September 19, 2005 - Dolphin Student Group Web Accounts

The Undergraduate Magazine
Vol. VI, No. 2 | September 19, 2005
Sleepless, With Substances
Want to crack up?Liz reviews all the
popular anti-sleep drugs.
Page 3
To Love, or Not to Love?
Shira dreams that someday her prince
will come too.
Page 4
Sudoku Much?
The puzzle that has taken Penn by storm.
It’s more addictive than coke.
Page 7
STOP FOR THE RED AND THE BLUE
Turn That Wardrobe Over
Bing dresses you up with his love all
over.
Page 8
ADRIAN PONSEN
FACEBOOK
Part Deux
L A U R E N S A U L | W E E K LY S A U L U T A T I O N S
I JUST RAN INTO A GUY who I had a class with freshman year,
and we started having the “just got back to Penn how are you!”
conversation. After we went through the “how was your summer,
what courses are you taking, I’m great” routine, he remembered
that I was the one who introduced him to the facebook. Much to
my surprise, he was grateful for the heads-up. As he put it, “The
stalking is amazing!” So, I laughed my head off, and decided to
write the sequel to my first facebook article.
About a year and a half ago, while I was still the naive freshman—just like the conspicuous 09ers—I wrote a little commentary about facebook in First Call, just when the site took off at Penn. The article did have some
wisdom, and I point this out not only because I’m biased, but also because it predicted many of
the stumbling blocks people would face when posting personal information online. The facebook guys ended up making some of the changes mentioned in the little article—I’m sure these
ideas were far from unique and were probably spam from hundreds of nosy college students
with the same opinions.
Many things about facebook have changed since March 2004. However, facebook’s purpose is still the same. Facebook is still life’s great footnote. Any anecdote has a reference, and
you can type the person into that little search box to get it. The template was switched not too
long ago and, more importantly, every single university is on it.
This second fact has caused a significant wave of elitist hysteria. As one friend of mine
recently said, “If your college is advertised on the radio, like DeVry, you shouldn’t be facebooking.” In a similar light, facebook groups like “Remember when the facebook was elite?!” have
spawned. As far as I’m concerned, geeks should be grateful that facebook has expanded past
the Ivy Tower schools. After all, now they can feel smug when they find the kid who beat them
up at recess in elementary school. Not many bullies end up in West Philly, except for the ones
who grew up around here.
Come to think of it, I could devote a whole article to facebook groups if I wanted, but facebook is simply too multi-faceted for such a narrow focus. Before I move on, however, I must
mention one other eye-sore: the “Marginally a Virgin” group. I can’t see how this would be a
fun group to join. It doesn’t quite have the appeal of, for example, the “I just tried to ford the
river and my fuckin’ oxen died” concept. I could see why Jesus lovers would want to start an
“I’m white and untouchable” group, or there could be an “I’m tired of sex like the Weezer song”
group for needy frat boys, but why would someone want to advertise the fact that at some point
in time they got some, but not anymore?
Continued on PAGE 5
THE COLLEGE
MANIFESTO
BY ADAM GOODMAN
WHEN I WAS GOING about the trying process of deciding whether to apply to the College of
Arts and Sciences or Wharton, I scoured brochures and other campus literature, hoping that I
would make some sort of monumental discovery to point me in the right direction. Everything
I read sang the praises of the college. Consider an example from the 2005-2007 edition of The
Practical Penn: “The College of Arts and Sciences remains the heart and the soul of the modern
university.” I learned all about the incredible research opportunities and the fantastical merits
of a liberal arts education. I was told time and again that the College is the “core” of Penn. If this
is indeed the case, we’re a highly under-funded and unappreciated core. I have begun to believe
our status is purely symbolic.
About a week ago somebody was complaining to me about the unfair perks Wharton students receive. “Have you seen their buildings?!” he demanded of me. “Who cares,” I naively
responded, “they’re just buildings.” I dismissed his bitching as an example of the friendly Wharton-College rivalry I had heard so much about. In truth, I had not yet seen their buildings,
but certain unfortunate circumstances in the past week brought me to their hallowed halls. I
walked out of them in a daze, hypnotized by their architectural grandeur and beautiful sculptures, disillusioned with my own lowly status as a student of the College.
The classrooms are even worse. For those freshmen who haven’t yet wandered inside a
Wharton building, imagine that you are a very important world leader attending a Middle East
peace summit. This is roughly the experience of the Wharton undergraduate. The rooms are
spacious with amphitheater style rows. The floor is lavishly carpeted, unaffected by the luxurious swivel chairs which roll smoothly along its surface. The lighting is magnificent. The classrooms truly seem to be modeled after the UN’s large assembly rooms. This is true of both the
new and older Wharton buildings. I would not be surprised if the administration is currently
in the process of commissioning famous artists to paint murals on the walls and ceilings of the
classrooms. Compare Wharton’s quarters to the cramped, acoustically-challenged, and downright ugly College classrooms that I’ve traversed and it’s enough to bring tears to my eyes.
Wharton students even get their own nickname: Whartonites (a term President Gutmann
employed at Freshmen Convocation). What are the College students? Collegiates? Collegians?
Sure, if we want to share our nickname with the other millions of college students across the
English-speaking world. That includes Princeton. And the University of Montana. What about
you, Engineering School? Engineers isn’t a slick nickname…it’s a profession. Nursing school?
Nothing.
What can we do as College students to gain back our long-lost pride? Here’s an idea: Stop
transferring to Wharton! I’m tired of the disloyal bastards who successfully circumvent the
Penn admissions committee by applying to the college, padding their GPA freshman year, takContinued on PAGE 6
S EPTEMBER 19, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . VI N O . 2
P AGE 2
FirstCall
Vol. VI, No. 2 | September 19, 2005
The Undergraduate Magazine
Editor-in-Chief
Robert Forman
Editors
Andrew Pederson
Lauren Saul
Assistant Editors
Shira Bender
Anna Stetsovskaya
Columnists
Shira Bender
Christine Chen
Robert Forman
Adam Goldstein
Mickey Jou
Andrew Pederson
Lauren Saul
Thuy Tran
Writers
Adam Goodman
Bing Li
Pauline Park
Artists
Shira Bender
Stephanie Craven
Jay Kim
Shelby Prindaville
Photographers
Shira Bender
Adrian Ponsen
Shelby Prindaville
Layout Editor
Krystal Godines
Layout Assistants
Michael Sall
Heather Schwedel
Amanda Tay
Kathy Wang
Marketing Manager
Leah Karasik
Advertising Manager
Ruchi Desai
Webmaster
Rachit Shukla
Contact Information
330 Jon M. Huntsman Hall
3730 Walnut Street
Philadelphia, PA 19104
(215) 898-3200
[email protected]
Web Site
clubs.wharton.upenn.edu/fcpaper
Blog
http://fcpaper.blogspot.com
Submissions
Email letters to the editors and
guest submissions to
[email protected].
Students, please include your
school and class.
Editorial Policy
First Call is the undergraduate magazine
of The University of Pennsylvania. First
Call is published every Monday. Our
mission is to provide members of the
community an open forum for expressing ideas and opinions. We are committed to a policy of non-censorship. Articles
are provided by regular columnists and
writers. They are chosen for publication
based on the quality of writing and of
argumentation. Outside of the weekly
editorial, no article represents the opinion of First Call, its editorial board,
or individual members other than the
author. No content in First Call unless
otherwise stated represents the official
position of the administration, faculty,
or student body at large of the Wharton
School or the University of Pennsylvania.
