mini tower in the sky, we heckle unknowing party–goers. It’s even better to perch up there starting at 9 a.m. the morning(s) after. Halloween walks of shame are not urban legends; they're one of the best sources of entertainment.
This probably sounds terrible, that I’ve spent years scouting out the best way to poke fun at people just trying to enjoy a holiday.
Well it comes from a place of love. I love Halloween. I love dressing up (preferably in something covered entirely in sequins). I love candy. I love frat par — okay you got me there; I don’t love frat parties with punny names. But everything else rocks.
It’s a time to admire your peers’ creativity. Sophomore year our female ego of the week (page 4) was Picasso’s blue period. She taped blue tampons to her body. Come on. That’s awesome.
And yes, it’s a time to laugh at girls trotting home in cat ears and stilettos at 9 a.m., with furry tails between their legs.
So if you hate Halloween (attention, page 3), look at your choices. Look at your lives. And if you see a rowdy bunch on a green porch pointing at your ridiculous costume: suck it up. You probably deserve it.
(10/20/11 5:48am)
Lists are like crack to organized girls. We can add to them indefinitely and make them look elegant and important with curly handwriting. Awesome.
Most of my lady friends agree. Even some dudes. Lists rock. They keep you classy even if you spill coffee and wine all over them. They make you feel accomplished even if you never cross anything off. They're general ego boosters.
Which is why when I was asked to meditate in class — yes, it's one of those feel–good classes made for seniors that's pretty much like group therapy — I took the time to make a list. Duh.
This time about classes. With one semester left in my undergraduate career (gawdfabid!) I'm dumbstruck.
Photography, graphic design, Urban Studies, something with Childers, like four more classes in my major.
There were too many. And it's not like I'm the most curious student in the world. I've never taken more than four classes at a time. I admit to always checking Penn Course Review to make sure it isn't too hard.
I started to curse myself. Bad, Jess. You should have taken at least six more courses. And summer classes! Pass/fail. Take 'em all!
But then my professor snapped me out of my list–lovin' heaven and insisted we share our what we learned from our forced meditation.
Learn? Apparently I didn't learn anything in four years. I cringed. I tried to hide under a desk until I realized the irony. I was asked to meditate. In a class. That counted for my minor. And made me happy. So instead, I made a list of my favorite classes starting with the unofficial one right here on these pages.
(10/13/11 7:45am)
I had big plans for Fall Break. I wanted to go to Vegas. I had visions of flaunting my legality. I would sit at a slot machine, shmooze with Cher and sneak into the Real World suite at the Palms.
Then Yom Kippur happened.
With a last name like Goodman, I knew I couldn’t spend the holiest day of the year parading around with would–be Vegas showgirls. (Said would–be showgirls ended up spending their breaks on couches in New Jersey and Los Angeles. Hey guys.)
Instead I went home to celebrate the Day of Atonement. But then a terrible, horrible thing happened. I didn’t go to temple. I’m admitting this in print: I didn’t go to temple on Yom Kippur. I didn’t even fast.
While my parents were starving and shuckling at shul I was sitting in bed eating challah and watching the CW’s The Secret Circle — all four episodes. Back to back.
I guess I can make myself feel better and say that in between tweenage witch clips, I reflected on the past year and repented in my own way.
In reality I just snacked on my mom’s homemade matzoh balls.
I guess I should have been more productive — or at least more God–fearing — this break. I could have brewed my very own beer like our Ego of the Week (p. 4). I could have watched Rent for the 18th time (p. 11). I could have even gone to see some cool sexy art exhibits in Philly (p. 13).
So to all who ask me this weekend, “How was your break?”: I learned a lot about magic and gained three pounds.
(09/29/11 6:37am)
When I was a kid I would devour Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. I would sit in my bathtub and soak for hours, reading and re–reading stories of broken hearts and bones, tales of ‘tough stuff’ and tragedies.
I think it stemmed from a typical t(w)eenage yearning to know what’s really up with our peers. Now a few years older, there doesn’t seem to be a pre–written bowl of soup for the college–aged soul.
But I, and most of the people I know at Penn, still want to know what truths lurk behind masks of our fellow classmates.
Enter sex.
The last time I walked into a frat party, I was greeted by a couple making out. They were sweaty and the guy had his hands on the girl’s chest. Her bra was out and one bare leg slid up around his waist. They smelled like aged jungle juice.
Within seconds they were humping against the wall.
We’ve all seen this a dozen times. It’s impossible to miss. And then we walk away, look for something cold to drink and leave within 10 minutes. We never really know what happens beyond that.
Do they go back to his room or her cramped double in Hill? Do they have sex? Was this the first time they met? Do they use protection? Do athletes have more sex than nurses? Do female engineers whack off more than Wharton males?
We conducted a sex survey (page 9) to find out the answers.
