February 14, 2005 - Dolphin Student Group Web Accounts

The Undergraduate Magazine
Vol. V, No. 12 | February 14, 2005
Sleep is Lame
Anna informs us awake is the new
asleep.
Page 3
Softly Glowing Love
Andrew reviews the greatest pornos
never filmed.
Page 8
Be Ours
Sweet like Candy
Michael and more on this Valentine’s
themed page.
Page 5
James’ latest trio of album reviews
with a bitter twist.
Page 7
SINGLES
AWARENESS DAY
THUY TRAN | SIMPLE TRUTHS
OH GOODY— IT’S VALENTINE’S
DAY. On this so-called national
“holiday,” the CEOs of Hallmark,
Victoria’s Secret, and the candy
hearts factory conspire to empty
your wallets in order to fund their
annual orgy with the Olsen twins on
a mountain of cash. If a heap of cash
and young tycoons get their rocks off
once a year, then so be it.
For those of us with significant
others, Valentine’s Day is the one night a year specifically set
aside for celebratory shagging. In preparation, we attempt to
secure a table at an expensive restaurant in the city. Nothing says
‘I love you’ better than an overpriced meal and a bottle of Merlot.
At the very least, we pick up a suggestive card and red roses on
the way home from class. Love is in the air. However, if you’re
single and alone, hold your nose.
To all the singles out there: Happy Single’s Awareness Day,
also known as S.A.D. On this rather miserable day for singles,
we whine about securing a date with our vibrator. Of course, we
have nothing to be ashamed of; vibrators, porno, F--- buddies
are antidotes for singles on S.A.D.
For your edification, I am going to give you a crash course on
the legend of Valentine. It’s a story filled with drama, complications, heroism, and horniness. So sit back, and relax.
The saga behind Valentine’s Day is nebulous, but raunchy
nonetheless. The legend of Valentine’s Day began in third century
Rome. The ruling emperor, Claudius II, decided married soldiers
were whining too much about being taken from their families
and subsequently outlawed marriage for any draft eligible man.
A renegade priest named Valentine saw the injustice of this
law and decided to marry young couples in secrecy. Father Valentine put his neck on the line just so those crazy kids could get laid,
and what did it get him? A death sentence.
In jail, Valentine had a revelation and tried to shag the
warden’s daughter. I’m not familiar in the incarcerated priest’s
pre-execution courtship dance, but I imagined it included absolution, free indulgences, and all the wine and crackers she
could handle. The poor guy didn’t want to die a virgin. She, being a Catholic schoolgirl, insisted on a longer courtship than his
sentence permitted. He was executed before they could hook up
for clandestine holy shagging. Father Valentine signed his last
letter to her “From Your Valentine,” hence the expression we see
printed on every Hallmark card. Pretty neat, huh?
Now, why did we start commercializing Valentine’s Day when
it has such a bittersweet, if not morbid, tale behind it? Moreover,
why do we need to set a day aside to revel in a universal human
emotion? If this “love” that one speaks of truly exists, then every
day should be a celebration of love. Nevertheless, I think we can
all agree that Valentine’s Day in the twenty-first century is all
about emotional exploitation by way of retail bribery and soulwrenching excavation of innermost desires Dr. Phil style. And
MEETING OF THE MINDS
KELSEY SCHWENK
Continued on PAGE 5
CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE
Twas the typically terrible and bitter
Saturday night before Valentine’s Day
SHIRA BENDER | IN ALL SHIRIOUSNESS
YOUR NIGHT BEGINS with a
loud bang on the door. “GET UP
WE’RE LEAVING!” come the
shouts, followed by tipsy giggles
and drunken thuds, as your hallmates saunter past rooms, waking the napping townspeople.
Your alarm was supposed to
wake you up at 10 so you’d have
ample time to get a sexy-but-nottoo-slutty outfit together and
down some cheap plastic-bottled
vodka some kind-hearted upperclassman bought for you and
your roommate. It is now 10:45. You realize with frustration
that you have exactly 15 minutes to get ready for the deck
party. The sleep still clawing at the back of your eyelids and
the joyful screams of playfully perverted boys chasing after
Urban-outfitted bohemian bourgeoisie ditzes in the halls still
seeping under the door, you consider your options.
If you choose to lie back down and fall back asleep,
proceed to 1.
