Welcome back to this week’s Street Sweeper! I’m your host Fiona Herzog.
Coming back from a summer in Los Angeles, I’m proud to announce that I am still hell–bent on repping summer in a sea of classrooms blasting AC. This means my wardrobe has exclusively been tank tops, mini–skirts, and sandals. Unfortunately, this means that while at Breakaway, I couldn’t make it to belting “Clarity” by Zedd before I lost my voice completely due to sickness.
But now I am back in the Penn swing of things. And so are all our lovely Street Sweepers, who have been busy this past week catching glimpses of inappropriate ChatGPT prompts during lecture in classes about critical thinking, chasing glitzy new restaurant openings in Rittenhouse Square, and watching hordes of freshmen ping from frat to frat while on their way to the third housewarming of the night.
It feels good to feel right back at home.
The Buzz on Locust
Bid Night for [REDACTED] @ [REDACTED]
I was a fake pledge.
I’ve somehow managed to go through my college experience without having to rush for an org—loser alert! I didn’t even go through Street’s own counterculture rushing process (iykyk) because my first semester was the one time Strexec decided not to do it. But out of the goodness of my heart to do a favor for a dear friend and my own morbid curiosity, I agreed to be a plant pledge—a spy on the inside. They say curiosity killed the cat, and, oh boy, did I almost die of embarrassment. I’ve lost my dignity and gained a new sense of admiration for everyone who has ever had to be a pledge. Worst of all, I don’t even get to enjoy the fruits of my labor, as I got kicked out before I finished my pledging. I suppose being a brother just isn’t for me.
–Jules Lingenfelter, Print Managing Editor
Sac Fair @ Locust Walk
SAC fair—it’s a bunch of wolves lined up on Locust Walk preying on the little sheep (freshmen) who dare approach their club table. Chaos, music, candy, flyers … all just types of bait to lure people in. At this year’s fair, I was sandwiched between Club Pickleball and Club Badminton with nothing but a lacrosse stick and a dream. My tabling partners and I were on a mission to get some new recruits for our team—including a new goalie, something we desperately need (please DM @upennwclublax on Instagram if you or someone you know are interested—we will kiss the ground you walk on). People would nervously approach us, scan our QR code, and then slither away to some other table. Our fellow stick/net wielding neighbors, however, enjoyed herds of people crowding around their table. I sat in awe. Why is this campus a slut for badminton and pickleball?
The Pickleball Club claimed they have over 500 sign–ups to be a part of its team. People of all backgrounds, all schools, all interests, and all skill levels were highly invested and committed to joining Club Pickleball and Club Badminton. After many hours of observing Fair–goers come up to any table but ours, I could not predict who would approach the pickleball and badminton tables. If you are looking for a sport to play, Women’s Club Lacrosse will always support you—but if you want an instant 500 new friends and to hit a thing back and forth … Club Pickleball and Club Badminton might be for you.
–Maddy Brunson, Senior Staff Writer
Philo Croquet @ Tampons
Croquet—some old British game that seems like a pretentious version of mini golf. Sweater vests and pleated trousers and some ill–chosen shoes for the pitch (i.e. the lawn next to the Tampons that was more dirt than grass). Only thing is that no one knew how to play croquet. So we pretended at it, talking all the while. Actually, more talking than playing. Got looked at weird by passersby.
–Bobby McCann, Features Editor
Democracy Seminar @ PSCPE
The central idea of Kant’s “What is Enlightenment” is that public discourse is a necessary prerequisite for democracy. The good citizen, he argues, is one who thinks for himself.
Monday at 5:15 p.m, in a secret hide–y hole within PCPSE, I gathered in a seminar of ten or so seniors to debate the merits of Kant’s arguments with half as much eloquence as the essay itself. I, of course, compared Kant’s republic to that Jubilee video with Mehdi Hasan. The guy sitting next to me compared Kant to Kohlberg’s stages of moral development. Glancing in his direction, I caught a glint of ChatGPT feeding him his discussion points on the essay at hand.
So much for free thinking in modern democracy.
–Norah Rami, Editor in Chief
Penn Bangla Game Night @ PAACH
Much like our nation’s elections, Penn Bangla’s inaugural Game Night can be summarized by one word: rigged.
Entering PAACH anticipating a chill get–together filled with awkward introductions and icebreakers, I was rudely greeted by some of the most aggressive, athletic Bengalis on campus. From an intense game of “Picnic” to ruthless rounds of “Splat” and “Hot Balish,” my adrenaline was rushing and my heart rate soared. I was even humiliated in a game of Bengali trivia, where I learned that the only thing my third–gen American self knew was that Dhaka is our capital.
Most intense of all, however, was the game of “Pani Puri Pong.” It had me fighting for my life desperately trying to flip these rigged paper cups after chugging down Penn Bangla President Areebah Ahmed’s cultural concoction, only to lose round after round.
