Where God Lives: Inside the Machine
There are two religions in Italy: the Catholic Church and Ferrari.
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There are two religions in Italy: the Catholic Church and Ferrari.
“Mommy pays,” insists Natalia Castillo (C '25), picking up the bill for the two of us at Abyssinia—before sheepishly asking me to calculate the tip. For the past year, Natalia has dutifully played the role of Street’s mother. She has stayed up till 4 a.m. to finalize the Dining Guide, stood out in the cold forcing issues of Street into the hands of reluctant readers, and even faced off against a booing crowd at Smokes for a Street launch event. But, more than anything, Natalia has been a mother in the way that she has turned Street into a home for so many.
It’s the middle of a busy week on campus. The rhythm of Penn student life has kicked into full swing, and it feels as if everyone is stuck in a constant rotation between dorm, class, and library. Everyone is rushing—to finish the coveted club application, to score an A on the next exam, or to nail their upcoming internship interview. Amid it all, on a Wednesday night, Henry Montano (C ‘26) gathers the Penn Outdoors Club to play Pictionary.
You survive the crash. You tend to the injured and mourn the dead. You descend, ravenous, on the burned body of your fallen teammate because you know that’s what you have to do to make it through to another day.
If you were able to snag tickets to your favorite artist’s tour, chances are you flooded your feed with 30–second clips featuring your painfully off–key scream–singing. If you didn’t, you probably clench your fists in anger at the mere mention of the show you missed. Touring has captured the attention of music enthusiasts around the globe (literally) for decades, playing an integral role in album lifespan and artist visibility. However, given the ticking climate clock, environmental activists have criticized touring musicians for their carbon emissions and energy usage, opening a discussion on the potential of sustainable tours.
One day before spring break, during which I would be headed to New York and Mexico City—two internationally renowned museum cities—I had to make one last pit stop in my home base. Philadelphia is filled with heavy hitters itself, and I was excited to check out a new one: The Academy of Natural Sciences of Drexel University. I wouldn’t just see the typical dinosaur bones and savanna tableaus, but also one of my true loves, fashion, in the museum’s Ecology of Fashion exhibit. Maybe my expectations were too high after hearing “fashion,” but I have never been more offended by a museum before in my life.
For Mackenzie Sleeman (C ‘25), transferring to Penn wasn’t just about changing schools—it was about changing his outlook. Busy from a day of classes and meetings, he arrives at the Van Pelt-Dietrich Library’s booth with an easy smile, offering greetings as if you were already a familiar face. Every few minutes, he pauses to wave or exchange a few words with someone passing by—chances are, he already knows them. That's just the kind of energy Mackenzie carries. He’s the type of person who makes a big place like Penn feel a little smaller.
I dress like a cartoon character. Bright colors, oversized sweaters, and the tendency to wear the same thing over and over again. With my bright yellow puffer, it’s easy to spot me in the midst of the 10:15 a.m. rush.
The Fashion District: a natural habitat for Philadelphia’s shopaholics and trendsetters. Stretching across 9th and Market Streets, this retail haven is a haven for editorial dreams. Upon entering, the irresistible prospect of a spree surrounds a collage of radiant model photos. Manifold vendors entertain the latest trends of diverse styles—retro, grunge, bohemian. For college students, one (intensive) session at these designer outlets can supply all the wardrobe essentials: formal gowns/suits, athleisure for coffee runs, loungewear while conquering that nasty hangover.
Philly isn’t a city known for its avant–garde fashion scene, but for one night, it didn’t matter. Autumn Lin, a designer whose work has graced the pages of Vogue and the runways of New York, brought something this city rarely gets to witness: fashion as myth, fashion as movement, fashion as a dream in motion. The show wasn’t about trends or commerce—it was about transformation.
Maybe it’s Hinge. Maybe it’s Tinder. Maybe it’s your one–night–stand–turned–ex–situationship whose eye contact you avoid like the plague on your way to class. No matter where you place the blame, the fact remains that the 21st century is flipping the script on romance movies. Gone are the times when wholesome films like 10 Things I Hate About You and My Best Friend’s Wedding ruled the screen—modern audiences seem to have a taste for something a little bit darker these days. A taste, even, for blood.
An email enters your inbox. The subject line reads “POV: UR AT THE WHITE LOTUS.” It’s from the clothing brand Cider—you know, the one all over TikTok that defines itself as an “Earth–Conscious Brand” while contributing to the erosive trend cycles of fast fashion. Scrolling through the email allows recipients to pick out boho–chic bikinis or cream, knit midi dresses listed under labels like “pretend like nothing’s going wrong in these tropic–ready pieces” or “just another retired millionaire, nothing to see here.” If none of these specifically curated looks tickle one’s fancy, there’s a whole page dedicated to playing dress–up for the “Lotus Escape.” For a little under $30 and the small price of potentially unethical labor, you too can look like the glamorously troubled vacationers of the White Lotus Hotel.
The Critics Choice Awards are where Hollywood loves to remind the general public that good taste is often subjective and extinct. Sheer fashion is back—and it’s not just tired nudes anymore! Designers are leaning into playful textures and avant–garde layering, giving us sheer moments that feel fresh rather than desperate. Menswear is finally clawing its way out of the navy and black abyss. Brioni and Dolce are leading the charge with tailoring so sharp it could slice through an ego, and I swear I caught a whisper of Tom Ford–era Gucci energy in the mix.
While most sports fans fixate on the action on the field, I’ve always been one to keep an eye on the sideline, where fashion meets sport in perfectly curated, effortlessly chic outfits. Whether it’s Victoria Beckham redefining posh elegance in the stands or Alexandra Saint Mleux making waves with her effortlessly cool looks, these women are an undeniable part of the spectacle.
On Feb. 20, I walked into Union Transfer with a ticket, a dream, and no idea what I was getting myself into. I was there to see Alcest, the first French band I’ve listened to and one of the few non–English groups I've ever explored. Though I went into the night blind, the experience was nothing less than breathtaking—Alcest performed every track beautifully, bringing their stories to life on stage. As the show continued, a question of great importance arose in my mind: Why don’t other people go into shows blind?
Whether you’ve wanted to or not, you’ve heard AI–generated music. It’s everywhere these days, especially in rap music, with artists like Kanye and Metro Boomin openly embracing the technology. On TikTok especially, AI vocal covers seem to have found a home, time and time again. But there are also crystal–clear ethical criticisms to be made: It’s a loss of “humanity,” it lacks proper credit, and it’s a lazy cash grab. And while these may seem obvious, there are still cases of AI usage that manage to circumvent them all. Clearly, there’s a wide and layered landscape here, and it’s worth understanding.
A few months ago, my dad and I watched an old recording of The Beatles playing “Revolution” live. The performance was dynamic, impassioned, and electric; they went ballistic.
In the millisecond following the announcement of Sabrina Carpenter's deluxe album, pure excitement overcame any sort of logical thinking, with fans asking, "What exactly is a deluxe album, exactly, and why was I forced to wait two months for it?" With nearly every top album entailing a deluxe companion, reactions are well rehearsed.
Washington is known for power suits, not power silhouettes. It’s a city where the most daring fashion choice is not wearing Allbirds to brunch. It is a town of navy blazers, sensible flats, and men who dress like their mothers still buy their Barbour jackets.
I fucking called it once again, I have to say.