Editorial
THE PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS
Thursday night at 9 p.m., President Bush interrupted the major networks’ programming
to deliver a speech from New Orleans. I’ll concede a few things to help shape the context—I
didn’t vote for him in November and I’ve never been even moderately impressed with Dubya’s
speaking “skills”. I haven’t been paying attention to the Hurricane Katrina news footage. I
know, I know, I’m a TV addict. But I remember 9/11. I remember sitting in front of a TV
watching the destruction over and over again and thinking, “this isn’t helping”. This address,
however, was absolutely the most crucial speech of Dubya’s two terms in office (at this juncture,
anyway). You pretty much know what the content is going to be, even if you don’t know the
details of the plan. After all it comes mere days off the “we screwed up” announcement. One
minute in, I knew I wasn’t going to like it. So I began a play-by-play.
9:03: Bush speaks. Personifies storm as cruel. Rob wonders if Katrina is now in the Axis of
Evil.
9:05: Name drop and personal story number six. I feel like this is the fourth debate, but
Bush has no opponent to show him up.
9:07: Rob looks away from his Sudoku. Notices Bush reading from a teleprompter. The
teleprompter is going a bit too fast. It makes me happy to know that UTV13 has instilled this
knowledge in me forevermore.
9:09: $60 billion dollars in federal relief aid. That’s, what, 1.5 days of the War in Iraq?
*clap* By the way, how will this $60 billion be financed? I’m pretty sure there are no tax hikes
in store. Nevermind. We’re apparently moving on.
9:12: Finished my Sudoku. Next (note: First Call is having easy/medium/hard puzzles
in each issue now and I was play-testing them). Is it just me or is Bush’s brow permanently
furrowed?
9:13: Ah, here comes the race card. This seems... inappropriate. Shouldn’t there be
something about why the minorities were left behind and an action plan to make sure nothing
as despicable like that happens again, instead of this “let’s make sure minorities are running
businesses” bullshit that, while a nice hope, is impossible as a federal mandate?
9:17: How do churches bring humanity to reconstruction efforts? What the fuck is an Army
of Compassion? Is it going to win the War in Iraq?
9:20: *points* War on Terror transition.
9:22: I know I’m being cynical here. But this really is quite a bunch of nationalist hoo-hah.
The army is the group best suited to execute future efforts? Can we just install martial law,
already?
9:23: God, mention 26.
9:24: *dead from... just dead* Thank God—number 27—that speech is over.
9:26: Finished Sudoku number two. Bring on number three (finished that 16 minutes later,
but we were already into news commentary).
Don’t get me wrong. I am glad Dubya is pledging that the federal government will do
something about Katrina relief. But I am disappointed in the size of it and some of the news
commentary comparing this to the New Deal. Dubya is not FDR and the current economic
situation is not the Great Depression. Let’s not forget: the federal government dropped the
ball big time. A parent of friend of mine will no longer vote Republican because of how this
disaster was handled. This speech may have been trying to heal wounds, but all I felt was a rub
of salt. Until words become actions, I’m not placated.
- Rob Forman, Editor-in-Chief
P AGE 3
S EPTEMBER 19, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . VI N O . 2
TRUCKERS, COKE AND SLED DOGS
The Secrets of Staying Awake for Weeks
BY LIZ THOMAS
SOMETIMES WITH ALL the clubs, classes,
workouts, hang-outs, parties, after parties,
after-after parties, interviewing, writing,
cramming, and schmoozing there is to do
on campus, there just aren’t enough hours in
the day. You get tired. And let’s face it: tired
equals ugly - ‘Britney Spears on a hot day’
ugly. And nobody wants that. Luckily there
are plenty of “little helpers” that strung out
chemists all over the world have spent their
lives designing so that you can stay awake far
longer than nature ever intended.
High school student Randy Gardner
set a record by staying awake for 264 hours
straight, under the watchful supervision of
Stanford researchers. That’s over eleven days.
Even though doctors predict you’ll be seeing
dead aunts and cartoon characters after only
72 hours without sleeping, Randy was fine. If
someone with the name of Randy can do it,
you can do it too. All you need is the aid of the
following web-garnered remedies:
1. Red Bull: The stimulant 101 of wakefulness. Apparently some Austrian derived
Red Bull from a Thailand-native drink.
From there it gained worldwide attention
until it was shut down by Norway, Sweden,
and France. They blamed it on people dying
from something called ‘Sudden Adult Death
Syndrome.’ My friend actually caught that
disease from an oncoming green line trolley.
Can we really trust a French ban anyway? After all, the French accused Lance Armstrong
of using deodorant, which is apparently an
‘illegal substance’ during the Tour de France.
Tasty!
2. Provigil: Let’s get legal! Don’t worry
kids. You don’t need to take the Lindsey
Lohan route to peace, love, and wired-out-ofyour-skull happiness. The makers of Provigil,
which plays games with your cortex, are terribly concerned about
the dangers of (get
ready) ‘shift work
sleep disorder.’ SWSD
(yes, it’s real) occurs
when you are unable
to concentrate at
your job, yawn a lot,
and…what was I talking about again?
3. Coffee: The
age old solution.
But beware of some
very
dour-looking
old woman named
Florence
Cardinal
detailing alternatives
to drinking coffee. Among Florence’s tips
are exercising, drinking decaf, and sucking
on mints. I guess you have to amuse yourself
when you’re old.
4. Speed: (aka whiz, billy, sulphate, etc.)
Speed will keep you chugging along for hours
and hours without an appetite. The downers:
you’ll probably end up grinding laundry detergent in your teeth unless you have a good
nose for the high-end stuff. And also, you’ll
babble like an idiot for hours about yourself
because you’ll be wired out of your mind. And
you’ll think everyone cares. And then you’ll
make a bad reality TV show about you and
your white-trash spouse, and it will be shown
on UPN. And it will be called Chaos.
5. Coke: Remember the scene in American Psycho where the I-bankers are all in this
club, hanging out with coked-up models, and
one of the models asks
Patrick Bateman where
their friend went, and
Bateman tells her that
he is downstairs signing a peace treaty with
Gorbachev? And she
believes him? And then
they dance to New Order. Then I think later
on he kills her.
6. Meth: Right now,
there’s a huge meth ‘epidemic’ in this country.
More and more people
are setting up home
labs in their kitchens
and blowing themselves to pieces, or at least
searing half their faces off. Another case of
Sudden Adult Death Syndrome striking. But
if you’re one of the lucky few who survive that
little carnival, you’ll get to embrace what bikers and truckers have used for years to stay
awake all night on the road. You might clean
a lot too. Then you’d be a really peppy, germfree trucker. Or biker. With burn marks on
your face. Awesome!
7. Duromine: Some garment workers got
busted in 2003 for using this little party-in-abox to pull 72 hour shifts in the Philippines.
It’s actually an appetite suppressant for obese
Sometimes with all
there is to do on campus, there just aren’t
enough hours in the
day. You get tired. And
let’s face it: tired equals
ugly - ‘Britney Spears
on a hot day’ ugly. And
nobody wants that.
people. Hey, two birds with one stone, right?
I guess you can cancel your plans to read that
new Dr. Phil weight-loss book/morph into
Britney Spears.
8. Adderall/Ritalin: People 12 and under,
get ready to giggle. One person reported their
hands turning blue and twitching after snorting ADHD meds. Another said she couldn’t
shut up for a few hours. And some lucky
people actually experience a problem called
‘formication.’ Haha! That means the feeling of
bugs crawling under your skin. But it sounds
like…! Don’t judge me.
9. Run alongside your sled team: That’s
what participants in Alaska’s annual Iditarod
– a longtime sled dog race from Anchorage to
Nome – recommend if you get sleepy on the
trail. If all else fails, you can always try in vain
to light a fire for several hours before killing
your head dog (Buck) and curling up inside
his carcass for a quickie nap, then freezing to
death. How anticlimactic is that?