While I walk away with scraped knees, a burning throat, and a broken heart, I must commend them for the delightful snacks and drinks provided. While the entire cup of cha I accidentally spilled served as an omen for my misfortune throughout the games, I admit that Penn Bangla threw a fabulous game night.
–Insia Haque, Design Editor
Popping the Bubble
New York Fashion Week @ New York City
When we finally run into the venue, sweaty and breathless, we spot a woman and her dog on the corner. We sit on wooden benches in the parking lot that will become the runway and watch the parade of neutrals, organza, and pastels representing the identity of the up–and–coming brand. “Straight out of RISD,” Style editor Kate Cho says, “But if someone gave me a free Links bag, I’d take it,” referring to SC103’s iconic bag.
We sat and read the runway pamphlet: “Did you know that human made materials now outweigh, in terms of mass, all living things on Earth?”
Clip–clop, clip–clop go the Manolos on the York Street stairs of the subway entrance on our way out of Brooklyn post SC103 after party. While balancing five cups and two pink craft paper bags with the SC103 invite printed on, we hold on to the metal bars of the uptown F for dear life while a mid–level consulting bro buys his ketamine right in front of our eyes.
-Anissa Ly, Ego Editor
Breakaway @ Subaru Park
Breakaway was my one true break from the endless cycle of recruiting—five precious hours where my only responsibility was to bop my head meaninglessly to basslines blasting my eardrums into oblivion. Fortunately, I got exactly what I wanted, with the bonus of the unmistakable aroma of thousands of bodies marinating in the humid air, my friend Sandy’s hair getting tangled in someone’s fan during CLOONIE’s set, and the small tragedy of being stranded on the sidewalk while $130 Ubers crawled by like taunting parade floats.
Amidst the chaos, I am glad I achieved one of my life’s goals: hearing “Clarity” by Zedd live. And if anyone asks, I’ll swear up and down I had the time of my life—because sometimes, a messy, sweaty, wallet–draining night out is exactly the clarity you need.
–Fiona Herzog, Assignments Editor
Borromini Restaurant Opening @ Rittenhouse Square
I’m consumed by the warmly lit atmosphere as loud voices boom from the tile walls. Stephen Starr, restaurateur and owner of the place, walks in right behind me. I’ve never seen him before. It’s clearly still early days at Borromini, his most significant opening in 25 years. The 100–layer lasagna has been plastered all over the restaurant’s Instagram for weeks, but my dad warns me against it—his friend said it was overrated.
We’re sat in one of the booths towards the back of the restaurant, boxed in by liquor–filled shelves and yellow–lit glass panels. My dad tells me he knows a guy—or three—which is why we’re sat where we are. The former manager of El Vez comes up to greet us, having just made the move over to the restaurant himself. We dine on squash blossoms, carbonara, and rib–eye, chatting over Piedmont wine and later espresso. Starr’s never done Italian before, though we can’t seem to figure out why. Maybe he was waiting for the right time. He just about owns all of Rittenhouse by now, already setting his eyes on the former seafood restaurant across the street. Maybe he’ll do Thai, I told my dad. He hopes it’ll be tapas. The streets outside are dead, but Starr’s properties remain vibrant, leaving Philadelphians with a glimpse of what the city’s nightlife once was.
–Sadie Daniel, Focus Beat
10th Anniversary of the Outlaw Music Festival @ Freedom Mortgage Pavilion
It’s as though I’m embarking on a pilgrimage that millions have before. A cycle that’s looped in every 20–year–old for the past 60 years. It’s a pilgrimage to see Bob Dylan, a man who’s practically as big as the Pope, in an inconveniently far away venue. I’ve rushed over here, not knowing when his set was until the last moment, with a bag too big and tickets bought two days before. Three trains to get to this amphitheater—in New Jersey, of all places, because the genius likes an airy space. But the genius also has an early bedtime these days, and he's started his set ten minutes before he’s supposed to go on. I’ve missed “Masters of War.” Fuck. I push through the rows of seats, sitting in a spot far more expensive than the one I paid for, and I try to catch a glimpse of the man on stage. He hides himself these days, behind weird lights and a piano. He’s whiny, and the band is loud; it’s incredible. Their guitars cry, and the blues rocks through my chest. I see those same generations of pilgrims all around me, having seen him in every decade since he stepped into the light of the ‘60s. He leaves us with a blessing—“Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.” People cry around me, screaming after him as he leaves the stage. The musical pope decided to come to Camden, N.J. today, and as I leave, I grab my leather jacket from the coat check, bundling myself up from the river breeze. Walking down the dark road home, I look as cold as the man himself when he was freewheelin’ in the streets of Greenwich Village.
–Sadie Daniel, Focus Beat
