February 16, 2004 - Dolphin Student Group Web Accounts

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Better Than the TV GUIDE
Rob’s “Must See” TV!!!
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Music With a Message
Catch this week’s Sound Advice lyrical tribute Page 2
The Undergraduate Magazine
Published Independently at the University of Pennsylvania
Vol. IV, No. 11 | February 16, 2004
Happy F-ing Birthday
High Fidelity
The nostalgia and disappointment of
My Day. Page 6
Etan Rosenbloom’s underworld of
music collecting. Page 3
THE NIPPLE THAT CAUSED A RIPPLE
Prudish Americans Shouldn’t Censor Their Sexuality
BY MICHAEL PATTERSON
SEEING THE repeated clips of
Janet Jackson getting felt up by
Justin Timberlake, I had a similar
sensation to what many Americans
experienced—mild arousal followed by wicked fantasies of being
in Janet Jackson’s place. Yet, for a
quite vocal minority of people, the
actions of Janet and Justin were
outrageous, obscene... even evil.
When Justin got it on with Janet’s
naked right breast, America’s jaw
dropped in shock.
America, it’s time to close your
damn mouth already.
I have grown increasingly weary
of turning on the news every day to
hear more about the controversy
surrounding the Super Bowl stunt.
The way the news media goes on
about it, you would think that Janet
and Justin performed some lewd
and steamy sex act for the world
to see. But they didn’t. Janet Jackson flashed a breast with an exotic
nipple-cover shining out like a beacon to the stadium and through our
televisions. Was this a little over the
top? Was this a bit distasteful and
crass considering the nature of the
programs? Perhaps.
Yet many sections of the government, such as the FCC and the
House and Senate, are acting to
crucify not only Janet and Justin,
but CBS, Viacom and MTV for this
crude yet harmless stunt. To top
it off, the FCC is now proposing
to increase the fines for these acts
of “indecency” ten-fold from what
they are now, up to 750,000 dollars
each. Yet even before the Janet-Justin controversy, the “Clean Airwaves
Act” was introduced to Congress in
December 2003. This act actually
would make it a crime to broadcast
profane language, including the
words “shit, piss, fuck, cunt, asshole” and the phrases “cocksucker,
mother fucker, ass hole.” This is
offensive material, right? I feel
near faint from shock seeing those
words. In fact, watching HBO
for an hour in the evening nearly
makes me cringe with disgust as
all my favorite shows use each of
the “profane” words in nearly every
sentence. I am sure all of the millions of Americans who watch The
Sopranos feel exactly the same.
The fact of the matter is that
Americans do watch programming with lewd language, graphic
violence and gratuitous sex. I think
the real reason Americans are complaining about the Super Bowl halftime show has nothing to do with
such a broad and non-specific accusation of “indecency,” but rather
with the sexuality exuded by Janet
and Justin. It seems Americans in
general have a completely irrational
fear of sex. Seeing Janet Jackson
getting it on with Timberlake, and
P. Diddy feeling himself up while
singing makes many people feel
uncomfortable. This personal discomfort people have with regard
to their own sexuality, and not any
substantive harm that results from
the images, causes much of the protests against sexuality on television.
In fact, if it had been a person
up on stage with Justin who is not
commonly thought of as a sexual
persona, I would place money
on the likelihood of a much less
extreme response to the breastflashing.
Continued on Page 5
Confessions of a
Campus Cupid
BLUE BRIDGE
Tips on Picking Up Chicks
BY BRIAN HERTLER
BORIS SHOCHAT
Like Fine Wine
BY MICKEY JOU
The Wondrous World of Poetry Readings
IT WAS at my poetry professor’s beckoning that I made
it to Kelly Writers House on a night the temperature of
a chilled bottle of wine. The atmosphere was equally
intoxicating—or at least it promised to be. There will
be stuff there that you will like, my professor promised
with his usual warm, inviting personality. If only my
first experiences with the Kelly Writers House were of
the same warmth and invitation.
Not that I’m bashing Kelly Writers House—for
one thing, I’m well-aware that any animosity on my
part could very well be the result of the sour grape
syndrome. Writers tend to have fragile egos. At least,
in the very first month of my freshman year at Penn, I
had a fragile ego that was crushed and strewn all over
the floor of a crowded open-mic night, overwhelmed
by the talented spoken words of artists and quiet
poets with powerful voices. My sense of despair was
distinct—I knew I hadn’t half the talent of the people
who stood up there at the sacred microphone. Later
on, I realized with not-as-wide eyes, it was experience
I lacked and not necessarily talent. My second Kelly
Writers House event was no less disappointing: after
a moving poetry reading experience—my first poetry
reading, in fact—my attempt to speak with the poet
himself was met with a rather brusque end. Hopes of
profound exchanges with the writers and poets of the
Penn community crushed yet again by my own social
clumsiness.
It is thus, with a skeptical mind, I came to hear A.V.
Christie and Eamon Grennan relate stories on a calm
Wednesday evening. Was it crowded or intimate? The
room was full of people, all eagerly anticipating the
two hours of good poetry reading they’d been promised. I sat by Billie Holiday, singing the blues through
an enormous loud speaker. As it turns out, sitting next
to the speaker is not at all the trial I expected it to be.
It was rather, well, poetic—every breath the poets try
to sneak between line breaks, the sound of lips pressing
together and then parting, the swallow of cool water,
the lingering vowels and consonants at the tips of the
tongue—all of it, the poet’s process of producing his or
her voice, was magnified. An intimate study, like drawing someone’s shadow against a white wall to learn the
Continued on Page 4
WE SINGLE people can get cranky around Valentine’s Day, but don’t
tell me there’s no romance on this campus. The following is a true
story—not fiction, not humor—dedicated to those depressed over a
dry love life.
Last Tuesday night, I was sitting in the rooftop lounge of High Rise
South, scribbling in my notebook and eating a hot roast beef sandwich
from Greek Lady. The sandwich was seriously good but also seriously
messy, and barbecue sauce was dripping onto my aluminum foil and
running down my chin. Across the way sat a beautiful red-haired girl
who struck my fancy. She was reading a book in front of the big rooftop
window, with her feet propped up on the radiator. I knew she wasn’t
my type, since the book was a Margaret Atwood novel, but my view of
her made the sandwich a little more pleasant.
A young man got off the elevator—I’ll call him Prince Charming.
He was carrying books and had apparently come to study, but when
he saw the girl—I’ll call her Snow White—his objectives shifted immediately. He put his books down on a table near mine and walked
towards her slowly.
If you enjoy eavesdropping, like I do, you know it’s sometimes painful to watch a guy being suave. I didn’t want to see Prince Charming
get shot down—not only because the scene would be embarrassing, but
also because he resembled me in appearance and I felt a kind of vicarious connection.
He approached Snow White fearlessly, however, and stood next to
her in front of the rooftop window. When she looked at him, he said,
“It feels good to be on top, doesn’t it?”
I winced. An ugly pickup. I gave him a few points for cleverness,
since the line was certainly appropriate to the setting, but Snow White
was less forgiving. She mumbled something and went back to her book,
and Prince Charming got the message and came back to his table.
I had just finished my sandwich, so, after wiping my hands and
mouth on a napkin, I leaned over and got Prince Charming’s attention.
“Hey,” I said, “that was pretty brave.”
“Thanks,” he replied. He didn’t look very distraught, so I guessed he
didn’t have a problem approaching girls. He probably got turned down
all the time. “Maybe she already has a boyfriend.”
“Actually,” I said, “the problem was your technique. You have to
consider the audience. The kind of girl who sits in a study lounge and
reads feminist authors isn’t the kind of girl who’ll buy into a sexuallycharged pickup line.”
Let me remind the reader that I’m writing these events from memory, and that they happened several days ago.