10. Most creative online suggestion for
staying awake: Someone actually said this: ‘If
you have a beard, you can try pulling hairs out
of it and looking at them.’ To be honest, I don’t
even know how to make fun of that. And I’m
wired senseless right now on Rock Star. That’s
just sad. Time to go watch my Chaos DVDs.
Liz Thomas is a senior in the College. You can
write to her at ecthomas@sas.
Shelby Prindaville is a sophomore in the College. You can write to her at shelbyp@sas.
Ji Hea is a senior in the College. You can write to her at jihea@sas.
P AGE 4
S EPTEMBER 19, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . VI N O . 2
LOVE, ACTUALLY
SHIRA BENDER | IN ALL SHIRIOUSNESS
I GOT QUITE
a few responses
to last week’s
article. I guess
people
like
to see others
complain—is
that why blogs
are so successful? A few
people
even
responded to
the part about
my 50-page whining and bitching session
on my love life, a response I find even more
interesting. Does it really intrigue people to
know that love can be entirely confusing? Is
this really new information? Haven’t we all
seen enough The OC episodes, read enough
Shakespeare, listened to enough Emo to
know how much it can hurt? Or
do people really mean it when
they tell me to write more on that
subject?
To tell you the truth, I don’t
even know if I can. I don’t even
know if I know enough about my
own opinions on love or my own
sanity regarding it to be able to
string together sentences that
will make sense to the general
public. I guess since I’m a couple
of paragraphs into this pseudointroduction, I may as well just
keep going and see what happens. See, many of you probably
think I know what I’m going to
say before I say it. Truth is I have no clue
what this will be like by the end of my
1,000 words or so (editor’s note: 2,000). I
hope it ends up somewhat truthful, if not
coherent.
A disclaimer: This will have to be vague,
and I apologize for that. Much as I love displaying my life in this awesomely fantastic
publication for the entire world to read and
ridicule, I have a thing about discussing the
serious stuff in my life in too much detail,
without at least some alcohol in me (no,
dad, I don’t drink—ever). So, yes, I will
say how I feel, but perhaps without some
specific details on why, and for that, I am
truly sorry. I’ve gotta know you all better
first—maybe even be facebook friends with
you. And to all those who know me well
enough already to see through my façade
of witticisms and vagaries—I apologize in
advance, and I give you fair warning: don’t
read into this. I’m just rambling, after all.
Okay. Enough nervous avoidance of the
question at hand. Love. Love, love, love.
I’m cringing right now. You should know
I used to be the girl who figured her life
would end up just like a Disney fairytale.
I’m talking complete with falling asleep
for a while until a prince kisses me to wake
me up, with seven dwarves milling about
and sweeping the floor beside my bed, a
foolhardy blue genie whose alter-ego is
a dirty-mouthed comedian whose best
movie was Hook, a whole bunch of talking
animals—mice with coats and hats, tigers
only I can understand, parrots that bother
everyone but who tell a damn good version
of the Aristocrats—and general romance
and background music written by Elton
John and lots of sweet tongue-less kisses
and flowers and random white bells ringing at weddings. Yes, that was going to be
the life of young Shira Bender, growing
up in a cottage a few miles away from the
castle, meeting the man of her dreams
while drawing water from the well to feed
the cows. Or…whatever the right version of
“drink” would be in that sentence, since you
clearly can’t feed water to cows.
But alas, it was not meant to be. Any
Debbie Friedman fans here? “As I grew up
I came to learn that life was not a game,
that heroes were just people who we called
another name.” Pretty fitting. I’m not trying
to say I had this really hard life and all. I’ve
had my share of loves lost, but, not to brag,
I’ve actually done pretty well in terms of
finding guys who I can spend long amounts
of time with, and click with, and see eye to
eye with. Unfortunately, as soon as I lose
something I thought I had, I pretty much
flip out over it. Like, think of the last movie
you saw where the girl was eating tubs of
ice cream and mascara running and all of
that right after a breakup—that’s me. But
substitute macaroni and cheese for ice
cream and unwashed hair for mascara. I
hate mascara. I wear it when my friends
are wearing it, but let me just say right here
and now, I hate mascara.
I’ve been told the breakup thing is because I have a problem with dependency.
I don’t know how to be all alone, how to
find my way through the social spider
webs without a guy by my side with his
arm around me, telling me he only has eyes
for me. That’s probably true. Is that such a
bad thing? Doesn’t everybody just want to
be loved? Or am I trying to make myself
feel better about it when really I know that
most girls are able to be single and happy,
and don’t need to pine after someone they
have perfect memories with or perfect
hopes for?
Basically, so far all I’ve told you is I
used to believe in fairytale love, and I’m
bad with breakups and being alone. What
else do you need to know? I’m terrified of
marriage. That’s not to say that I haven’t
thought about it, imagined it, or hoped
for it. But has anybody else noticed how
quickly life went from marriage, kids, job,
all that “adult” stuff being, like, 100 years
away to only a few? Somehow every decision I make now, every person I’m with,
every class I take, and every name I like
becomes my potential future husband, career, baby name. I don’t mean that literally.
But it’s pretty freaky to think how little time
we have left as stupid young kids. I like not
having to think about consequences or the
future or any of that. But when it comes to
love—sorry to start the sentence like that, I
sound like Carrie Bradshaw now—it seems
that my heart is moving much faster than
my mind. I pretty much have to shoot it
with that stuff they shoot animals with to
knock them out, just to give rationality a
chance to catch up with it.
I just realized I didn’t exactly explain
my recent departure from Disney romance.
Basically, I got burned. Don’t start sympathizing—I pretty much did the burning all
by myself. It wasn’t so much a burning as a
realization. It wasn’t so much a realization
as a whirlwind of emotions and fears and
hopes that entirely took me by surprise. I
wasn’t happy, I changed my situation in a
way that hurt people I love, I ended up confused and unhappy which is to be expected
from major change, I got happy again for a
time, I ended up even more confused and
afraid, and here I am, happy most of the
time but still confused, wondering where
I’m going with all this, wanting something
but not letting myself have it, fearing something but not letting myself deal with it,
waiting for something to happen without
my having to make any actual decisions.
All of that, on top of watching some people
extremely close to me get more burned
than they ever deserved to be, added up to
nuclear warfare against Sleeping Beauty.
Does this make any sense to anyone
other than me and the select few who
reading this and thinking to themselves,
Shira...stop using First Call to vent your
frustrations, just do the right thing. The
right thing. What is that? Ok, yeah, the
right thing was to return the bookmark
I stole from Ivana when I was eight. But
what about in love? Is the right thing to
go after the rest of your life right now, for
fear of losing it? To hold off on growing up?
To explore? To hold on for dear life to the
things you’re sure of?
Can I just say right now to all of you
who fit in that italics category back there—I
don’t know what the right thing is. I never
have. When I was in kindergarten, I chased
the guy I had a crush on into the cubbies
and kissed him on the cheek. That wasn’t
the right thing. I got ridiculed until senior
year of high school, which sounds weird
and pathetic but that’s my grade for ya.
That may sound relatively unimportant,
but really, that’s my life. A great big chase
around the cubbies. It hurts to finally land
that kiss on that cheek, and then have to
fear that it’ll only result in ridicule for years
to come. Except kisses on the cheek have
been escalated to much more meaningful
and intense things, and ridiculing has turned into fear of ruining
the entire rest of my life, simply
because I couldn’t stay away from
the cubbies. I feel like the girl who
gives love a bad name. I feel like
Bon Jovi hates me. Actually, I feel
like every single song on the radio
is about me, and my situation. Is
that self-centered, or insecure?
