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(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 8:48am)
(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.
(03/17/11 6:15am)
I heard the myth. I read the syllabus and noted the word “pornography.” I read feminist theorists. I confirmed my Gender Studies minor. I willingly registered for the minor requirement, Gender and Society. I was ready. It was time to watch pornography for class.
(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.
(02/16/11 12:25pm)
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(02/10/11 9:28am)
The stretch of Spruce from 40th to 41st Street is a black hole. I've walked down this block at least once a day over the past year and a half and I’ve learned a thing or two. In the time it takes to walk the block you can do the following activities effortlessly:
(02/03/11 7:17am)
Last Wednesday night, we all prayed for a snow day. Whenever shrieks were heard over intercoms and through hallways, someone would jump and dial 898–MELT. But nothing felt worse than hearing the words, “The University is open and operating on a normal schedule." Sadly, no snow day. Dreams of four–day weekends were dashed. In the dead of a snowy morning (7 a.m. to be exact) I left a certain windowless building just in time to see a delivery truck drop off 400 freshly printed papers. Now that’s excitement.
(01/27/11 7:57am)
There’s that scene in (admittedly, my favorite movie) Can’t Hardly Wait when a few tech geeks surround a computer and wait desperately for Internet porn to load. The teenagers salivate at the image of an almost–tit when suddenly the hard drive crashes. Noooooo! They push up their glasses, sigh and press refresh — they’ll see boob in another half an hour… maybe.
(01/20/11 5:34am)
I’m a sentimental, sappy, bear your soul in an '80s love song kind of girl. I hate to admit it and despite donning a coffee–drinking sarcastic shell, I’m really just made up of unicorns, hearts and bubble letters.
That being said, one might easily anticipate my reaction to the abroaders’ epic homecoming. With the ring of a doorbell, tears were shed. Bear hugs commenced. Heart–to–hearts about foreign love affairs occupied my post–2 a.m. time slots.
But soon it dawned on all of us that as second semester juniors, we begin to enter that weird time warp where everything goes too quickly yet never quickly enough. We’re faced with the sappiest sap of all: the idea of saying goodbye. Seniors enter that awkward senioritis phase while we, the youngins’, look on forlornly and tremble at the idea of stepping into the scary shoes at the top. Weren’t we freshmen livin’ it up at NSO just yesterday?
While I wallowed in this self–pity for a few days, a good friend, ever the optimist, shared with me the obvious, “No one’s going anywhere just yet.” With that swirling in my head, I made a conscious decision. For now, we can all sit back, relax and let the good times roll, as they say. Kweder will still play on Tuesdays at Smokes.’ Tabard pledges will still don water bottle headgear and, of course, Street will still print on Thursdays.
With a new year upon us, we bring you the same familiar Street with a few new badges of flair. Even if your new year's resolutions have already worn away (p. 15), maybe you’ll find yourself covering up your Brussels sprout–induced farts (p. 10). Either way, I’m putting my dread of May days on hold and will be hiding in a (slightly embarrassing) world filled with kittens and Lisa Frank folders.
(12/02/10 9:40am)
Amid the bachelorette sashes, inebriated middle–aged couples and underagers, two slightly graying men sit at matching grand pianos. “Wildman Joe” and “Tony T” face each other, fingers flying across black and white keys. The tip jars are stuffed with damp bills and shiny coins. The floor pulsates with “Sweet Caroline.” The dueling piano veterans sing the crowd favorite with heads tucked back, belting into Jolly’s Dueling Piano Bar, a one–year–old Center City dive. Tony’s half–moon glasses fog up a bit from the heat of the bar, dim with the temptation of any other city–brewed Saturday night. The two men, friends and dueling partners for 20 years, wink at each other with the excitement of teenagers. They know it’s going to be a good night.
(12/02/10 8:56am)
Though it’s a bit of a trek from campus, Village Belle is worth an excursion to Front Street in Queen Village for its lovely atmosphere and solid fare. New York restaurateur Joey Campanaro brings a fresh vibe, and successful remodel, to the space that was once the old–time Italian establishment Frederick’s. The restaurant feels welcoming, if not for the bubbly waitstaff and host, then for the comfortable red leather booths and chairs surrounding dark wood tables. Dim lamps, candles and open views of the quaint neighborhood become the crux of the decor.
(11/04/10 6:43am)
Looking around College Hall 200, it seems that everyone at the debate between the Penn Democrats and College Republicans knows each other. Most of the budding politicos are dressed as if they just finished a job interview or modeled for a Brooks Brothers catalogue — though none of them did — and the moderator is clad in a long black robe.