Prince Charming looked at the book in her hands, then scooted
over and took a seat closer to me. “Maybe I can use her character to
my advantage,” he said. “I can admit to her that I was being a testosterone-driven male animal—that is, play into her stereotype—and then
Continued on Page 7
F EBRUAR Y 16, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . IV N O . 12
P AGE 2
FirstCall
Vol. IV, No. 12 | February 16, 2004
The Undergraduate Magazine
Managing Editor
Jordan Barav
Editor-in-Chief
Julie Gremillion
Assistant Editor
Robert Forman
Columnists
Robert Forman
Roz Plotzker
Brian Hertler
Writers
Chan Ahn
Mickey Jou
Daniel Nieh
Michael Patterson
Andrew Pederson
Etan Rosenbloom
Lauren Saul
Seth Scanlon
Anna Strongin
Artists
Boris Sochat
Stephanie Craven
Layout Editor
Krystal Godines
Layout Staff
Andrew Milanez
Anna Stetsovskaya
Business Manager
Joseph (Trey) Hollingsworth
Promotions Manager
Leah Karasik
Distribution Managers
Jaqueline Hayward
Marissa Sapega
Contact Information
330 John M. Huntsman Hall
3730 Walnut Street
Philadelphia, PA 19104
(215) 898-3200
[email protected]
Web Site
clubs.wharton.upenn.edu/fcpaper
Submissions
Email letters to the editors
and guest submissions to
[email protected].
Students, please include
your school and class.
Editorial Policy
First Call is a weekly commentary
published at The Wharton School of the
University of Pennsylvania. First Call’s
mission is to provide members of our
university community an open forum
for expressing ideas and opinions. To
this end, we, the editors of First Call,
are committed to a strict policy of
not censoring opinions. Articles are
provided by regular columnists and
writers from the university community.
They are chosen for publication based
on the quality of writing and, in the
case of commentaries, the quality of
argumentation. Outside of the weekly
editorial and other editorial content, no
article represents the opinion of First
Call, its editorial board, or individual
members of First Call 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
POST-TRAUMATIC SPORTS DISORDER
We have been cursed. Undeniably and perhaps irrevocably cursed. In case you thought Philly’s bad luck
ended with the fall of the Eagles, the rest of the city’s
teams are keen to prove otherwise. Our period of
mourning continues for at least a few more weeks.
I wonder if we can blame this on the groundhog,
too?
As usual, we turn to the 76ers when football is
over. Unfortunately, we might as well turn around,
or we may end up slitting our wrists from the depression. The beloved wanderer Larry Brown, who
led the 76ers to five straight playoff appearances
and the 2001 NBA Finals, left for Detroit.
And so the bleeding commenced this season with
former Assistant Coach Randy Ayers. Hope you
didn’t get too excited during the fall when the Sixers
won 8 of 16 because they’ve only won 13 games since
November. What else should we expect from a team
who relies on one player to score half their points
every game?
Thus, in true pro sports team form, the 76ers
ousted Avery and promoted Assistant Chris Ford.
So far, Ford is 1-0 with the Sixers after a win against
Washington on Wednesday. We could cross our
fingers, but Philly fans like their middle finger
free—just in case.
And when the Sixers are MIA, we have the Flyers. I love hockey, but how many injuries can one
team suffer in such a short span of time? Each new
dislocated shoulder or sprained knee hits fans like
a punch in the gut, knocking them into their seats
with their heads between their knees.
The worst part is that it’s no one’s fault. Ken
Hitchcock, an invaluable import from the Dallas
Stars in 2002, has led the Flyers to 31-12-11-5 and
first place in the Atlantic with a nine-point lead over
the Devils. We’re tied with the Colorado Avalanche
for the most points in the NHL and have only lost
two of the past 14 games.
But we can’t stay healthy. We’re down to rookie
goalie Niitymaki, requiring the new addition of
veteran Sean Burke. We lost two defensemen in
the same week in January. We lost two All-Star
centers—Jeremy Roenick and Keith Primeau—in
a span of about two minutes during Wednesday’s
game against the Rangers. We’re in tears as we watch
our playoff hopes fly down the street along with the
ambulances. And we can’t even fault them for awful
play or poor coaching! Alas, the true breakdown of a
Philly fan comes when he has nowhere to point that
faithful finger.
For now, we’re still being haunted by the specter
of Brian Dawkins and Donovan McNabb. Even the
Philadelphia Soul, the long-awaited Arena Football
Team which sold out its first game, suffered a disheartening opening loss to New Orleans. What do
we have left? The Phillies don’t start for a few more
months, and that’s not exactly a resurrection waiting to happen.
So start practicing the rituals, eat some garlic and
splash on the holy water: that may be the only way
to fight this affliction.
SOUND ADVICE
Julie Gremillion presents the old, the new and the diehard favorites.
In a special edition of SA, I
IN STEREO
present six songs, chosen in
“Megalomaniac”
Incubus
honor of recent First Call
events. I send them out to our Now I’m not a big fan of Incubus, but I
really couldn’t find a more perfect song
former editor as a tribute well- to sum up the tribute. Hot off their
deserved.
brand-new album A Crow Left of the
RETRO REWIND
“Money”
Pink Floyd
A classic song of greed and materialism, this track appeared on the amazing
Dark Side of the Moon album in 1973.
Not only does it encompass the desire
for cold hard cash and unnecessary possessions, but it also covers that wonderful aspect of entitlement to undeserved
things. As a bonus, it features the sound
of coins clicking and cash registers clanging in the background as rhythm accompaniment. Recommended lines, in keeping with the theme: “Why does anyone
do anything? I don’t know, I was really
drunk at the time.”
Murder, this song is also the first single
released and has already hit #1 on the
Modern Rock charts. The album debuted at a phenomenal #2, which suddenly seems less amazing when Kenny
Chesney is #1. “Megalomaniac” is a
harsher, more grating side of Incubus,
a reflection of the early days before they
were famous. Key lines: “You’re no Jesus. Yeah, you’re no fuckin’ Elvis. Wash
your hands clean of yourself, baby, and
step down, step down.”
“The Outsider”
A Perfect Circle
And with the second album from Maynard James Keenan and Tool’s softer
side comes another brilliant set of songs
that delve into the darker side of the
“I Fought the Law”
human psyche. The much-anticipated
Bobby Fuller Four
Thirteenth Step does not disappoint,
These Texas rockers hit the charts in
and “The Outsider,” the follow up re1966 with “I Fought the Law,” written by lease to “Weak and Powerless” is already
Sonny Curtis, lead guitar player for Bud- working its way up the charts. As equaldy Holly’s band The Crickets. Heavily
ly distinctive and complex as the rest
influenced by Holly, this tune was their
of the collection, this song will affect
only record to hit the top ten, but that
you differently each time you listen to
proved to be enough to influence later
it. The lines I particularly liked for this
bands like The Clash and the Blasters.
occasion are, “Lying through your teeth
Most important phrase is, of course, the again, suicidal imbecile. Think about it,
title and most-repeated line: “I fought
put it on the fault line. What’ll it take to
the law, and the law won.”
get through to you, precious?”
EDITORIAL ADVICE
“Soon Forget”
Pearl Jam
What is an expanded Sound Advice column without at least one Pearl Jam song?
And they have so many great accusatory,
angry songs, particularly from the grunge
era. Yet, this track comes to us from the
Binaural album in 2000. Slotted toward
the end of the track listing, “Soon Forget”
is famous for Eddie Vedder’s ukulele skills.
When he approaches the stage solo after
the first or second encore, crowds go crazy
knowing what’s in store for them. True to
form, the lyrics are about the futile, meaningless existence of a man who’s lost in his
greed and material possessions. Key lines
here are, “He’s lying dead, clutching Benjamins, never put the money down. He’s
stiffening; we’re all whistling a man we’ll
soon forget.”
