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I’ve always said that my favorite part of being Editor–in–Chief is the opportunity to create for other people the same experiences that shaped me. As the head of the magazine, I may not be invited to all the pregames anymore and I may get a lot of shit talked behind my back, but I don’t mind. I did it when I was a younger staff member, and it defined my college experience. Street changed me. It made me tougher and at the same time more compassionate. It made me cultured and at the same time feel totally culturally unaware. It made me funnier. And it definitely made me more popular.
In the last job interview of my recruiting season, I was asked for the first time to identify my biggest strength and weakness. I was completely unprepared. I'd never been asked that before, so I'd started to assume it only happened in TV job interviews. Kind of like how people only kiss in the rain when it's artificial rain on a Hollywood set.
I absolutely hate startups. I've worked at startups, I constantly read about startups, I even wrote a 2,000 word article for this very magazine about startups but I hate "startups."
Sometimes I hear people tell stories, or read them in magazines or watch them on TV and feel like nothing that crazy ever happens to me. You know those people who always have the weirdest shit happen to them? For the longest time I was bitter that my life didn't lend itself to really weird shit happening. Was I doing something wrong? Was I hanging out in the wrong places?
These days, it’s cool to be a foodie. Your twice–filtered Instagram
of those decadent pancakes? It’s a status symbol. Your Foursquare check–in at
the new small plates restaurant that’s been booked for months? A badge of
honor. Yet, I fall victim to this trend more than probably anyone else and I
see nothing wrong with it.
Today, over a lazy lunch, a friend of mine was telling me how badly she just needs Fall Break. "Don't you just need a break right now?" she asked, "I just need a break." I said I knew what she meant, but I realized quickly afterwards that I don't feel the same way.
This week I decided to try a new thing. As an OCR gift (likely a condolence gift), I received a small Moleskin notebook. Like, a really small one. Impractically small. But this is the type of notebook they presumably successfully sell in stores, so I challenged myself to come up with a practical use.
Did you know that Harvest has outdoor fire pits? Me neither. Until last night, that is.
My first week at Penn, I cried every day. My first night out during NSO, a girl threw up in my dorm room garbage can. My first class, I sat alone. I waited months—years—to come here and once I finally did, I was sad and scared.
When I used to sit in class and watch people open 34st.com, I would cringe. It was painfully slow (no, it wasn’t your internet connection) and almost immediately after I saw our logo appear on the screen, I knew it would be disappearing soon enough. I worked hours and hours on this incredible product and our stupid Wordpress mess was driving people to click the red X in herds (No offense to our friends who built the site a few years ago; it’s not your fault that we didn’t have anyone to update the code).
You know that feeling when you’re not yet sick but the back of your throat is a little scratchy and you have to blow your nose when you wake up and you know you’re about to come down with a quarantined– in-bed–level cold? That was me this Mon- day morning. The calm before the storm, with the worst possible timing.
Even when the sun is shining and disposable–camera photos from Fling are still being uploaded, the end of the semester is always kinda rough. Everyone has finals and papers and the line for Wawa coffee is soOooOo long. This week? It’s that about– to–get–sick feeling—you know it’s coming but there’s no stopping this train.
Well, Street is pulling into the station with our last issue of the semester. We’re sad we can’t help you through finals, but we hope that this final Street will suffice. I’ve personally already read Shoutouts about 30 times and I recommend that you do the same until you get over your metaphorical finals–season sickness. They’re funny this semester, I pinky promise. Until next year, Chloe
I don’t really like fling. There I said it. Maybe I’m in the minority, but I will stand by my opinion. Sure, a weekend of day–drinking and music and sun sounds like college perfec- tion and I even sent someone a text on post–Fling Sunday saying “How could fling not be good?” in response to the question “Good fling?” but the bottom line is that it can. It can be bad. It can be disappointing and it can be overrated and it can be bad.
We are told that Fling is our best weekend of the Spring and so we suc- cumb to the tremendous pressure to make it just that. And when it’s not, we sit in our air–conditioned rooms and avoid the quad with our best friends (no, just me?) and we feel worse about ourselves than when the weekend started.
But it doesn’t matter. I’m going to continue to pretend that I like Fling and force myself to have fun because that’s what Fling is for and sometimes
that’s what it takes. You only get one best weekend of the spring and even though mine may not have been what you would consider “best,” I had a great time in my room with my friends. Penn told me Fling would be something and I tried hard to make it that.