If you choose to get out of bed and get ready for the party,
proceed to 2.
1 Lemme guess, bioengineering major? Drop the books, grab
a Red Bull, and try that one again. Proceed to beginning.
2 Peeling the sheets off your body, you grab your favorite
jeans, relieved that for once the drawer doesn’t get
stuck. You know it’s absolutely freezing outside, but the idea
of having to carry a sweater around all night once things start
heating up at the party makes you go for the spaghetti-straps.
Lip gloss, eye liner, 3.5 inch heels, and you’re ready for the
pre-game. Within minutes you and three others are downing
vodka to a game of “never have I ever.” No matter that you
already know everything there is to know about your friends’
sex lives; it never gets old. “Never have I ever been on an acid
trip while driving home from a funeral.” You are astounded by
your friends’ creativity.
If you choose to take a shot to that, proceed to 3.
If you choose to not take a shot, proceed to 10.
Continued on PAGE 4
F EBRUAR Y 14, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 12
P AGE 2
FirstCall
Editorial
Vol. V, No. 12 | February 14, 2005
The Undergraduate Magazine
Editor-in-Chief
Robert Forman
Editors
Andrew Pederson
Lauren Saul
Assistant Editor
Anna Stetsovskaya
Columnists
Shira Bender
Christine Chen
Robert Forman
Adam Goldstein
Julie Gremillion
James Houston
Mickey Jou
Michael Patterson
Andrew Pederson
Roz Plotzker
Lauren Saul
Anna Strongin
Thuy Tran
Writers
Alexandra Chalat
Anna Stetsovskaya
Artists
Shira Bender
Stephanie Craven
Jay Kim
Photographers
Marian Lee
Kelsey Schwenk
Layout Editors
Krystal Godines
Business Managers
Alex Chacon
Greg Lysko
Marketing Manager
Leah Karasik
Marketing Staff
Lauren Saul
Anna Strongin
Webmaster
Rachit Shukla
Contact Information
330 Jon M. Huntsman Hall
3730 Walnut Street
Philadelphia, PA 19104
(215) 898-3200
[email protected]
IRAQ THE VOTE
It now seems the semester is finally in full swing, after a blustery and stingingly
cold January. With the first round of exams arriving, it seems no one cares about
world events. Wait. People are discussing Prince Charles and Camilla’s engagement,
the Super Bowl’s sad end, and Condoleeza’s airplane adventures. However, here at
Penn, it seems like nobody even heard about the election in Iraq. It barely made the
DP, and it certainly is not a topic of conversation. Interestingly, last semester, the
Afghan election generated much debate. Maybe the story has simply gotten repetitive. Perhaps good news is never as momentous as bad news.
Regardless of the rationale, be it boredom or a lack of interest in reporting good
news about the controversial subject of Iraq, it seems as if Penn students have taken
John Kerry’s instructions not to “overhype this election.” As we write this editorial,
the election’s results are not yet known. We urge everyone to examine them—for
flaws, for future implications, or just for the sake of avoiding ignorance about a subject universally regarded as important.
In the meantime, here’s a little summary: Iraqis turned out to polling sites in large
numbers—in fact, the participation rate in Iraq was greater than the 2004 election,
at 60 percent—and many of them danced in the street to celebrate the experience in
the face of violent threats. Iraqis decided to treat those who were killed while voting
as martyrs, as opposed to martyring the suicide bombers responsible for their deaths.
Additionally, militants resorted to a new low: they sent a child with Down syndrome
to detonate himself, and he did, slaughtering surrounding civilians.
As politicians continue to talk about plans for withdrawal, liberals are quick to
remind Americans about the 1967 election which took place in Vietnam and the ensuing results of that war. They are not silent, so why should Penn’s contingency be?
The lack of interest in such a fateful subject is especially disappointing because little
else of consequence is registering on the major news wires, and students seem to be
tiring of the usual talk about midterms and when the goddamn sun might come out.
Spring Break is a precious three weeks away, and the least we can ask for in these
winter doldrums is the discussion of a thought-provoking issue. If we are bored
enough to debate Camilla’s future position as “princess consort” and Prince Harry’s
bad-boy status, it is imperative that we refocus our attentions.
DYNAMIC
DUO
Holy FCC
Lawsuit,
Batman!