“The Gambler”
Kenny Rogers
Don’t pretend you don’t love it! Whether
you knew it from your parents or from
the soundtrack of Maverick with Mel
Gibson, most people have heard and love
this song. It’s so classic. Released in 1978,
it has sold tens of millions of copies, won
Song of the Year Grammy, spawned five
made-for-TV movies, and became Rogers’ signature hit. And in honor of trips
to Atlantic City, I conclude with every
gambler’s theme song. “Son, if you’re
gonna play the game, you gotta learn to
play it right.”
F EBRUAR Y 16, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . IV N O . 12
Memoirs of a CDphile
My Addiction to the Used Bin
BY ETAN ROSENBLOOM
I AM an inveterate collector.
Early on it was rocks and seashells, which would sit in boxes
on a shelf in my room for years,
amassing their own collection
of dust. For a while my passions turned to Teenage Mutant
Ninja Turtle memorabilia—I remember salvaging empty TMNT
juice boxes from the gutter and demanding that my mother take me
to Burger King whenever there was
a promotional tie-in. Baseball cards
caught my fancy for a while, but I
never parlayed my hoarding into a
love of the game, so that dried up
after my Beckett subscription ran
out. Comic book collecting lasted
throughout junior high, overlapping with my Marvin the Martian
obsession, which has itself dissipated and will soon go the way of
my mercifully short-lived jones for
telephone numbers.
In retrospect, I used to be pretty
fickle when it came to collectibles,
regularly changing allegiances as I
did. But if my formative years were
marked by a promiscuous dilettantism, I can now consider myself a
proudly reformed monogamist;
I have had but one vice over
the last six years: the compact
disc. I currently own 826 of
them and number 827 is on its
way from Amazon. They are all
listed in an Excel spreadsheet
with fields for genre, producer,
year of release and complete personnel. The jewel cases are stored
alphabetically by name of artist,
and within each artist, albums are
arranged chronologically by release
date. I could rationalize this fastidious organization as a practical
necessity of having such a large
collection, but I wouldn’t be fooling
anyone. It’s really a manifestation
of some low-level brain pathology.
Thankfully I am not alone.
Every city bustles with compulsive
CDphiles haunting the fluorescent
aisles of the local independent record boutique, and there are qualitative differences in shopping-style
that make them easy to spot. The
normal shopper often walks into a
store without a clear game plan and
languorously ambles about until
he finds something of interest. In
contrast, the seasoned CD shopper performs a lightning-quick
tactical analysis of a store’s layout
immediately upon entry, plugging
sections of the store into a complex
mental flowchart based on distance
from the entrance, concentration
of competing shoppers, speed and
direction of air currents and, lastly,
musical preference. Once an initial
section has been located, he locks
in and heads right toward it like an
iron filing to a magnetized spoon,
allowing himself little room for distraction and dawdling. This phase
is invariably performed with a brisk
but measured gliding motion. It is
a wonder to behold—even the most
heavyset CDholic can be lithe as a
ballerina when making a beeline
for his landing spot.
CDphiles do often search for
specific albums, and it is not uncommon for them to bring extensive want lists along. For the true
aficionado, however, this does not
preclude a thorough scouring of
the bins, which starts either at the
beginning or end of the alphabet,
never in the middle. Whereas the
average CD shopper is limited to
the cumbersome “walk and turn”
approach, the CDphile has a wide
variety of intra-aisle maneuvering
techniques in his repertoire, including the sideways shuffle (“the
crab”), the grapevine, the squat, the
stoop and, in tight spaces, the jazz
box. If only CD spines are visible,
the pro scans swiftly and silently
by moving both head and eyes. If
CD covers face forward, he demonstrates his dexterity and rapid-fire
discernment by manually flipping
through the CD stacks at blinding speed, creating a percussive
clicking sound reminiscent of the
climactic point a couple minutes
into making microwave popcorn
where it sounds like ‘Nam in a
bag. The soft polyrhythmic thrum
of clicks and clacks at varying
tempos is the soundtrack to the
CDholic’s life. It accompanies the
hunt but is also a product of it. It
is the gentle susurration of a lover’s
words, both soothing and arousing.
When the clicking stops, the chase
is suspended—the collector either
walks triumphantly to the cash
register with his bounty or back to
his car, dejected but fortune cookie
confident that good luck is right
around the corner. Process is key
to the true collector. Even if I never
reach my destination, I have at least
embarked on the journey.
Perhaps most characteristic of
the CD obsessed is bad posture. To
the observer, this may be a foolish
concomitant of spending too much
time bending over in record stores.
But I know better. Much like pianists Glenn Gould and Bill Evans,
who would hover inches above the
keyboard in rapturous, intimate
communion with their music, my
customary hunch over the racks
is a gesture of humble obeisance.
For people like me, CD shopping
is both compulsion and religious
ritual. CD stores are centers of
worship, and if we maintain scrupulous church attendance records
and keep faith in our hearts, we will
be rewarded eventually by amazing
finds. If I’ve been good in life, and
I’d like to think I have, I will discover that heaven is a well-stocked,
completely alphabetized used bin.
I’ll admit it, a used CD obsession is fundamentally an act
of individualism. Shopping for
music is too all-consuming a task
to make eye contact and polysyllables feasible, and furthermore, a
latent animosity exists among CD
hounds competing for resources.
It may very well be that you listen
exclusively to ambient techno and
the surly fellow across from you is a
death metal enthusiast, but as far as
you know, you’re both looking for
that same Aphex Twin disc, there’s
only one used copy left, and he’s
closer to the ‘A’ section than you
are.
But perhaps because of this tendency towards subdued Hobbesian
aggression, those rare instances of
music store sociability are all the
more enjoyable. On one blessed
occasion, I found a used copy of an
early album by a Los Angeles rapper named Aceyalone, and when I
brought it to the register the clerk
said to me with nary an iota of
sarcasm, “Man, just the fact that
you have that in your hands makes
you cool.” Score! Vindication. Even
non-verbal interactions can be
thrilling. To this day, I can’t help
but chuckle when I switch places
with a customer scanning the
used bins in the opposite direction.
P AGE 3
There is that juncture caused by the
interruption of routine that allows
just enough space for reality to seep
in, and I am suddenly struck by
the ridiculousness of the situation.
I usually whisper “excuse me,” but
one day I hope it will be “I love you”
instead. I fantasize about telling my
kids that I met their mother when
we were both reaching for the same
Dismemberment Plan album at a
local record shop.
What is it that drives us to
collect, to spend so much time
and money on objects that may
have value only to ourselves?
Do we do it purely for enjoyment? Investment? A sense of
mastery and control? Are serious
collectors secretly insecure about
the emptiness of their own lives, so
that they feel they must compensate
by accumulating material possessions? Perhaps, as noted antiques
dealer and appraiser Judith KatzSchwartz writes, “collecting provides order in (our) lives and a bulwark against the chaos and terror of
an uncertain world.” I would agree
with all these assessments and add
one from my own experience. In
buying a used CD, I develop a cosmic
connection with its former owner. I
imagine what sort of person once
owned it and why they would sell it.
The used CD is at once a trace of a
completed narrative and the source
of a new narrative that begins with
me, and there is a minor thrill in
becoming part of this protean web
of intertwining histories. There is a
little bit of truth to be found in the
musty recesses of every good used
CD bin. Happy hunting.
Etan Rosenbloom is a senior in the
College. You can write to him at
etan@sas.
F EBRUAR Y 16, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . IV N O . 12
P AGE 4
DEAR THE WB: GO FRELL YOURSELF
BY ROBERT FORMAN
FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH will never be
the same. It’s one of those clichés you only
worry about because of a long line of Jason
movies. Nothing bad actually happens.