(09/22/11 5:06am)
My first concert was a really sweaty My Chemical Romance set at the Downtown in Farmingdale, New York. I was 13 years old and I thought it was the COOLEST thing in the entire world. There were smelly dudes in black ripped t–shirts passing joints around and breaking beer bottles. My 13–year–old emo boyfriend got stuck in the middle of a mosh pit and got a concussion. I wore Converse lace–ups and a denim miniskirt.
It. Was. Awesome. Even though I now think My Chemical Romance is pretty terrible, I was in heaven. I think everyone feels that way about their first concert — a thumping bass and a chance to be in the presence of your high school heroes. It doesn't get much better.
Fast–forward an entire adolescent lifetime. I'm a wee bit older and (I think) I have better taste in music. I've been to my fair share of concerts and I've even kicked some dirt around with strangers at a handful of festivals. I'm no concert queen, no tiara full of tunes, but I do love being in the presence of live music.
From a tiny dive bar to Madison Square Garden, the feeling's always the same: lights, jams and a good crew of dudes.
So concert lovers, join me in welcoming a new babe to town. Her name is Union Transfer and she’s pleased to meet you (p. 10). She’s got three bars so we’re obviously intrigued.
And if that doesn't tickle your fancy, try your hand at the POPPED! Music Festival (p. 13) this weekend.
All this jamming jargon not your style? Get off your couch and go to the Rotunda. Suck it.
(09/15/11 7:38am)
Being Google–able sucks. We crazy college kids can’t really do stupid stuff anymore. Well, that’s not true. We totally can but we just can’t brag about it in publications like these anymore. No longer can I fill this little space with illicit advice to freshpeeps (don’t drink the jungle juice). No longer can I brag about that totally crazy moment I had with Ken Kweder in the kitchen of Smoke’s last spring (it was magical).
Now our names are all out there in that damn web–iverse and future employers are just waiting to call us out for our 2008 profile picture, where we’re pouring champagne on each other (Mom, I promise I never did this) and degrade the rants we wrote on our LiveJournals about emo bands on Long Island.
Let this be a warning, dear readers: If you do something stupid online, we will find it. And we will write about it. Please visit Exhibit A: Freshman Superlatives.
But let me backtrack. For those of you who haven’t seen 34th Street before, welcome. Officially we’re the weekly arts and culture magazine of the Daily Pennslyvanian, Penn’s independent newspaper. Unofficially, we Toast and Roast your frat parties, we break Penn down for you letter by letter and we play favorites. We’re the magazine you don’t want to tell your parents you write for. We use uber dashes and we REAL TALK. If you show up to our writers’ meetings every Thursday you’ll probably get a warm beer.
Back to Freshman Superlatives. This, froshbabies, is your introduction to Penn. We love you. We hate you. We kind of want to be you (four more years, please!). So we present you with your Penn '15 minutes of (un–Google–able because there are no last names) fame until you become an Ego of the Week… if you're lucky.
(04/21/11 6:03am)
As most wrestled with the rained–out Quad activities on Saturday, I was knee deep in New Orleans. No, I wasn't going through Mardi Gras withdrawal. Instead, I was at the wedding of two 28–year–old Penn alums.
They met while living in Philly after graduating and moved into a cozy apartment right next to Audrey Claire one year after that. The two moved to New Orleans, the bride's hometown, soon after and are now settling down to start a family and bleed purple, green and gold.
Why is this awesome/relevant/at all interesting to you? Well, the couple is still mourning their college days and their Philly life. Austin, the groom, still asks for pictures of his own photograph hanging in Greek Lady. And Beth, the bride, is still jealous that Bui's is just around the corner. They miss crush parties and Fling and Marathon froyo (RIP the sweet flavors). But probably most importantly, they miss their friends who are flung (HA! More Fling jokes, LoLzZzZ!!!!) all around the country.
So here they all gathered for the wedding. Tears were shed as one friend watched her old roommate walk down the aisle. Gasps were heard when a sorority sister caught the bouquet. And giggles were contagious when reminiscing about warm days spent brown bagging the Green. They looked at me with longing; with one year left at dear ole' Penn, I was the subject of their envy.
In a Billy Madison–esque moment a drunk bridesmaid grabbed my face and whispered, "Cherish every moment!" It was sad. It was sweet. But most of all, it made me want to hold on to the rest of my time at Penn and of course, my time at Street. As you know, with the last issue of the year, comes what you've been waiting for all year. I won't delay any longer…
(04/14/11 6:09am)
If you're reading this at all you're probably just, like soooo totally flungover (haha puns are just the best!) in bed on Sunday evening and are reflecting back on the 48 (or 72… or 96+) hours of flingin' flangin' fun you forgot to remember. So we, encourage you, try realllllly hard to remember.
(04/07/11 7:21am)
Penn has taught me a lot about the idea of the “best.” Best way to accidentally spill your friends’ secrets? Play Taboo. Best way to test a night–made friendship? Say hi on Locust. Best walk of shame watching? November 1st on any porch on 41st Street. See? These are the important things in life.