Are those really opposites?
I do still believe in fairytales.
I just can’t see myself being the
star in one anymore. I’ll be one
of the magical animals on the
side who gets to frolic around the
forest. Certainly not the princess
herself. Princesses never have to worry
about whether or not to just be with the
Prince. Princes and Princesses go together.
No questions, no waiting, no trying out
dukes and earls and court jesters. Just the
Prince. Why isn’t it that simple for the rest
of us? For me? Why can’t I be one of those
people I’ve always wanted to be, who meets
the man of her dreams, and has no fear or
doubt or angst whatsoever about what the
rest of her life will be like, and who can just
accept that now is the time, and there’s no
point to holding off on it? Okay, so, yes, I’m
way too confused and unsure of myself to
trust myself in an actual relationship right
now. But then what about my heart that
won’t stop racing ahead toward that finish
line, that won’t give me a chance to catch
up, or even take a breather and wave at the
crowds? It won’t stop running, chasing,
holding on to things I know I’m terrified of
losing. And of course that’s entirely unfair
and wrong of me to do, my mind is screaming to my heart right now, but they’re so far
apart from each other that the warnings are
all in vain, I’m just not paying any attention
to myself.
I’ll sum this up now, since, like I said
last week, I could go on for quite some time
and I guess I already have. Being in love is
not always a fairytale. Feeling like I can see
the rest of my life ahead of me in complete
detail should make me feel comforted, but
all it does is scare me right now. I’ve been
through some stuff, had some things fall
apart, lost some people, watched some others lose some people, and lost some hope. I
have so much love in me; I’m just not sure
what I’m supposed to be doing with it now.
So, to elaborate on the “not following my
heart” thing I mentioned last time—I guess
I’m just a coward. Hopefully that’ll change,
and hopefully soon. It’s getting to the point
where I’m just kidding myself anyway. After all, I can’t go too much longer without
being Sleeping Beauty again. The question
is, how long can a princess survive all by
herself?
Shira Bender is a sophomore in the College. You
can write to her at shiratb@sas. Photo by Tiffany
Liu.
S EPTEMBER 19, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . VI N O . 2
THE ANDROGYNY
OF PINK
FACEBOOK
Continued from PAGE 1
Let’s talk about the new and separate
facebook universe for high schools. This is
another thing that puzzles me. I can see how
it might be helpful in a semi-similar way for
people at huge high schools, but it must become pointless and just plain awkward in the
small cushy private school atmosphere which
I unhappily remember. It’s really hard for me
to imagine going through high school again
with a convenient tool like facebook. The
drama in American high schools is about to
increase exponentially. Before you know it,
your little siblings are going to be trying to
imagine worldly interests and type them into
a little box.
Speaking of worldly interests, the “interests” section, along with the “movies” and
“books” sections, requires some comment.
So many people try to establish the perfectly
SIT ON THIS!
CHRISTINE CHEN | TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT
BY PAULINE PARK
IF IT WERE A NUANCE that went more or
less unnoticed, I would not have such a hissyfit, but quite frankly the whole pink shirts on
boys trend is not a forgiving and forgetting
matter. Pink has remained more or less a
girl color for all the right reasons. Pink is
to convey sheer girliness and femininity, the
freedom and right that every girl should have.
It is equivalent to the right every girl has to
dot lower case i’s with hearts up till the age of
thirteen. We need only look into one specific
demographic to get a sense of how simple defining colors for genders can be. Traditionally, baby girls are swathed from head to toe in
pink clothes, blue bibs are for baby boys, and
yellow is for the sick parents who like to pass
their babies off
as hermaphrodites. This was
the idea behind
my
mother’s
coordination of
my sophomore
year
dorm
with
pinkeverything.
I
went through
a
brooding
punk-period
my freshman
year, where the
moody
black
was my color
of choice. But
that changed
quickly. Everything from my
bed sheets to
my loofa were pink by the time my mom got
through with me. (Unfortunately, dying my
hair pink was another story.) On the flip side,
my mother’s sadistic experiment at feminization worked wonders. I now carry a pink bag,
my pink flip flops are my shoe of choice, and
guess what color iPod I have? Coincidence?
I think not. Because I have developed a fond
relationship with this color and have transformed my wardrobe, one pink garment at
a time, I become territorial when I find that
suddenly pink has became a product of massive and unisexual consumption.
In this post-modern world, we have
become too liberal and forgiving with our
values. We no longer think twice if a guy in
a pink shirt walks by us, and we do not even
flinch a little or feel our stomachs giving way
a bit. We should try to console him and say
that there are numerous other colors that are
flattering to him. “Salmon” is certainly not
one of them, because, social conventions and
gender roles, albeit not necessarily perfect,
exist for a reason. For one to defy this role
because it is simply trendy is disturbing at the
least. Don’t act like you’ve just stepped off a
Ralph Lauren catalog, because you didn’t.
Prior to this trend, if one were to see a boy
wearing pink it would have been equivalent
to committing fashion heresy. In fact, males,
were and are considered slackers when it
comes to fashion. Despite the prevalence of
male designers, girls have always been the
P AGE 5
ones to step onto the platform with their
expertise and gifted prowess in style, fashion,
and beauty. This is where impressionistic notions of vanity and superficiality come from, a
label hardly given to our male counterparts.
Why then this sudden uproar and rage
over men being “inventive” with their wardrobe and experimentation in color coordination? How is it that we have suddenly now
adopted a more pro-friendly image to the
male pink dresser? The androgynous underground scene culture may have had an influence in acceptance of specific styles without
regard to gender. This culture includes but
is not limited to the infamously cute long,
shaggy crop seen on both indie boys and
girls. A pink shirt
into the mix would
hardly lift an eyebrow, if these scene
boys are masquerading in mascara
and the whole kit
and caboodle as
we speak.
This
practiced behavior
only promotes the
notion that there is
a crossing of lines in
gendered behavior,
and thus, making
boys and girls of
this type virtually
indistinguishable.
But where do we
draw the line? It
has never been
wrong for boys and
girls to swap things, including but not limited
to body fluids, but swapping wardrobes and
make-up tips? Consider me a purist, but
that’s just going a little too far.
A secondary explanation to this pink
phenomenon can be attributed to the metrosexual culture that has evolved over the
past few years, spitting out perfectly groomed
males and passing them as objects of fascination, envy, and desire. Males now have no
qualms about being perfectly loyal to and
branded as being clean-cut, consummating
activities previously exclusive to women, such
as pedicures, waxings, and facials, without
the threat of stigma. While I applaud a
well-dressed, sharp looking individual who
has taken the time to properly invent himself
and adopt a professional image, I can’t help
but bemoan the fact, the insertion of a pink
collared shirt puts the classy male back into
cahoots with me — a girl. While I applaud
confidence and the ability to defy norms, I am
patently aware of the gender struggle as well.
My gender struggle that is, one that involves
reclaiming the color back to the right gender.
I am running out of colors that can identify
me, as a girl, and no one has yet to even think
of the plight of fifteen-year-old female who
enters a store to buy a pink shirt, only to have
it snatched away by some preppy-fronting
college boy.
IKEA’S POSH
cousin, Norway
Says, features
award-winning
contemporary
furniture; that
is, if you can
figure out two
things: what it
is exactly that
you are looking
at and if you are
not mistakenly sitting on what is supposed to
be the headrest. A major obstacle, however,
is that this functional art is only available
in select countries that—surprise, surprise—disdainfully throw the United States
back into its tacky plastic covered couches by
consciously excluding us from the perfectly
streamlined seating options Scandinavians
do best. Marked by the use of bold colors,
smooth lines, endless mix-and-match combinations for couches that link together like
puzzle pieces, capable of professional use or
private residential leisure… the possibilities
are endless. That is, of course, if you are willing to dish a few thousand English pounds
at the very minimum, a minimum which
rapidly skyrockets with the going exchange
rate. A good rule of thumb in terms of what
this amounts to in US dollars: double it.