Right… Three days ago, as I prepared to go to
my frat house for the evening, I visited one of
the web forums I frequent. “Zap2it Reports
ANGEL ends with Season 5.” WHAT? I was
caught off guard. Surely this was some sick
joke designed to make us nonbelievers appreciate the whole Friday the Thirteenth scare.
In case you were unaware, the Buffy/
Angel fandom is (a) online (b) highly active.
Weekends tend to be down times on most
forums. Shock of shocks: fans of such shows
have lives. The next few minutes and hours
brought about a swelling of comments, new
threads, death threats, and swears, among
other things. It was awe-inspiring and awful
at the same time. I added my own thoughts
and waited for information on how to stop
this dreadful turn of events.
Less than an hour later, the WB issued
a press release. To summarize: the executives are appreciative of Joss Whedon and
his shows and the eight years of television
they’ve had with him, his crew, and cast. The
final nine episodes of this season will play out
and The WB hopes to have TV movies—yeah
right—but it was official. Frell. Looking
around the various websites for The WB’s
shows, I saw no advertisements for Angel.
None. That was pretty quick. On the Angel
feedback forums, fans were already beginning to express their outrage. Thousands of
responses came out of the woodwork, shouting expletives and mourning for the coming
loss of the show. What you might be surprised to hear is that, though the fans varied
in ages from low teens to fifties and sixties,
the responses were all the same: we will never
watch a WB show again. One even woke her
teenage daughter up at 2:00 a.m. to relate
the news. The girl broke out in tears. Like any
other spurned and pissed off fan, I sent an email to The WB expressing my outrage:
“I know you won’t put this up on your
website because I’m not going to dance
around and parade the fabulous shows on
your weekly programming line-up, but I
needed to say something. Angel is your best
show. It is the best written. It is the most
dramatic. It is often the funniest. It is the
best acted. It is the most respected. It has improved its ratings this year, despite its budget
cut which doesn’t allow for the gorgeous exterior scenes of yesterseason. It is your number
two show in the key demographic. And you
cancel it. You cancel it. You cancel it. I cannot
understand the logic behind this decision.
Mere weeks ago, Mr. Levin was sharing cake
with Joss Whedon applauding the resurgence
of Angel and saying that John Wells’ upcoming remake of Dark Shadows would have
no effect on Angel’s future. Was it already
decided, then? I can’t believe how badly this
decision is going to affect the network. I was
personally branching out into other shows,
like Everwood and Gilmore Girls, and even
the wildly popular but brainless and poorly
construed Smallville. Oh, I’m in your key demographic, a male of 19 years. But I guess you
don’t really care about me and the millions of
other fans who love this series with all of our
hearts. It was the one shining gem left on
network television and continues, sorry continued, to be brilliant. I also happen to write
a television column for my college magazine.
You can bet there will be little good and a lot
of bad about The WB in my next column, and
probably a lot of overt and subtle bitterness in
the following columns. Thank you so much.
You’ve made my weekend.”
Twelve hours later, I’m still fuming. As
an assistant editor of this publication, I fortunately have the power to defer my intended
article for this week and write this tirade in its
place. I am trying to makes heads and tails of
the situation not only because I love the show,
as my letter hopefully suggests, but because
the decision makes absolutely no sense given
the plethora of events that took place over the
last few weeks and months.
An online petition was created around
10:00 p.m. on Friday evening. Fans from
America, the United Kingdom, Australia, and
other countries have signed it. Though such
petitions often are useless, the magnitude of
this petition struck me. Twelve hours after
being created, there were over 11,000 signatures. Another
reason publishing this article
immediately is
important
to
me pertains to
the timing of
the announcement.
Eleven
thousand. On a
weekend with a
holiday on Monday. Perhaps The
WB expected the
furor and outrage to subside
and for fans to
just accept it.
Wrong, and this
one
petition’s
response shows
just how wrong
the decision was. There are others.
Hopefully you are still with me. I don’t
want to sound like a rabid fan angry simply
because his favorite show was cancelled.
Shows are cancelled all of the time. I’d like,
for myself, for fans who read this article, and
for your benefit, to explain why this cancellation is a stupid move, underhanded and
backstabbing, and completely unjustified.
As I’ve written before, this season has
been harsh for network television. Ratings
are down across the board, with viewers
defecting to cable because of uninteresting
and un-engaging programming. Despite
this, Angel’s ratings increased this season.
Viewership is up by about a million, despite
the time slot being the most competitive on
television, airing shows like The West Wing,
The Bachelor/The Bachelorette, and The OC.
A press release issued by The WB on January
21st, 2004 reported that Angel was The WB’s
second-highest rated program among adults
18 to 34, a key demographic for the youth
oriented network.
On Monday, February 9th, The WB picked
up Aaron Spelling’s Charmed for a seventh
season. This series gets ratings slightly higher
than Angel’s ratings and airs in a less competitive time slot. Its ratings have dropped yearto-year. In a report issued to the industry,
Jordan Levin, the aforementioned Co-CEO
of The WB, stated that Charmed has stayed
relevant and features one of the strongest ensemble casts on television. What a slap in the
WINE
Continued from Page 1
contours of his or her body.
The first poet to read was A.V. Christie. She reminded me
of someone’s mom, a quiet, middle-aged woman you might
find writing a grocery list at the kitchen counter. Christie’s
poetry opened up a world of imagery: little girls catching falling fruits in their aprons—as in “Nectar”—or a man eating an
orange in the most exquisite way imaginable. Christie’s voice
may be quiet, but her words carry a powerful stream of images
and elegant turns of phrase. I felt the way she conveyed herself
in the last line of “Limbic,” a poem that describes the secret
struggle inside a human heart: “The deer looked up as deer
will do.” She similarly hid gems of writing wisdom between the
lines: “Flowering and fading come to focus both at once, said
the poet.” This is perhaps the most apt description of the writing process I’ve yet to hear.
Christie was followed by the poet Eamon Grennan, a man
not necessarily in a hurry, but certainly one who knows where
he is going or, what he is about to do. Energetic and conver-
face. Looking at the Saturn Awards nominations for 2004, the science-fiction equivalent
of the Emmys, Charmed makes no appearance. Angel has about six nominations, from
show to actors and actresses. Other shows
already picked up by The WB are 7th Heaven
and the ailing Gilmore Girls. None of these
three shows are as respected in the critical
community as is Angel. Gilmore Girls used
to be, but the current season is a perfect example of jumping the shark and losing fans.
Even worse, drek like One Tree Hill will likely
get renewed, as will three or four of the underperforming and unentertaining half-hour
programming on Thursdays and Fridays.
In recent years, The WB has tried to premiere dark, heavy genre shows like Birds of
Prey and Tarzan to no avail. Both series were
cancelled midway through their seasons despite initially high ratings due to inability to
maintain viewership. Next year brings Dark
Shadows. Judging from the past, this show
will also fail.
A great portion of Angel’s
fandom, one
which watches
other
genre
shows,
has
shouted “boycott!”
This
series
will
not succeed.
Compare these
two
shows,
and what I
anticipate for
next year, to
Angel.
The
now cancelled
show has been
on four different nights of
The WB’s programming line-up over the last five years. Yet,
its viewers have stuck with it and even grown
in the last year. TNT, the cable channel that
owns syndication rights, has been more than
pleased with Angel’s ratings. DVD sales have
been phenomenal. Overseas ratings are incredibly high. Why cancel a sure thing?
The timing of the early cancellation announcement is suspicious. February 4th saw
the milestone 100th episode, a proud achievement for any series. With the announcement
coming after press time on Friday, with President’s Day on Monday, there are three days
for the press to chew on the event. Some speculate that the cancellation comes later than it
would have if shows like Tarzan or Birds of
Prey had not tanked. Coming towards the
beginning of February Sweeps, I wonder if
this is a stunt to improve ratings further and
go out on top. That’s likely not the case. But
you should tune in for Wednesday’s hilarious
installment where Angel is turned into Muppet through the effects of a children’s television show. Ridiculous, creative, and a damn
funny trailer. The Jim Henson Company did
the puppetry. It is, in a word, fantastic.