But then everyone has personal bests. The best thing about falling into bed at 3 a.m.? Cold, clean pillowcases. Best thing perk of living off–campus? Backyard BBQs in a city. Best way to clear your head? Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill.”
So Street makes it easy for you. We’ve asked. We’ve tallied. And we’re proud to present to you: the annual Best of Penn. Past superlatives have been doled out to the obvious (the best way to look more alternative than you are is to wear a scarf) and the sneaky (the best place to take a secret poop is in Van Pelt).
This year’s contenders fought diligently for the coveted title, and the winners may shock and surprise you. They may even encourage you to take an extra trip up the Huntsman escalators. Voters galore prayed Nicola Gentili would win Best Professor to see on a Reality TV Show (he didn’t). Maybe you sexually experimented with the hands on Addams’ gate (ew, that’s gross). And hopefully next weekend you’ll stumble into bed with a freshman during Fling.
For now, Street’s annual Best of Penn features your personal bests. Eat your hearts out, would–be Foursquare mayors of Smoke’s.
(03/31/11 5:59am)
As an English major who has never taken a finance/marketing/management/advertising/Wharton–mumble–jumble class, I'm simply business–talk inept. Sure, I can hold a conversation about friends' investment banking internships, but I'd much rather banter back and forth about Sammy Hagar's memoirs of a crazed Eddie Van Halen. It's not superficial. It's a difference in interest thank you very much.
(03/24/11 7:06am)
Nobody really watched Skins. You know, that MTV teen drama that was spawned from the brilliant British version. It’s kind of like Degrassi but no one dies. And it's not Canadian. There were 10 episodes of accused child pornography and tawdry affairs with middle–aged men in hot tubs. Seriously, nobody but the Parents Television Council watched the short–lived season that ended this Monday.
Well, nobody but me. Crippled by a television addiction, I dutifully watched every stinkin’ episode. I bit my lip in angst when bawdy Tony rolled on E at a Baltimore rave. (Seriously, MTV? Raves in Baltimore?) I hung on every overused pick–up line delinquent Chris used on his naked teacher in a tree house. I even forgave Skins for letting all of the female characters get pumped and dumped by the many juvenile boys on the show.
Skins is not good. One of my housemates would hear the theme song through the walls (the soundtrack is superb thanks to MTV’s excellent music directors) and would groan, pitying my addiction. Why would I waste time watching this garbage? Well, it’s intriguing. Of course we all want to know what goes on behind closed doors of America’s most beautiful. That’s why we watch reality shows. And Behind the Music. And the downfall of Charlie Sheen. (He is still in fact #winning.)
That’s also why Street’s decided to take you into a world that you probably didn’t know existed. From first glance of the cover, you can probably guess things are a little… er… racy this week. So buckle up, take a deep breath and jump into our feature on student sex workers (p.8). Sometimes things just need to get a little kinky.
(03/23/11 5:40am)
I am no fashionista. My mom picked out my first birthday dress (white lace), my Bat Mitzvah dress (pink raw silk), my prom dress (white lace again) and even my first college formal dress (tight and black).
Luckily, with seven female roommates, I have live–in style gurus. Skirts go flying around bedrooms. Tank tops rotate from closet to closet. And every shoe always manages to fit every foot.
But of course my mom still worries. Am I wearing flattering skirts? Are my high heels too high? Are those new sunglasses the right fit for my face?
Luckily, Street's here to help you find out all of the above and more. With the help of this Shopping Guide, Mom, you can sleep easy tonight.
(03/17/11 6:57am)
Back in kindergarten we made refrigerator magnets. I decorated mine with rhinestones, purple swirls and sequins. It was a work of art. I brought it home, went to my family fridge and stuck it as high as I could reach. But it fell off. My fridge was not magnetic. Pouting, I fumbled around the kitchen trying to find an appliance willing to let my magnet stick. But nothing in my kitchen was magnetic! It clung to nothing. Horrified for my sanity and personal self worth, my psychiatrist of a mother taped the magnet to the microwave. It soon fell off.
(02/24/11 7:30am)
In honor of Street’s second annual Fiction Issue, I’ll now take you on a journey back to my adolescence. I was a wee bit shorter (as in 5’1”, not 5’2”), bespectacled and perpetually in love with the boys in my books.
(02/17/11 8:51am)
There’s nothing better, homier or more comforting than coming home from a loooong day and curling up in front of my TV. It always knows what’s on my mind, what I’ve missed and what I’ve been craving. The TiVo–ed 90210 episode? Yes, please. Top Chef All Stars on demand? Um, duh. And don’t even get me started on the Lifetime Movie Network.
(02/16/11 6:21pm)
I’m in love. I’m hopelessly, maddeningly in love with a tin box on 38th Street. What holds grip of my heart, you ask? Well, it goes by a simple name, one that brings joy to my heart and a skip to my step. Just four little letters that can make me swoon: B–U–I–S.