Who ever said insta-chic doesn’t come with
a price tag?
The Oslo-based company’s innovative
ideas are spun collectively from a close-knit
group of three designers—Torbjern Aderssen, Andreas Engesvik, and Espen Voll—all
graduates from the National College of Art
and Design in the 1970s and again in 2000.
With names like those, it must be of authentic Norwegian design. The three friends
are extremely self sufficient, running the
business with an additional support staff of
just two assistants. Norway Says originally
started as just a showcase of a few design
projects in 2000. Since then it has bloomed
into a design firm located in the bohemian
east side of Oslo, raking in honors and design
awards every year, compliments of everyone
from the Norwegian Design Council to Elle
Magazine.
If the firm sounds kind of exclusive, it is
probably because it is. Never fear, the college
student can snag the same look from the
ever beloved Ikea. Ikea has an abundance
of college-friendly furniture (see collapsible
and wheeled) that have a quasi-permanent
look upon first glance. The most expensive
Ikea couch probably costs 1% of the price of a
couch designed by Norway Says. You do the
math. Ikea even has some little DIY numbers that your resident engineer would enjoy
putting together.
It is no secret that modern is the new
classic and Penn has picked up on its students’ Ikea craze. Ready and willing to sink
serious money into the seriously stylish dorm
room cause, all three high rise dorms are furnished with boxy couches and dish-shaped
chairs perfect for spooning the Penn student
who likes to curl up with a good book, or
more likely, a hefty textbook. The high rises
have come a long way since they were erected. I remember going on the campus tour
having secretly decided that the high rises
were the place to be, based on the housing
brochure. On paper it makes a lot of sense.
I mean, who can compete with a kitchen
and non-communal bathroom? I think the
room they showed us on the tour was in prerenovation Harnwell, and it was frightening.
It was dinghy, reeked of the seventies, and
the stove top looked unreliable and downright dangerous. Though I’m sure this was
not the case in all the high rise rooms, first
impressions are hard to nix. Now with the
renovations in Harnwell finally complete, or
rather incomplete, as some rooms are missing light fixtures, bulbs, and Venetian blinds,
the three H’s are finally presentable, and dare
I say worthy of showing off? As a first year
Harnwellian, I give it my stamp of approval.
Christine Chen is a junior in Engineering. You can
write to her at cachen@seas.
m
s
i
l
l
a
c
our dose of
t
s
r
wisdom
fFiRESHMEN weekly
GIRLS: BREAK
IN THOSE SWEAT PANTS.
LOOKING GOOD WON’T LAST
MUCH LONGER.
Pauline Park is a senior in the College.
eclectic mix of interests, books and movies on
their profiles. They really want to seem interesting. And of course, that’s natural. But, it
just doesn’t seem like something that anyone
should have to work on for too long. Put up
a good picture, and people will find out how
interesting you are if they are really good at
stalking.
Interesting fact about facebook: it runs
into way more problems at night. Sometimes
the pages load a bit slower, the site occasionally goes down, or the formatting is off-kilter.
Of course, this makes perfect sense. The site
has to be overworked from people catching
up online with a day’s worth of human interaction. And, every once in awhile, there’s
a bigger facebook mishap at 1 a.m. and the
facebook makers are probably scratching
their heads as college kids everywhere are
impatiently tapping their mouse.
One night last year, the most amazing
glitch of all happened. This story has become legendary though few believe it. In
fact, I have trouble believing it after awhile.
One Wednesday night at about 2 a.m. I was
still awake doing some horrible STAT 102
project that was due the next day. I logged
on facebook as a “quick” diversion. After my
usual routine I noticed that I was able to see
all of my friends’ friends from other schools!
I couldn’t believe it. Computer glitches rarely
favor the end user in this way, so I spent a
whole hour typing in names of people who
I recalled from childhood. I found out everything I wanted to know about every last
friend from camp or elementary school, and I
knew I had reached the pinnacle of stalking. I
knew no future facebook usage could ever live
up to that night, so I lost most of my interest
in stalking afterward. As a matter of fact, it’s
never quite been the same.
The final issue to comment on is the
“Last Updated” feature. I get a real kick out
of this little date. I feel that so many people
are concerned with not updating too often,
especially now that the “recently updated”
list of friends comes up before the entire list.
Some of my friends have even let this concern
slip. In my opinion it’s justified. The people
who constantly update become an annoyance, because their faces constantly come up
on that list. Everything in moderation! The
same applies for friends. One friend of mine
did a massive friend cut. He had 400 friends,
or some similarly absurd number, and he cut
it down to about 60 people. I have quite a
deal of respect for that action. It’s something
that the friend-mongers should think about,
for like two seconds. Some of my friends with
spare time actively look out for the people
who have 40 or so friends. They think the
small number has character. While I used to
seek many friends, I’m starting to lean over
to the sparse-friend side on facebook as well.
They’ve convinced me. In fact, one day I just
may make the leap and sift through my own
list. Facebook friends, you shall see.
Lauren Saul is a junior in Wharton and the
College. You can write to her at lcsaul@wharton.
P AGE 6
A
FRESHMAN’S
FOLLIES
BY JOANNE YUAN
I’M NOT GONNA LIE. I’m gearing up for awkward elevator confrontations with people in my dorm I probably met
at some point during NSO, but don’t remember the name
of. And, now that we’ve passed the two-weeks-on-campus
benchmark it’s too late to ask for a name again without
seeming like a complete idiot, a name-forgetting jerk,
or some delightful combination of both. So, let me take
some time to reflect upon NSO, that glorious honeymoon
period during which I and fellow like-minded freshmen
were fooled into thinking Penn would just be semesters
of frathopping with friends in various stages of inebriation, socially absurd icebreaking events, overpriced trendy
cereal, getting flyers stuffed in our faces walking down
Locust by freshmen-targeting clubbers, engaging in shady
hookups, doing seriously enthusiastic gymming, greasy
food carting, and so on and so forth, without actual work
or classes involved.
I did try to walk home
from the Philadelphia Museum of Art with a friend,
and I ended up in “shady
drug territory”, according
to the cab driver who eventually rescued us.
I didn’t read the Ben Franklin autobiography, but I
figure I made up for it by going to the library social and
participating in the scavenger hunt—never mind that I
knew the ulterior motive was to get us acquainted with
the library in the hopes that we would develop good study
habits—I just took my free T-shirt and ran. As for the life
of Ben Franklin, well, word on the street (and Sparknotes)
is that he was quite the player-pimp, so what more do I
need to know? I didn’t go on any of the offered guided
tours, but I did try to walk home from the Philadelphia
Museum of Art with a friend, and I ended up in “shady
drug territory”, according to the cab driver who eventually
rescued us. That pretty much scarred me for life, and from
now on I’m going to do all my exercising in the comfort
and safety of good ‘ol Pottruck. It’s the only place I can run
on the treadmill and stare down unsuspecting people who
just decided to grab something from the food carts. I get
enough exercise anyway, running from Steinberg-Dietrich
all the way to Rittenhouse and then back to Huntsman…
it’s an eight-minute power walk, seven with good traffic
lights or courageous jaywalking, six if you push the skinny
engineering kids out of the way and use their momentum
to propel you faster. As a result, I’ve stepped on the compass more times than I can count. We’ll see how that one
goes.