Even more than the other pickups, what
angers me and other fans are the well-publicized exchanges between Mr. Levin and Joss
Whedon. Levin was reportedly happy with
Angel’s performance and creativity and had a
deep respect for Whedon. He even said that
he could not thank Whedon and crew enough
for all of the work they’ve done, that the fans
sational, Grennan spoke with a lovely Irish lilt and sprinkled
humor between his readings of dark, evocative poems. He
started off with selected poems from a limited edition publication describing the winter of 1997 at the peninsula of Renvyle
in Ireland. While the first readings were beautifully descriptive
in their sparse elegance, I found his earlier works most provocative—for instance, the simple violence of “Incident.” If he
had read more than one poem of its kind, I would have become
a vegetarian on the spot. In less than five minutes, Grennan
managed to paint a viscerally unbearable picture in my mind
that even my father, who is an ardent vegan, has not been able
to convey to me over five years’ time. The dark poems were
complemented by some of his lighter, but equally thoughtful
works, such as “Cat Scat” and “Caterpillar and the Dancing
Child.”
Grennan’s comment on the latter poem illustrated for me
the function of anecdotes and back stories at literary readings
and coffee house sets: “[In the poem] I just miss crushing it
[the caterpillar] under my foot… sometimes that’s how one
feels about one’s children, that you just miss crushing it.” In
my poetry class, and previously in writing workshop, there had
were important, and that the show would
last. As I pointed out above in my letter to
The WB, Levin stated that Dark Shadows
would not affect Angel. A few weeks later,
Angel is cancelled. What’s with the two-face?
And what a missed opportunity it is for The
WB. Vampire Night, anyone?
Part of The WB’s official press release
says they have cancelled the show early to
give Whedon the time he needs to appropriately wrap up the story. How gracious and
thoughtful of them. Only, the show is already
casting for episode 18, meaning only four
are left to write, maximum. Compare this to
ABC’s recent announcement that NYPD Blue
will air next season, but that next year will be
the long-running and groundbreaking show’s
last. A whole season of knowing is enough
time to wrap things up. Not four weeks.
Like I say above, shows are cancelled
all of the time, every season. Someone always gets pissed off. Shows are also ended.
Though shows like Fraiser and Friends are
long-running and will be called cancelled in
trade publications, the truth is that their creators, actors, and writers were the ones who
made the decision not to continue—not the
network. The same can be said of Buffy the
Vampire Slayer’s last season. Sarah Michelle
Gellar had had enough of it, as had Whedon.
When shows run out of creative juice or their
ratings slip severely, it’s fine by me to cancel
the show and pave the way for a new program. In Angel’s case, Whedon and the cast
have said they feel the fifth season’s new direction opened numerous creative doors they
want to explore over coming seasons.
In the wasteland that is network television, with the reality and mindless drivel that
pervade it, a show with creative energy and
decent if not spectacular ratings should not
be cancelled. And without justification from
the higher-ups at The WB, fans’ reactions will
not be pretty. They are not pretty. I cannot
conceive that executives desired to alientate
tens of thousands who now threaten never to
watch the network again.
As I hope you see, the cancellation is a
premature and incorrect decision from every
angle I’ve been able to examine. I recall saying
last year I would not watch FOX again aside
from 24 and The Simpsons after the cancellation of Firefly, another Whedon series that
has since found a huge fan community in
DVD sales and is in talks to film a feature
movie. The cases are different. One, FOX
came out with some brilliant new programming this year, though it has failed miserably
to fill the Friday night void left by Firefly.
Two, Firefly was new and unestablished.
The WB has nothing coming out next year
and has nothing on now worth watching.
The show I might have watched, the remake
of ’60s vampire soap-opera Dark Shadows,
will be first on my boycott list since it seems
the new series is part of the rationale behind
Angel’s cancellation. I am still beside myself,
and I do not understand. So, thank you, The
WB. You’ve destroyed much of my faith in
network television, which I’ve been clinging
to with fewer and fewer shreds of hope each
successive season, and have assured that I
and many others will never watch your network again. Well done. I guess now I have a
few more free hours each week. Frell you.
Robert Forman is a sophomore in Wharton. You
can write to him at robertf@wharton.
been debates about whether the writer ought to talk about his
work. I believe if you have to explain yourself, then your writing
is not doing what it’s supposed to do. I maintain—as this anecdote about the caterpillar shows—that anecdotes, side notes,
comments, introductions, and back-stories told by poets, writers, and singer-songwriters remain as such: icing on the cake.
Without it, you can still enjoy the cake; though, I recognize
that for some people, the icing makes the cake.
I may have entered Kelly Writers House that night with a
skeptical mind, but with your heart open just a little bit, the
poets imbue you with eloquence, metaphors, and imagery. I
discovered poetry readings were not unlike wine-tasting: in
order to learn the secrets of wine, you have to dive in head long,
keeping yourself submerged in the heady aroma and liquid
flavors until, finally, you return to the world with your senses
open—really open—to receive what is outside of yourself, be it
distilled grapes, deer, or caterpillars.
Mickey Jou is a sophomore in The College. You can write to her at
myjou@sas
F EBRUAR Y 16, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . IV N O . 12
BY CHAN AHN
This is my first time studying in the United States of America. To put it colloquially, I
am a “FOB” or “Fresh Off the Boat.” I admit,
sometimes I interchange the pronunciation
of an “R” with that of an “L”. Sometimes I
talk about my favorite soccer team only to
find out that my friends were talking about
their favorite football team. I am often told
my study groups’ IM screen names, only to
realize they are AIM screen names, not MSN,
when I try to contact them. This one time, I
got an entire question wrong on my Stat final
because I confused ounces with grams. I am
a typical “FOB.”
But am I stupid? Although many people
here are tolerant of my innocent mistakes,
some question my intellect. “How is 98 degrees boiling hot? I mean, it’s only your body
temperature. D’uh!”
I like Tommy Hilfiger shirts. I like my
IBM laptop. I like American cars, the Lincoln being my favorite. I like the US flag; I
think it is pretty with all the colors and stars
and stuff. But when you like these things too
P AGE 5
America v. The World
much, so much so that you think anything
non-American is stupid, then you have a serious problem.
Where does this intolerance come from?
Since creating words is so hip nowadays, misunderestimate being a product of this new
fad, I will now follow the trend and christen
this phenomenon of centralizing American
beliefs systems and values as Americentrism,
from the words America and Ethnocentrism.
Americentrism, as I see it, stems from
extreme patriotism. It makes people believe
that America is right in all respects. No questions asked. America’s way or the highway.
People believe that using quarts is better than
using liters to measure volume. Using miles is
right, kilometers is wrong or, worse, stupid.
What the hell is an inch?
“It really doesn’t matter,” one might say.
“Who honestly cares if I like a certain measure of distance more than others?” But it is
not that simple. It is not a mere personal preference I am talking about. It is the American
attitude that dictates and fully encompasses
the belief that anything American is, by na-
ture, better than anything else.
President Bush is one of the numerous participants in Americentrism. Despite
reports from foreign agencies and intergovernmental organizations such as the UN that
cleared Iraq of producing weapons of mass
destruction, Bush held CIA reports compiled
through questionable methods, without actual inspection of Iraq, to be more credible
and more important than the findings of
these organizations. Saddam Hussein is now
a captive. Almost all of Iraq is under control
of the U.S. And what of Bush’s WMDs, or
weapons of mass destruction? Nowhere to
be seen. Just like the foreign agencies and
intergovernmental organizations reported a
year ago and continue to assert.
