Call me Ishmael. Never mind. This is my book. Call me Isabel. And call this article my first novel. In my Intro to Comparative Literature class (a requirement I'd neglected until this penultimate semester) three enthusiastic students -- all freshmen -- ardently flailed spread palms in the air in response to the professor's inquiry as to who among us had written a book.
This summer I had the good fortune of landing an internship that I actually enjoyed. Working in public relations and licensing for Vera Wang not only exposed me to several facets of fashion design and marketing, but the perks have also followed up -- most recently, allowing me to attend the show in New York this past week.
What do you do when the sweatshop goes out to lunch? Osh! Kosh! By! Gosh! Do it yourself. Even if you can't magnadoodle your class notes in perfect calligraphy, you still should shake it up, and do a little something creative once in a while.
People want to read about people, people. So here you have it. Ego wants to celebrate Penn's (and by extension, Philadelphia's) scrappy individuals -- the styles, characters, cultures, subcultures, quirks and anomalies that make some people a little cooler, a little more attractive and just generally more interesting.
God, if you are a feminist please do not strike me down with your giant field hockey stick. Because, I tend to believe that for girls, hooking up is a lot more about ego, and for boys about unhooking bras.
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.