Enough nostalgia. I’m psyched for this new era that
dawns now that we’re officially convocated and classed
and homeworked and placement tested up. For one, I’ve
stopped carrying around the map of campus I was ready
to whip out at any given moment. I’ve also decided to hold
off on sporting the Penn or Wharton pants, shirts, sweatshirts, hats, and lanyard sets my parents bought for me
in an enthusiastic run through the apparel section of the
Bookstore, casually ignoring the Penn Speedos, Penn tampons, and the indispensable Penn ping pong ball. Hey, my
friends and I are almost cool enough to study in Huntsman Hall with our shiny laptops and spiffy western business attire outfits. I’ve been to so many introductory club
meetings, I’m beginning to feel like the guy in Fight Club,
whoring myself out to groups. Hi, my name is Joanne and
I am an overachiever.
I’m learning so much already. As a female Asian I will
get bombarded with 34,097,334,598,702 flyers asking me
to rush or join the 2,087,029,862 Asian clubs Penn seems
to offer… and I’ll probably join 239,874 of them, because
there’s only so much Asian propaganda one can take before
one has an oriental overdose and starts spewing Mandarin
out of one’s nose. I’ve also learned that anyone can look
instantly better all dressed up in a power suit, even if it’s
while he’s failing at using the waffle iron in Commons. And
it’s okay to bursar ridiculous sums of money for Xeroxed
sheets of paper under the guise of coursepacks. Hallcest
makes for interesting drama—and ridiculous morning-after confrontations in the coed bathroom. I now know there
are streets with the names the likes of Sansom, Spruce,
Walnut, Chestnut, Peanut, Almond, and Market — I just
don’t know what order they go in.
It’s a start.
Joanne Yuan is a freshman in Huntsman. You can write to her at
jyyuan@wharton.
S EPTEMBER 19, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . VI N O . 2
MANIFESTO
Continued from PAGE 1
ing a couple of intro to econ and math courses, and securing
easy access to Wharton for their sophomore years. It seems
like this is the plan of every other person I talk to. They speak
with full confidence in their strategy; some already refer to
themselves as Wharton students. In reality though, you can’t
blame the myriad Benedict Arnolds who do this every year.
Why trudge on as worthless College students when the tantalizing option of being treated as Wharton royalty is in such
close reach? The onus is on the College to curtail this practice.
Here’s a hint: having a thriving economics department in the
College makes it harder to figure out the true intentions of
prospective economics majors.
I’m sure plenty of non-Wharton sophomores and upperclassmen are accustomed to this miserable phenomenon.
Perhaps this article makes you nostalgic for the time before
your spirit was crushed. Maybe you are a sadistic jackass
whose only solace is that 1500 new freshmen have to endure
your pain every September. Either way, put yourself in my
shoes. Attempt to recall that first moment when you realized
that the university which you loved didn’t love you back quite
as much.
I’ll let you in on a little writing process secret. I was not
originally planning on capitalizing “Wharton” and the “College.” My Microsoft Word program would not allow me to
use a lower-case “w” to describe Wharton. Evidently, this was
deemed a ludicrous proposition by the Microsoft crew. Lower-casing the “c” in “College” was perfectly acceptable to the
taunting little paper-clip scurrying around my laptop screen,
but I was compelled to capitalize it for obvious reasons. I have
been reduced to being taunted by a digital paper clip.
In retrospect, I should have known when I was reading
all about the greatness of the College that something was
fishy. Why were they so pushy with this “heart and soul of the
university” business? Why did they seem so desperate to convince? Alas, I am not a Wharton student. It is not in my nature
to doubt and not take brochures with pretty pictures at their
words. Although capable, I will steadfastly refuse to transfer
to Wharton. I will proudly stay on at the College and fight
this injustice. I call upon Engineering and Nursing students
to join me in this battle! It is an arduous path ahead we must
take, but a noble one.
Adam Goodman is a freshman in the College (wishing he were in
Wharton). You can write to him at adamlg@sas.
BEST BETS
9/19 - 9/25
Rob’s TV picks for the week
Monday: Arrested Development “The Cabin Show” (FOX, 8 p.m.) The should-be double Emmy winner returns for
it’s—thank the gods—third season. Oscar is still in jail, George Senior is on the run, Lucille is off her medication, Tobias and Kitty the Whore never made it to Vegas as planned, so the whole gang is headed out to Reno. Meanwhile, Gob
(who, as my frat brothers are finally so fond of saying, is not on board) finds out some shocking information about…
his son? Seriously, you all suck if you’re not watching this. Then stick around for Kitchen Confidential or switch the
channel to How I Met Your Mother.
Tuesday: Nip/Tuck “Momma Boone” (FX, 10 p.m.) See the article. Dr. Christian Troy: dead or alive? The Carver’s
identity: revealed or not? Joan Rivers and Famke Janssen: returning to the show? Most importantly… will useless son
Matt ever ask his dad to make him look not-like Michael Jackson?
Wednesday: Lost “Man of Science, Man of Faith” (ABC, 9 p.m.) What the #$^@ is in that damned hatch? We’ve
been waiting months to find out. And in the Jack-flashback episode… well, let’s just say we’re going to find out, but
not really. What do the Others want with wunderkind Walt? Don’t you want to wait for the Locke-flashback episode
in two weeks for full disclosure anyway? All I have to say is our little group on the island isn’t as alone as they thought,
and if this doesn’t win the Best Drama Emmy I’m going to be very disappointed. Unless 24 wins, in which case I’ll be
only slightly miffed. Oceanic Flight 815 had a lot of passengers…
Thursday: The OC “The End of Innocence” (FOX, 8 p.m.) Julie Cooper and the word bankrupt haven’t gone together
for a long while. But after this episode, she better get used to it. Marissa’s fate is sealed, Caleb’s will is read, Charlotte
seems to be even more of a Single White Female than we expected, and, yes, Summer gets to bitch out Taylor at Harbor.
But most importantly: sex.
Friday: Battlestar Galactica “Pegasus” (SCI-FI, 10 p.m.) Summer season finale! The fleet has thought, ever since the
destruction of the twelve colonies, that it was all for humanity. 47,000 or so survivors in search of a home called Earth.
After the season’s events (and one hell of a guest starring bout by Lucy Lawless), things are only going to get more complicated. Could someone please tell Apollo to just get it over with and have a relationship with Starbuck? It’s freaking
inevitable. Best science fiction show on television. Ever.
Saturday: College Football “USC at Oregon” (ABC, 7 p.m.) So this is the point in my best bets when things get strained.
Yeah, I wanna see the Trojans kick some ass, but I really wish there was something on TV on Saturdays besides college
football.
Sunday: Desperate Housewives “Next” (ABC, 9 p.m.) Good news! There’s hope for Mike and Susan after all. Which I
guess means Zach/Dana, his possible son with Deirdre adopted by Mary Alice and part of the reason she killed herself
and started this phenom and likely winner at the Emmys (note: I still think Arrested should win Best Comedy), didn’t
shoot him in that cliffhanger. Right, because we all thought he was going to… The more interested stories concern
Lynette at work, Gabrielle as dutiful wife, and Bree as grieving widow. Oh, yeah. What the hell is in the Applewhite’s
(the new neighbors) basement? Mmm, guilty pleasure.
If You Can Only Watch One: Arrested Development.
S EPTEMBER 19, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . VI N O . 2
THE FANTASY
FETISH
ADAM GOLDSTEIN
| NO JOY IN MUDVILLE
LAST WEEKEND was not kind to my favorite football team. Amman Green, our
starting running back, had 12 carries for a
measly 58 yards. His offensive mate, Javon
Walker, was equally ineffective, gaining
only 27 yards after hauling in four catches.