Americentrism affects matters like war,
but also less grave matters. Like food. Just a
week ago, the U.S. Department of Agriculture sent representatives to Japan and Korea
claiming that U.S. beef is safe. Yet, a cow on
U.S. soil has been diagnosed with Bovine
Spongiform Encephalopathy or Mad Cow
Disease. USDA representatives asked that the
ban on U.S. beef be lifted, while simultaneously banning beef from the U.K., France,
Canada, and other countries affected by the
Mad Cow Disease. The United States wants
other countries to import its beef which may
be affected by BSE. Apparently U.S. beef is so
much better than beef from other countries
that it must be safer too, despite reports of
BSE infections in Washington as I alluded
to above.
What can you do to avoid Americentrism?
Did you know about 15 percent of your classmates are FOBs? Hang out with them. Try
immersing yourself in their culture. Lose your
Americentrism and try watching football, by
which I of course mean soccer, with FOBs. It
is a fun game to watch even compared to regular football. But most of all, lose the holierthan-thou attitude that causes over half the
world’s population to hate Americans. With a
little cultural relativism, you’ll be better off.
Chan Ahn is a freshman in Wharton. You can write
to him at chanh@wharton.
NIPPLE
Continued from Page 1
2) This woman’s a class act all the way, and as opposed
to the last two women barely post-menopausal, University
of Pennsylvania President Judy Rodin might be willing to
let loose after commanding a school like Penn for ten years.
Michael’s Top Five Least Sexy People:
I know I would.
5) She’s crass, rude and homophobic. But showing
1) Finally, the number one person people would not be
her breasts is something that Dr. Laura Schlessinger is no sexually offended by is the big and proud number one weather
stranger to. Unfortunately for America, she is nowhere near man on NBC. Yes, everyone, how do you think people would
as supple as she was the last time the public saw a glimpse of feel if Justin Timberlake were to rip off the shirt and expose
her bundle.
the breasts of Al Roker. I hear he has a better sun-shaped
4) She loves to talk about sex and romance, and if senior nipple-cover than Janet does.
citizen and the host of Oxygen Network’s The Sunday Night
There you have it, Penn. If any of the previous five people
Sex Show, Sue Johanson were asked to allow Timberlake to bared it all with Justin, there probably would not be anywhere
expose her breasts, she probably would. I hear she has a thing near the political controversy there is now. There would be
for twenty-something year-old men.
a national case of mass-nausea but not necessarily threats
3) She’s an older lady as well, but not many can claim to of censorship. But the woman who flashed America was
be a former First Lady. This fact might not stop Barbara Bush neither old, flaccid, nor a large hunk of man. She is a sexufrom showing the world what only George H. Bush should ally attractive woman with a nice right breast, and Justin is a
ever have to see.
very attractive man with a hot body. This is the source of most
people’s problem.
To the average European
the Super Bowl halftime
show was tame compared to
what comes on their television broadcasts. Then again,
Europeans tend to be much
more comfortable with their
sexuality and that of others
than we Americans are. They
publicly embrace each other,
go to naked family beaches
together, and use worse
language than us in normal
everyday conversation. We
could learn a lesson from
our friends across the pond.
They have the right idea as
there are far worse things
to worry about on television
than naughty words and hot
bodies.
The violence on network
and cable television overshadow the raunchiest shows
around. Flipping the channel between the plethoras
of dramas broadcast to our
nation’s homes gives a wide
Introducing the Philly Meal Plan! With tons of
range of various violent acts
merchants, you can now get an off campus
from murder, rape, physical assaults, alien conquest,
meal plan where you can eat, have your parents
In fact, if Justin had exposed the breast of any of the
following five people, the response may have been quite different.
Finally, get some good
food with your meal plan.
add money, and eat some more. The difference
between this and on campus meal plans is that
the food is yours to choose!
Call us and find out the details; your stomach
definitely won’t regret it.
Philly Meal Plan: 866/512-DINE
rampaging cloned dinosaurs threatening mankind, etc.
What kind of an effect is that having on the youth that tune
in to watch? Europe may have sexier programming than the
U.S., but when it comes to violence, we take the cake.
So instead of whining and moaning about the lack of
decency shown by Janet in her performance with Justin, our
sexually awkward lawmakers and their constituents should
focus on curbing what actually promotes violence and harm
among people. Anything that may be just in poor taste will be
weeded out of television. If there is anything I learned from
Econ 1, it is that the basic laws of supply and demand usually
rule supreme. No law from Congress or fine from the FCC can
change that.
Regardless, I would personally rather see Janet Jackson
getting a feel from Timberlake than watch some guy getting
his head blown off.
Michael Patterson is a junior in the College . You can write to him at
mjp2@sas.
m
s
i
l
l
a
c
t
s
fir
Not all SNAPPLE “Real
Facts” are real facts.
F EBRUAR Y 16, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . IV N O . 12
P AGE 6
Nineteen Going On Dead
A Sad State of Birthday Bash Affairs
BY ANDREW PEDERSON
MEN, ON average, die about five years earlier
than women due in some part to the extra strain
put on our cardiovascular system by our slightly
larger frames. However, the figure is bolstered
heartily by random acts of boundless stupidity,
wonderfully demonstrated by base jumpers and
pyromaniacs alike. In any case, whether I keel
over alone and sheltered from a coronary defect
or splatter myself over a great part of the Earth
trying to look cooler than Evel Knieval in front of
a crowd of bloodthirsty onlookers, the odds are
clearly not in my favor.
So, when I celebrate the day I breached the
cervix at eleven o’clock this Saturday and yet another vapid waitress lavishes wit with originality
by saying, “Oh! A Valentine’s Baby! How Cute,” I
will be a mere fifty-five years from certain death,
barring a potential and statistically validated
Paddle-less Flaming Ping Pong or Golf Cart
Derby accident.
The fact remains that while I and a few others have realized the rapidity with which we are
claimed from this life, the great majority of others
still refuse to recognize the grave importance of
the tender period that is a person’s quarter-lifeplus-one crisis. Here we all are, men from ages
eighteen to twenty-two and already a fourth of
the way through our hazard-fraught lives, yet
our birthdays are overlooked, overshadowed and
marginalized within the context of everyday life.
When we were young, it was not so. Every
birthday was a milestone in a mighty crescendo,
beginning with a solemn day of humble thanks
in the company of close friends and family and
progressing from there into a spectacle of awesome proportions. When we were newborn, we
received perhaps an embroidered blanket or quilt
or a fifty dollar savings bond from Grandma, who
said it was for our college education. Later, we
had entire classes and grades of our peers imported to the house and fabulous banquets set
before us, where, in our best attire, we sat at the
head of the table and thundered out the candles
on a meter long cake slaved over by mother
to represent every minute detail of a fictional,
genetically-freakish turtle or marvelously engineered, shape-transforming, talking robot. We
were kings amongst children, who, for at least
one day, were bound to us by the noble tradition of birthday servitude to eat when we said, to
bring forth gifts, and to get the hell in the back of
the line when we wanted seconds.
Even at the age of sixteen, birthdays were days
for accomplishment and doting. I clearly recall
my mother taking time off work to witness my
victory at the DMV and my older sisters’ baleful
glares at my new car, which proved once and for
all which sibling was loved most (it’s me). The
birthday magic of youth went so far as to extend
to eighteen, upon which day I received my father’s
instructions on the hallowed responsibilities of
manhood, which included—but were not limited
to—sobriety, prudence, respect and courtesy. I
dutifully listened to him before going and getting
drunk, smoking cheap cigars and renting porn
with the rest of my friends. There is no doubt in
my mind that those halcyon days of youth were
the best days of my life.
The current state of affairs for me and certainly countless other peers is a bitter contrast to the
days of petting zoos, clowns, Nerf guns, secondhand cars, tobacco, cheap beer and pornography.