Where’s
Sound
Advice?!?
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 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. To this end, we,
the editors of First Call, are committed
to a policy of not censoring opinions.
Articles are provided by regular columnists and writers. 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.
Next issue: February 21, 2005
Don’t ask me...
I was supposed to go with
Andrew Pederson’s article.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Bitch!
P AGE 3
F EBRUAR Y 14, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 12
WHO NEEDS LOVE? GIVE ME A RED BULL
BY ANNA STETSOVSKAYA
LET ME GET a few things out in the open:
I, overworked college student, have never
pulled an all-nighter. I’ve also never had a
Red Bull. Until now, anyway: there are wings
springing out of my back and goshdarnit, I’m
not going to sleep for hours.
My freshman year roommate kept a case
of Red Bull under her bed, for emergencies I
suppose. Or maybe to point to it occasionally
and remind herself (and others) that she was
part of an exclusive underworld I never visit,
where sleep is an illusion and a yellow fizzy
energy boost is the perfectly potable potent
prescription for a sleep-hungry mind.
Staying up all night finishing a paper
that you started at dawn is a college pastime.
We’ve all known people who firmly believe
work isn’t worth doing unless it ruptures a
circadian rhythm. In this spirit, I offer an easy
Five Step guide for staying up all night and
making it worth your while. Pay close attention, there might be a Red Bull in it for you:
Step One:
Browse thefacebook.com and fidget with
the hold-over Christmas lights decorating
your room until at least midnight. Talk to
your roommate for another hour, check your
e-mail diligently, and tell every single person
you see that you have a paper to write, and
that it’s due in nine hours, yes NINE hours.
Step Two:
Start writing the paper when the last
kid you knew in high school finally signs of-
fline. It’ll be done eventually, especially if you
pound the keyboard hard enough. Ideally, rip
the last sheet from the printer at 10:29 a.m.
and sprint to class.
Step Three:
Come
into
lecture late and
crash-land, sighing, into the chair
by the door. You’ve
stayed up all night
to do the work
that was assigned
in the first week
of class, and no
one better think
you’re well-rested
or eager to learn.
Step Four:
Look at the
person next to
you and declare,
“I definitely didn’t
start this thing till
four,” while patting the stapled
5000-word (with 1.25” margins) accomplishment on your desk. No badgering the TA
for answers ahead of time for you, glorious
underachiever.
Step Five A:
Wait for the empathy and respect to
start fluttering in. Saying you’ve pulled an
all-nighter automatically gives you the Red
(Bull?) Badge of Courage: Hey, you are way
too preoccupied with the important things
in life, like engraving your initials into the
elliptical at Pottruck or trying
out every burrito/
salsa
combination at Qdoba, to
do work ahead of
time. Sleep is for
suckers, and you
for one are not a
sucker. Congratulations, you win!
Step Five B:
No
respect
yet? I’m sorry to
say this, my friend,
but you have been
confronted.
Instead of a soughtafter “No way!
You are my idol!”
or at least a commiserative glance,
you get a challenge. “Oh, I didn’t even start
till six,” also known as, “I see your four and
I raise you two.” Other unforeseen obstacles:
the kid who does two papers in one night, the
kid who manages to weasel an extension from
the professor for “personal reasons,” and the
kid who is a vampire.
You’ve lost; you reel in disbelief. Surely,
you did everything right! Cursing your fate,
you pass out on the desk for the rest of the
class. Relax! There’s no shame in encountering a seasoned-vet of all-nighters. Practice
makes perfect, and you did score a free Red
Bull from a wandering band of Red Bull “I’m
just like you!” teen spokespeople handing out
samples across campus. The night before, you
peruse the Red Bull propaganda you’ve been
handed on your way back to the high rises:
“No matter what you do, Red Bull can lift you
up and help you do it better, for longer.” You
love doing things better, and doing them for
longer is an added boost! You glance at the
calendar and realize that Valentine’s Day is
coming up, and stash the second can you took
for later.
As for me, I have to say that I value sleep
way too much to compete on all-nighters
with seasoned-vets or even my freshman year
roommate. Or do I? Kudos for staying awake
for that long and for being productive… come
to think of it, I have the rest of my life to
sleep! After all, I am no longer a Red Bull virgin, and boy do I feel a rush. Anyone want to
come over and talk about our love lives until
the wee hours of the morning? I have a paper
due tomorrow.