The only reason Walker made the Monday
morning SportsCenter highlights was because he tore his ACL in the third quarter,
putting an end to his season not 45 minutes
into the first game of the year. Unfortunately, these two
players represented
only a fraction of
the team’s futility
in this debut contest. Wideout Nate
Burleson and tight
end Todd Heap,
two of the game’s
rising stars, combined for less than
90 yards receiving,
and both failed to
score any touchdowns.
Willis
McGahee rumbled
for 117 yards, but
also failed to find
the end zone. Our
kicker, Jason Elam,
accounted for one
lousy field goal, and
the dynamic defensive duo of Vince
Wilfork and Mike Vrabel allowed 20 points
and recorded only two sacks. The lone
bright spot on the squad was embattled
quarterback Kerry Collins, whose heroic
effort — 265 yards, three touchdowns, no
interceptions — was not enough to secure
his team the victory, neither on the field nor
on my computer screen.
While the average sports fan knows that
these athletes play for several different NFL
teams, the members of the Phi Delt fantasy football league know that these players
compose my own roto team, TheSchwabFearsMe, named in deference to ESPN’s
portly trivia star. And if you have played
fantasy football before, you know that a
stunning fantasy defeat on opening day
can be as heartbreaking and terrifying as
watching your favorite pro team go down in
flames on that first critical weekend — Jets
fans, I’m looking at you.
At this point you would have to lack all
internet access, news paper service, and
most likely human contact to have never
heard of fantasy football. The premise is
simple: you and your friends enter into
a league, draft players, and assign them
points based on their weekly performance.
How you score those fantasy points,
whether you play on a head-to-head or total
points basis, and the amount of profanity
you allow during owner trash talking sessions, is all up to you.
The uninitiated may look upon fantasy sports with a wary eye, declaring it
a worthless activity carried out by dorky,
undersexed, sports-obsessed 20 and 30
something males. To this, I would respond,
yeah, you’re probably right. But that in
no way undermines the effect that fantasy
games have had on the landscape of professional sports. Look at your daily sports
page, or watch NFL Tonight, and you’re
bound to see a reference to fantasy football.
The individual stats you see scrolling by on
the bottom of your television Sunday after-
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P AGE 7
DO YOU SUDOKU?
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noons is there because fantasy owners have
demanded it. ESPN has multiple “fantasy
experts” who get face time on ESPN News
and there are countless internet sites where
you can actually pay for fantasy advice. And
I’m willing to bet that the majority of the
$178 billion lost in employee productivity because of internet misuse is due to all
those fantasy managers looking to unload
Eddie George or Fred Taylor on some unsuspecting owner.
In that vein, is it possible that fantasy
football participation is having a negative
effect on our ability to be good football
fans? At first glance, the opposite seems
true. After all, roto leagues are designed
to bring people together in order to bicker
about the value of various players. To be an
adept owner, it is mandatory to scour player
stats and team histories and to watch as
many games as possible. Perhaps most fundamentally, it injects a level of excitement
into games in which our roto players are
starring, and in which
otherwise we would
have no interest. This is
especially important for
people like me, who are
not aligned with a particular team and have
no reason to care about
the standings, and for
Arizona Cardinals fans,
who are aligned with
a particular team and
have no reason to care
about the standings.
With all that said,
I would argue that the
rise in popularity of
fantasy football is a potentially ominous sign.
After all, the explosion
in fantasy league play
has to in part be attributed to the fact that
following one’s favorite
NFL team is no longer
sufficient entertainment for many football
fans. In an era of free agency, expansion,
rising salaries, and egomaniacs like Terrell
Owens, it has become increasingly difficult
to cultivate an intimate relationship with
one’s preferred team. Take, for example, my
hometown team, the Washington Redskins.
How is it possible to experience a dynamic
with your team and its players when the
head coach decides to replace the starting
quarterback before halftime of the first
game of the season? Aside from the fact
that Joe Gibbs ought to be in a retirement
home worrying about hip replacements
rather than quarterback replacements,
there is no question that it is more comforting and satisfying to put together and
manage your own team on your computer
than to watch from afar as some stranger
dismantles your beloved NFL squad. It is
no longer considered a rarity, or sacrilege,
for a supposed diehard Eagles fan, sporting
his game-worn McNabb jersey, to let out a
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cheer during a late Falcons touchdown, ��������������������������������������������
“because, you know, Alge Crumpler
starts for
my fantasy team”. While pres�����������������������������������������
ently there is no sign of waning pro team
support, the balance between NFL and roto
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team fandom
is becoming uneven, and that
may be an inauspicious signal.
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With all that said, there is no doubt
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that each year more and more people will
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join the millions who already own fantasy
squads. And as for me? I’ll be glued to the
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Adam Goldstein is a senior in the College. You can write to him at
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THE UNDERGRADUATE MAGAZINE | S EPTEMBER 19, 2005 VOL . VI N O . 2
MAKE ME BEAUTIFUL
ROB FORMAN | MY 13-INCH BOX
PLASTIC SURGERY. God’s
gift—granting the tragically
disfigured hope—or the devil’s
device—giving the naturally
ugly a place to pour money
for a temporary fix on their
superficial insecurity? We
could debate the finer points
of nose jobs and liposuction
here. After all, who better to
argue for or against it than someone who has never gone under the knife for cosmetic surgery? I, however, have only one
request: Tell me what you don’t like about yourself. And so
begins every episode of Nip/Tuck, television’s coolest show.
Like Six Feet Under before it, Nip/Tuck brings soap opera
to the world of a somewhat obscure—at the very least misunderstood—profession. Instead of the thankfully deceased depressing antics that might be found at a family-owned funeral
home, Nip/Tuck takes viewers into a the slick, sexy, modern,
and often morally ambiguous world of two plastic surgeons
who couldn’t be more dissimilar—at least toward the beginning of the series.
On one hand, we have Dr. Sean McNamara. He’s a family
man with a wife and two kids. He’s also a surgeon extraordinaire who welcomes the challenge of complicated procedures,
and is always compelled to do more pro bono work, since he
sees his profession as capable of much more than doing a
tenth face lift on a 58 year old woman trying to fake 40.
Sean’s foil is his partner, Dr. Christian Troy, a man-boy if
there ever was one. The show takes place near South Beach,
and frankly I’d be surprised if Christian hasn’t slept with half
the population of this section of Miami—all while telling them
how he could elevate them from an eight to a ten. Christian is
a much less talented surgeon, but he’s certainly the “hot” factor
of McNamara/Troy.
As I said, every episode—okay, almost every episode—begins with Sean and Christian in their office doing an initial
interview with a prospective patient. The client has a problem
they want taken care of. Said problem could be Joan Rivers
curious what she’d look like if all her years of surgery were
BY BING LI
reversed, or two adult twins conjoined at the head desiring a
separation. Naturally, the nature of the patient’s problem resonates on a deeper level with the soap opera occurring behind
the scenes. For instance, Sean and Christian were at odds with
each other for reasons I won’t get into and the practice itself
was in danger. They were called in to do the surgery on the
twins, and one died on the operating table. The metaphor, of
course, was that apart Sean and Christian could not survive.
That was probably the most heavy-handed and obvious of the
series’ many metaphors. But they’re always there, and very
fun to watch.
I’ll be honest with you: the plastic surgery elements of this
fantastic drama are the least interesting parts. Sure, you get
some cool music while the doctors do their thing in what seem
to be increasingly graphic and almost regurgitation-inducing
montages. But that, like plastic surgery, is just the surface.