I found out only a few days ago that Grandma is
a cheap, filthy liar, whose fifty dollars was in fact
squandered long ago in a joint account that my
parents raped for new air conditioners and family
pet euthanasia. With nineteen years of age fast
approaching, I am mired in the wasteland between eighteen and twenty-one—three birthdays
nobody has any reason whatsoever to give a shit
about.
This year, so far, I have received for my birthday: one bag of cookies, two Trojan lubricated
condoms, one novelty foam pen with a sheep on
top, and one tourist’s map of Philadelphia. Is this
really fair, considering all the previous riches that
had been heaped at my door? True, the car was
understood as a once in a lifetime event, but how
can one follow cigars and pornography with condoms and foam sheep? Perhaps in the South my
birthday pack still represents progress, but here
in civilization I expect something a little more
cultured—say, a struggling artist who moonlights
as a call girl.
Who can say why I and my fellow birthday
pariahs are denied their piñatas and party hats?
One would like to be democratic and blame
unemployment or be optimistic and consider
previous birthdays just too difficult to match.
However, from the woeful contents of my one and
only birthday package, I know the sad fact of the
matter is that until I reach the very last milestone
on my way to death and pummel my liver with
a glorious fete of twenty-one years, I will be left
to my cookies, my condoms and my memories of
days when people still gave a damn.
Andrew Pederson is a sophomore in the College. You can write
to her at awl@sas
F EBRUAR Y 16, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . IV N O . 12
P AGE 7
Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime
BY ANNA STRONGIN
EMOTIONS ARE so overrated. I just
thought I’d mention that, in honor
of the holiday that recently passed,
which celebrates one such emotion.
And, no, it is not cynicism speaking;
it’s practicality.
Now don’t get me wrong, I have
nothing against dating or relationships, but I do have something against
the unreasonable standards that people tend to set when getting romantically involved.
Movies, music, and books are filled
with people making ridiculous and
unreasonable sacrifices in the name of
emotions. On screen and on paper, it
seems like love surpasses every boundary from class to age and ultimately
does indeed conquer all. In reality,
however, this powerful emotion, like
any other, ultimately disintegrates.
It may envelop a couple in its intense but ambiguous arms for a few
months or even years, but eventually it wears off; it is emotionally and
physically impossible to maintain
something indefinable as the basis for
an entire relationship. And when this
happens, nothing short of disappointment and dissatisfaction awaits the
formerly blissful couples.
Spoiled by the emotional high first
felt, couples find themselves unable
to exist without it, and so they either
cheat in hopes of recapturing the
feeling with another person, or get
divorced because they no longer have
incentive to stay together—hence the
50 percent divorce rate plaguing our
country. To me, that is far more tragic
than going through life without ever
experiencing the joys of love.
Of course, you will probably say
that I’m confusing love with lust, but
that’s the point—who doesn’t confuse
the two? The fact that it is so difficult
to pin down exactly what emotions are
all about is part of the overall problem. It is extremely dangerous to get
mixed up with abstract ideas that can
mislead you into thinking that you feel
what you don’t.
Thus, when it comes to relationships, it is best never to make it past
“like,” and even better to minimize (or
But who am I kidding? We are not
meant to be practical, to want what is
in fact good for us. Rather, we sacrifice
everything rational for temporary exhilaration, even if it will prove disadvantageous to us in the long run.
Granted, a rational approach can
work just fine for some and I have
tried to make myself one of these
select few. For a while, it seemed as
Furthermore,
it meant that
I would be
able to spare
my friends
the pain of
listening to
me complain
about a call
not made or
a visit not
paid.
even eliminate) feelings altogether.
Instead of trying to move things in the
direction of a higher level of emotional
attachment, couples should devote
more time and energy to determining
and exploring their compatibility.
After all, mutual interests, comparable backgrounds, and similar
ambitions are a lot more permanent
than silly, old emotions and thus a lot
more likely to preserve a relationship.
That along with things like loyalty,
consideration, and respect can lead to
a far more satisfying and permanent
relationship than love ever could. And
I bet if people looked for these things
in potential mates, then all advice columnists would be out of a job.
CUPID
Continued from Page 1
immediately apologize for my behavior. I’ll be creating an expectation and then surpassing that
expectation. Therefore I’ll seem better than most of the men she meets.”
I scratched my head. “That sounds like Wharton-talk to me.”
“I’m a Marketing concentration.”
Prince Charming got up and approached Snow White again. “Excuse me,” he said, “I want
to apologize for being such a pig before. I don’t know what came over me, but I’m not usually
like that. I promise it won’t happen again.”
He came back to my table. “I’ll make another move in a few minutes. She needs a little time
to weigh her perceptions.”
“A wise decision,” I said. “The good of your apology will outweigh the bad of your pickup—”
“Right, and she’ll come out with a favorable perception of me.”
“Hopefully.”
“Right. And that’s when I move.”
Snow White suddenly glanced over her shoulder and saw the two of us talking.
“We should probably split up,” I said, “so she doesn’t suspect we’re working together.”
“Okay, then. Wish me luck.” Prince Charming went back to his table and opened his
books.
About five minutes passed, and we both worked in silence. Snow White, reading her novel,
no doubt pondered the situation and came to a conclusion. When she got up and walked past us
toward the bathroom, Prince Charming and I nodded at each other. It was time for action.
Snow White returned from the bathroom. Prince Charming stood up and said hello, but she
walked right past him and headed for me.
I hadn’t expected this. Up close, she was more beautiful than I’d imagined. “I saw you talking to this guy,” she said, pointing to Prince Charming. “Was it your idea to apologize to me?”
I couldn’t decide what to say. Prince Charming stared at me with wide eyes. What answer
did Snow White want to hear? Was it right to betray my new acquaintance?
I said, “I cannot tell a lie, young lady. I did make him apologize to you. I wanted him to
show you some respect, that’s all.”
She smiled. “Well, that was very sweet.”
I felt elated. Prince Charming’s face tightened into a scowl. I didn’t care about Margaret
Atwood any longer—she was beautiful, and she would be mine.
“My name is Brian, by the way.”
“Very nice to meet you, Brian.” She told me her real name, and I knew it was time to strike.
I said, “Listen, we’re both very mature and respectable adults, so I’m going to ask you directly. I’d like very much to go on a date with you. Do you want to?”
“Actually... Nice try, but I already have a boyfriend.”
She turned around and went back to her seat. Prince Charming and I looked at each other;
there were no hard feelings. Sometimes even the combined charm of two college students is
insufficient to get a girl.
Yes, singles, there is a moral to this story. Romance is apparently not impossible at Penn;
it simply goes on without us. Keep trying, and one day you, too, will have a story about getting
turned down.
Brian Hertler is a junior in the College. You can
write to him at hertlerb@sas
though applying structure and rationality to relationships and disregarding the feelings seemed like an ideal
way to do things.
Choosing those who fit certain
pre-established criteria over those for
whom I could see myself developing
any sort of intense feeling was a much
better way to go. It meant that I would
not have to worry about getting too attached and as a result neglecting my
other commitments in favor of the relationship. Furthermore, it meant that
I would be able to spare my friends the
pain of listening to me complain about
a call not made or a visit not paid. And
finally, it meant that I would never
have to deal with the sadness and pain
of a separation or a breakup that could
occur.
I figured that electing to date
people I liked because of their qualities over people I was just attracted to
would spare me a lot of unnecessary
and time-consuming trouble.
Unfortunately, it spared me more
than I had hoped for—to the point
where I became completely indifferent. And while it was good because I
was able to keep my romantic involvements from interfering with my academics and work, it also left me kind
of unsatisfied, because frankly I just
wished I cared.
And so, while emotions may be
overrated because they do cause a lot
of trouble, I’ve come to realize that it’s
the kind of trouble that is worth having. Relationships and dating are the
best ways of evoking strong feelings—
good or bad—and that is far better
than being devoid of them altogether.
