Band of Brothers
Beer. Sex. And maybe Pot. Fraternities are very masculine organizations."
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Beer. Sex. And maybe Pot. Fraternities are very masculine organizations."
In 1981, when everyone else was wearing technicolored spandex and plastic baubles, Rei Kawakubo, the founder of uber-rad clothing line, Comme des Gar?on, was clothing her models in slashed up sculptures that were black from head-to-toe. Together with Junya Watanabe, the label has come to the limelight for presaging the moody colors of the grunged-out '90s and the deconstruction of contemporary design way back when everyone was too ecstatic doing step aerobics and listening to Cyndi Lauper to understand that a grayscale palatte and structural silhouettes make us look stylishly depressed and incidentally, extremely cool.
After sloshing down a few too many cosmos, my friend Grant likes to make serious life-altering decisions on the Internet. In the middle of the night, he books last minute deals to cities in continental Europe, forgetting that he is supposed to graduate in May. He wakes up at noon to discover rare acoustic versions of Sarah McLachlan B-sides downloaded onto iTunes.
In 1996, when I was in seventh grade, my mother told me I dressed like a homeless person. Although the '90s saw an economic growth in the US that had never before been seen or even imagined in any country in history (never mind the 80 other countries we smashed to smithereens on our way to the top), the fashion-minded youth chose to adorn themselves with baggy flannels, tent-like Stussy T-shirts, and ragged, snaggle-cuffed JNCOs of Herculean proportions, all teeming with lice and God knows what other breed of infectious bacteria due to a generational phobia of soap and water. I too fell prey to the widespread belief that the grunge look was incomplete without Birkenstocks and white socks. Shameful, I now know.
The students at the University of Pennsylvania attend classes in order to quench their thirst for learning, to develop analytical and investigative mental abilities and to further their quest for divine truth and knowledge. Or so we hear. As for ourselves, we go to class with the hope that we may one day accumulate enough information to have a chance at completing the Sunday New York Times crossword. Bill Clinton can do it in 15 minutes. Whatever your reason, don't settle for a mediocre class. Here are our top picks for classes that will get you downing and acrossing in no time.
If you consider Louis Vuitton Murakami handbags, driver's licenses and Elvis, you will find that everything really meaningful in life is necessarily followed by an imitation. Can't get that Baywatch chick's, jaw-dropping, er, smile out of your mind? While the faux version can be as alluring as the real deal, minor-league cool kids have no business playing ball with true hipsters. Don't let that boy with the Urban Outfitters Ramones T-shirt tell you he's been lovingly preserving it since the Rocket to Russia tour. We all know that true hipsterdom is all about faking it anyway -- but if you're gonna be an imposter, you might as well be good at it. Here's how to Oscar your way to indie-heaven.
If you can get your average Penn chick off her cell phone for long enough to stop and ask her what she had for lunch, chances are she'll whip off her J.Lo inspired aviators and purr one of three things: a Cosi Signature Salad, a Gia Pronto salad or a salad from our own illustrious Houston Hall. Let's be clear: we may be in West Philly, but in these strange, carb-loathing times, you'd do well to stock some spring greens in addition your cheesesteak.
And yet another trainwreck for Kevin Spacey. In the tradition of perfectly respectable actors taking a step or 10 in the wrong direction, our man Kev follows K-Pax, Pay it Forward and The Life of David Gale with further punishment for unsuspecting moviegoers in the heartbreakingly vapid The United States of Leland. Spacey knows it's a bust and can't even show his face; on the movie poster, the man labeled as Kevin Spacey is not in fact Kevin Spacey, but the lesser known actor Martin Donovan -- who spends the entire movie making a big stink just because someone up and knifed his autistic son. Yeah, cry me a river.
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