It’s a bit of pizzazz and glamour. And, in case I didn’t imply
it well enough above, you shouldn’t eat during the show because chances are it might come back up if you’re even slightly
squeamish. The real action is going on in the oh-so-twisted
and amusing family-and-sex lives of the two doctors.
Which brings us to the events of last season that came to a
head in the season two finale—a full year of pain, anticipation,
and withdrawal ago. Guest star Famke Janssen (who is coming back for at least one episode!) played Ava, a transsexual
who finally got her wish as her surgery was completed and she
is now, finally, a whole woman after years of having something
not quite right with her vaginal wall (or something like that).
She skipped town without her son Adrian, an emotional and
tortured wreck if television has every shown one.
The closure of Ava’s story was accompanied by some
closure of the family turmoil surrounding Sean—reconciliation with his wife and forgiving his wayward son—and a solidification of the incredible maturation Christian’s character
underwent during the season. Sean was recovering from an
attack by The Carver—a serial rapist in an amusing and cheesy
mask who is out on an anti-cosmetic surgery spree (it’s a much
more eloquent philosophy, please allow me some brevity) who
marks his beautiful male and female victims by paralyzing
them with drugs, raping them, then slashing their checks
open—who had warned Sean to not undo his work by healing
his victims’ faces.
The Carver threatened to kill everyone Sean loves if he
helped another victim recover, then he slashed one side of
Sean’s face. Sean wasn’t about to give in, though, and set a
trap for The Carver. As Sean waited in bed with a knife, ready
to attack The Carver, Christian returned home from wishing
his partner good luck in the trap. Only Christian was the next
victim. The final shot of the season had Christian lying on his
back, paralyzed with the drug, a tear streaming down his face
as The Carver slashed down.
It’s been one hell of a year of waiting. And Tuesday, at 10
p.m., we’ll finally find out just how much permanent damage
was done. Viewers can be sure of several things: it will be sexy,
often disturbing, and always enjoyable. Before anyone brings
it up, yes, I’m aware that people on campus don’t have FX.
Take it up with the Penn Video Network.
Rob Forman is a senior in Wharton. You can write to him at
robertf@wharton.
BEAUTY AND THE CREASE
SINCE EVERYONE from my mom to my dishwashing boss,
to the people on my hall think I am gay, I might as well play
along with the charade and pretend I am Carson Kressley,
perfect his patented wrist-flapping motion, and preach the
gospel of Manolo Blahnik. While I am not a fashionable man
by any means, I am truly interested in fashion. I have a knack
for detail and I can tell you about the latest Vera Bradley or
LeSportSac lines if you wish. But today, I wish to present some
general ruminations on couture. So yes, take off all your preppy clothes, because you’re not really too busy to FCUK, or CKate at the Greek Lady, or die-sel in Finance 101 (Note: for real
fashion advice, please consult college senior Pauline Park).
1. To sunglass or to pangloss: Everyone has a pair of
shades it seems. The medical evidence is great, but a good
pair of shades should block out more than UV rays or your
own insecurities. Your face shape should dictate your choice
in frames. If you have a round face like me, avoid aviators at
all costs. They will make you look like a bad oompa-loompa.
A good rule of thumb: get frames in opposition to your face.
Round faces deserve sharper frames and vice versa. Secondly,
and this is obvious, buy the real thing. An Oakley knock-off is
lamer than your own fart joke. But one caveat here, you don’t
need to go knock yourself out with Christian Dior’s latest 300
dollar model. The fact is, most fashion houses do not produce
their sunglasses in-house. Like many denim-makers, they
send them out of house for production. It’s a fact that brands
from trusty Ray-Ban to upscale brands like Versace and Bvlgari contact the Luxottica group to produce their frames. Realize this, and save yourself some money, while getting pretty
much the same product. Thirdly, and most importantly, don’t
overcool the mode. It’s okay if you can’t rock Oakleys like Tom
Cruise. Life is like that at times. But please don’t be one of the
other yuppies to wear Oakleys in fluorescent green. Especially
not with your suit and tie. Please, I am disgusted, next subject.
2. Footwear: This is a wide-ranging subject. It is a melancholy state when even your grandmother on The OC is
wearing Uggs. Uggs are not functional. They are meant for
cold weather, but are not water-proof. Crucially, they will
make your legs look like andouille sausages. Flip flops are
another footwear scourge. They are so overdone. They fact is
that everyone is trying to be so casual and Hawaiian, it simply
cannot be. Save flips flops for the shower or actually going to
the beach. Buy yourself some real sandals from Reef or Teva.
Avoid Birkenstocks at all costs. Another petty thing: shoes
should be comfortable first. I am really appalled by the recent
retro craze and all the bad shoes associated with it. Let’s face
it, why are you paying today’s money for yesterday’s footware
technology? Anyone who has tried Converse all-stars, Vans
slip-ons, or Adidas superstars knows they cannot be comfort-
able. They are like standing on a piece of brick. Seriously, get
some Air Maxes, or SAS comfort shoes. But leave the stockpile
of Puma speed cats for the real racers out there. Overall, let
comfort be your guide.
3. Band T-shirts etc.: Before the advent of Hot Topic,
band-shirt wearers were like totally rad! Nowadays, anyone
from your local Fender god to everyone’s scene kid can rock
a Led Zeppelin shirt. Therefore, I would emphasize strict
caution. There are other ways to show you are in the loop.
But if you must do it, ask yourself these questions. Do you
know the artist’s important innovations and career arc? (i.e.
the new electronica on Kid A, 3rd relationships on Giant
steps ... etc.) Two, can you do more than hum the band’s most
popular tune? Three, how did the artist’s music reload your
life-arc? Stuff like that. If you wear Bob Marley T-shirt, please
be able to locate Trenchtown. Eating jerk chicken is not good
enough.
4. Polo shirts and the state of mankind: The polo shirt is
a confused shirt. It wants to be a casual Hanes white t-shirt.
And then it wants to be upscale and work-like. Which one are
you, polo shirt? I see no reason to teeter on the edge of this
ideological crevasse. Avoid the polo shirt altogether, and do
two things: Buy some real t-shirts from Hanes (cheaper than
chips, and in all styles and colors). And two, buy some real
dress shirts. Once again, I would avoid the tacky shirts produced by Quicksilver especially. Buy a shirt with a classic design like stripes, or a non-lumberjack flannel. For the ultimate
in flexibility, choose a non-starched spread collar shirt for
anytime wear ... preferably from a couture house like Faconnable. You’ll be happy with this purchase, and you’ll resist the
god-awful need to pop your collar!
5. Jeans are for cowboys: I have no problem with denim
per se. But I feel like such a poser when I wear them. Jeans are
like the ultimate symbol of a counterculture symbol seamed
into the mainstream. We all know jeans were the sturdy
clothes of miners, and then dustbowlers and then motorcycle
bad-asses. I am okay with jeans. But I hate all the dumb variations these days. Vintage burnt siena, yadda ya, ripped kneed,
boo-hooo, and all the stupid things like that. These used to
be looks that could only be earned by years of wear on jeans.
Today’s jeans make it too easy to achieve the look of labor. We
are such lazy asses. Of particular note, I think intentionally
ripping your jeans, is the most poser-like thing in the world.
When we were kids we used to get rips in our pants because
we played around on the floor too much. Our moms would
patch them with those Prussian Blue trouser patches at WalMart. I don’t know what message people are trying to send
with ripped jeans that are really not ripped. Maybe they are
saying, “I like it when my cock gets some extra ventilation.” I
dunno, people are so confusing these days.
Until next time,
Mister Bingli.
Bing Li is a junior in the College. You can write to him at bing@sas.