Therefore, since I neglected to
make a resolution for New Year’s, I
have made one for this Valentine’s Day.
I resolve to stop trying to be practical
about something that really isn’t and
shouldn’t be.
Anna Strongin is a sophomore in the College. You
can write to her at astrongi@sas
THE UNDERGRADUATE MAGAZINE | P UBLISHED I NDEPENDENTLY AT THE U NIVERSITY OF P ENNSYLVANIA |F EBRUAR Y 16, 2004 VOL . IV NO .12
lastcall
What’s on Your Shoulder?
Penn Yuppies Jump on the Fashion Handbagon
BY LAUREN SAUL
IN 1945, The New York Times published a story about
an indispensable woman’s accessory. Predictably, the
title was Inside Story of a Handbag. It began with the
sentence: “A woman without her handbag feels as lost as
a wanderer in the desert.” The “story” then said that the
way a woman carries her handbag can reveal her whole
personality, and it warned men of certain positions that
may signify flaws in character. Anything that involved
bad posture, slumping over, swinging the handbag back
and forth, or holding it awkwardly was a bad idea. I
had accidentally clicked the link, and I didn’t even
realize that this story was published almost sixty years
ago until I completed reading it. That may be due in
part to a general state of exhaustion, since many of the
details were out of date. But, the general idea was oddly
similar to the present. Nowadays there are all kinds of
bags floating around on feminine shoulders. They can
be made of leather, fabric, fur and other material, in any
color. Sequins sometimes dangle and make noise that
corresponds with movement. There are types of bags
for every occasion—parties, everyday outings, classes,
work, lunch dates—and every couple of years a new bag
company reaches a very high level of popularity, usually
within a specific age and social demographic.
Until the Vera Bradley bags. When I arrived at
Penn, all of a sudden I saw them everywhere. Right
now, a significant number of undergraduate women at
this university and other schools like the same bags as
middle-aged women. For those of you who don’t know,
the Vera bags are made out of a thick, quilted, washable fabric; they have a flower pattern, and they come
in many different colors. Of course, people who don’t
like these handbags point to the fact that they look like
they were designed for country women in the heartland
who are as far as possible from hip, modern styles. And
they have a point. Two middle-aged neighbors in Indiana started the Vera Bradley Company about twenty
years ago, and it first became popular in rural parts of
the country. The bags undoubtedly have an older, more
friendly look.
That is why Penn girls’ affection for them is quite baffling. Generally, it is the jaded sexiness of Sex and the City
that is popular, and sometimes the plain elegance of the
little black dress and a little black purse to match. One
would predict that Penn girls and Vera’s thick, quilted cotton bags would jive together about as well as Carrie did at
Aidan’s country house. And their relationship didn’t end
well either. Ah, I digress. Nevertheless, the point that I
am trying to make is that Vera bags do not fit this campus’s
general fashion landscape. The preference is clothing and
bags that are sort of, well, sassy.
Men always complain about how it takes forever for
women to find what they need in their handbags. Both
in 1945 and in the present day, they are frustrated when it
takes ten minutes to find correct change. Even Jerry Seinfeld was making fun of the universality of this problem on
his man-purse episode. When he started to wear a purse,
he kept complaining about how impossible it is to find
anything. When a bag is first bought, there is empty space.
Since nature abhors a vacuum, that space must promptly
be cluttered. Vera bags admittedly are better than most
other brands for dealing with this problem because they
have so many compartments of different shapes and sizes.
The wallet, cell phone, tissues, make-up, and everything
else each can have their own specific destination.
Organization is definitely important during the day,
and Vera bags are only used for classes and daily outings.
Perhaps they are as practical as they look. They are pretty,
also, even if it is in a ’40s era kind of way. As long as a strict
separation is maintained between day and evening, wearing a bag that is designed for an older clientele is reasonable. However, the Ann Taylor on campus has convinced
me that this trend may just go too far. Watch out, everyone.
There are plenty of years of “maturity” ahead, so why hurry
into older styles? Vera Bradley will not take over bag-land.
Bags that are brimming with attitude add a little bit of
spice that is important for everyday life, and they will not
be abandoned anytime soon.
Lauren Saul is a freshmen in the College. You can write to her at
lcsaul@sas
BEST BETS 2/16 - 2/22
Rob Forman’s picks for the week
Monday: Everwood (WB, 9PM) has
“The L Word.” No, it’s not a parody of
the Showtime breakout smash. This
show, in its sophomore season, tends
to fly under my radar because of the
foul aftertaste 7th Heaven leaves on
anything that airs after it. However,
Treat Williams and the entire cast
are truly deserving of praise. This
is a normal, layered family drama
with great writing, something that
new shows have desperately lacked.
Though the title references love, or
perhaps lust, I don’t think the show
has hit the soap opera level yet.
Tuesday: Scrubs (NBC, 9:20ish PM)
is all-new with Michael J. Fox. That’s
all you need to know. It’s called “My
Porcelain God”. I wouldn’t repeat a
show recommendation so soon, after
only a span of two weeks, but watching Fox back on television was both
brilliant and magical. He plays a physician-and-surgeon who suffers from
OCD. The man is a comic genius. The
show is comic genius. Together, they
are not to be missed. I say 9:20ish
because NBC is doing their stupid
Super-Size thing, and no one knows
exactly when the show will begin.
If you catch the last few minutes of
Frasier, so be it. Oh, watch out for the
epiphany toilet and rude janitors.
Wednesday: That 70s Show (FOX,
8PM) gives viewers “Sally Simpson,”
an episode that centers around America’s favorite graverobber, Ashton
Kutcher. He gets it on with Britain’s
stage version of Meg Ryan, Alyson
Hannigan, also known for flutes and
lesbian witchery. Possibly the most
underrated comedy on television, by
critics anyway. If the retrospective
wackiness, hairstyles, and clothing
aren’t enough to catch your attention,
then just tune in before watching the
bafflingly popular American Idol results show.
Thursday: Without a Trace (CBS,
10PM) is quickly becoming a true
competitor for the ailing ER over on
the ailing NBC. The show is a procedural about finding missing persons.
Lead actor Anthony LaPaglia recently
won a Golden Globe for his consider-
able chops. “Risen” is no exception
to the show’s well thought-out, fastpaced stories. Easy to get into, this
episode will hold your attention if the
type of show floats your boat. Not my
cup of tea, but now I’ve run out of
aphorisms.
Friday: What I Like about You (WB,
8:30 PM) doles out “The Interview,”
though the only thing lacking from
the episode is an interview. Always
charming and physically funny,
Amanda Bynes’ character, Holly,
blows off her college admissions interview to go on a date. No. Bad. Bad.
No. Idiot child. In retrospect, perhaps
I should have skipped out on my
interview. Hell, if I were a different
sexual persuasion and were dating
someone who looked like guest star
Nick Zano, then maybe I would have.
Nah. You done bad, Holly.
Saturday: Iron Chef (FOOD, 10PM)
serves up a horribly dubbed, thoroughly entertaining and melodramatic cooking battle. I don’t have any
information on which one it is (thank
you www.food.com, and your crappy
schedule). If you need me to describe
the show further, then you really
ought to just find that rock and go
back under it for another few years.
Just thought I’d let the Penn community know when repeats air. You’re
welcome.
Sunday: Sex and the City (HBO,
9PM) presents the prolific, reinvigorating, inventive comedy’s final installment, “An American Girl in Paris,
Part Duex.” Though I refuse to give
anything away about SATC’s finale,
it is an event you should not miss if
you’ve ever watched the show. I know
a lot of people who will miss those
expensive outfits and lunchtime conversations about… stuff. Adieu, Carrie
Bradshaw, et al.
If You Can Only Watch One: Sex and
the City (Sunday).