Now Street is here to talk bests. Here’s how this works: we tell you what we think is the best and you keep an open mind and find what works for you. You tell yourself “How could this not be good?” and even if it isn’t, you’ll find what is. Let Best of Penn be to you what Fling is to me. It’s a suggestion and we hope it turns into something more. Something you make for yourself.
Street is mad. Street is very mad. Street was denied press passes for the SPEC Spring Fling concert and THEN Street found out that Penn was flipping everything we know and love about Fling upside down with its rules and threats and undercover officers who may or may not be hot girls with fake PennCards.
But then Street (I) walked to the art museum along the Schuylkill River Trail and the sun was shining and people were rollerblading and it was just so frickin’ hard to be anything but effervescently happy. Spring has sprung and it feels so good. I am not even close to one of those “happy” people but this winter was never– ending, Game of Thrones status and the fact that it’s over feels like a god-damn miracle.
This doesn’t change the facts about what we have coming for us this weekend (see the back page for our response to the upgraded police activity), but it does serve as a reminder that we still have a lot to enjoy. We can enjoy wearing our fling tanks without a second layer! We can enjoy having circulation in our hands while we hold cold drinks (perhaps non–alcoholic ones, but still)! We can enjoy endless remixes of Pharell William’s “Happy”! And we will be happy, even if the Liquor Control Board forces it to be a remixed version.
Fling is our pride and joy as Penn students. It is the only ammunition we have to make our state–school friends feel even vaguely jealous of our social lives. We will never give that up and we don’t have to. Have fun, be safe and enjoy the warm weather. You’ve earned it.
This week Street is talking about the one thing you’re not supposed to talk about. No, not drugs, sex, or a woman’s age—money. We’re writing about where to spend it, how to save it, and who’s got the most of it (JK that would be absolutely inappropriate). We hope to have done it with some amount of tact and grace, but then again, that’s not really our style, so sorry if we’ve offended you with our coverage of $100 cheesesteaks.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned at Penn, it’s that money rules everything (and I will never get a marketing internship that will pay close to investment banking). Your social life depends on it, your coffee order depends on it, your ability to save 20 minutes by cabbing to class at the PMA instead of walking depends on it. And yet we never talk about it outside of asking someone to “just venmo me.”
As always, Street wants you to start talking. If you are forced to get coffee with some younger/older member of whatever organization you joined this semester, here’s a juicy and controversial conversation topic. Start small, maybe with how expensive HubBub’s lattes are, and when the moment is right, tackle financial aid and the gap between what covers tuition and lifestyle. Plus we’ve got you covered on everything in between. And as our gift to you, keep this magazine—fo' free
Welcome to Street’s first annual Style Guide, the chicest issue of the year. People are always telling us how good we look, so, naturally, we decided to share our secrets.
Since I (Chloe) wear black leg- gings everyday, we thought it would be best to put someone else in charge. Meet, Conor. He owns short–er–alls. Street fashion is a little different.
Street Style is the cooler older brother of the late Shopping Guide. Instead of irrelevant retail reviews, the Style guide (we hope) tells you things you actually care to know— including making fun of poorly– dressed peers and Amy Gutmann. It’s all the Street snark you know and love, dressed up and headed downtown.
Most of my spring break was spent in a bubble bath with three of my best friends. Upon arriving in Montreal, where the drinking age is 19 and the dollar is strong, we were probably most excited to discover that our hotel room included a large Jacuzzi tub. We ended every single one of our nights in the tub—our bellies full of poutine—and I can safely say that the night we discovered bubble bath was the highlight of the trip.
In part two of my tween–obsession saga (for those of you following along, yes, I’m still listening to One Direction), I have a crush on a group of teenage–boy Vine stars. Rereading that sentence made me gag a little. Who am I?
Yesterday morning I fell down five icy stairs on my back porch. It was incredibly painful. I sat there, alone in the cold, clawing for my phone, for two freezing–cold minutes. “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” Where is LifeAlert when you need it?
As the Editor–in–Chief of an arts and culture magazine, I feel it is both my civic and editorial duty to admit that I have fallen under the spell of One Direction. I am a Directioner and I am not afraid to say it. Go ahead, judge me.
Yesterday I went downtown to treat myself to a haircut and some much needed off–campus alone time. Seated comfortably in the safety of the rear¬–most station, I was ready to let my mind wander from the consuming topics of the Penn bubble. The small talk from my stylist was more than welcome, it was necessary for my peace of mind.