Anna Stetsovskaya is a sophomore in Wharton.
You can write to her at astetsov@wharton.
HON-HON-HONGRY
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
ONE OF THE MANY little
pleasures I garner from life
comes when I wake up feeling conscious enough to lazily
browse through The New York
Times’ webpage while eating a
Penn Maid key lime pie yogurt
(much to the disgust of everyone I know) before heading off
to one of my 10:30 Wharton
core classes, where I learn the
arts of job costing and linear regression. When I revert to a
more sleepy state in those classes, my mind jumps around and
remembers the reading that I actually have done — which,
more often than not, is only the quick morning glance at the
Times. While I was looking around the bookstore earlier in
the week and perusing the more popular sells, I had seen
French Women Don’t Get Fat in the over-promoted vicinity.
I had seen a review of this in the Times already, and so, one
morning, I started to think about the book’s ideas for a good
chunk of lecture time.
The message in this book is powerful, and unlike diet
books, it covers a wide breadth of eating territory. The author,
Mireille Guiliano, opens with a little personal story about
her experience as a high school exchange student in the U.S.
At the end of her year’s stay, when she returns to her native
France, she realizes how much weight she has gained on her
American trip. She shares her suffering with her readers and
then talks about how she re-emerged from her flab. The book
takes on a very different light because she shares her personal
horror story, softening the uniquely French tone of superiority
that it would have otherwise conveyed.
Anyone who suffered from the freshman fifteen can relate
to the sinking feeling that comes with having no choice but
to resort to sweatpants. The alcohol intake, the unsatisfying
meals in the dining hall, the sporadic sleeping patterns, and
the late night delivery orders all combine to form a heavy
menace feared by girls everywhere. Sadly, the post-weight
gain reaction can be as unhealthy as the former stage. Upon
realizing that beer has calories, some girls will panic and take
desperate measures to return to their former state of svelteness, sometimes going too far and becoming yet another sufferer in the eating disorder epidemic.
When reading Guiliano’s book, which cites America’s rush
through oversized portions of too-bland food and our attendance at the gym, where we will use the oh-so-fun machines,
which she calls a “vestige of Puritanism: instruments of public
self-flagellation to make up for private sins of couch riding
and overeating,” it is hard to deny her point, despite the traditional bitterness resulting from the mutual jealousy between
the Americans and the French.
It isn’t that Americans don’t care about their body’s appearance. They do. To many, it is more important than their
health. I am not only referring to the rampant eating disorders that plague girls; many guys have issues as well. Who,
after all, doesn’t know a guy who spends a good chunk of his
waking hours lifting weights at the gym, but would rather
jump off the building before stepping on a treadmill? Gym
attendance, or lack thereof, is a source of guilt for many people
who feel they should stop there more often. In the winter, the
gym can be especially useful because there are few other ways
to properly exercise. However, problems can arise if it is used
as a way to make up for excessive, unhealthy eating habits.
Guiliano repeats the old adage: Americans would do even
better if we could incorporate more everyday walking — from
place to place, up the stairs of a high rise — into our lives. This
suggestion is especially pertinent for people who drive everywhere and try not to walk further than their garage. Many
Americans would not be able to carry all of that extra weight
if they were forced to walk as much as people do in Europe.
What Guiliano fails to recognize is that it is hard for these
people to escape from their natural sedentary habits, and that
the gym substitutes for some as the extra exercise that really
should be in everyone’s daily routine. Therefore, the gym essentially is a double edged sword.
Guiliano’s citing of the prevalence of oversized bland portions of food is a valid point. Case in point: all dining halls
on campus, plus many restaurants and the buffets dotting the
American heartland which now say “All you care to eat” instead of “All you can eat”. Many freshmen have special trouble
with calories because dinner is often inedible. As a result, they
either resort to the dining hall’s unhealthier offerings, such as
the pastries, ice cream, Penn waffles, and often scary looking
pizza, or they fail to eat enough and later order in food not
long before they go to sleep. Sound familiar?
The depressing reality is that as these people later admonish themselves for gaining weight, many of them didn’t even
enjoy the food (and the poorly made beverages) that got them
to the level. After all, if people are going to gain weight en
masse when arriving at school, they should at least do it with
meals of savory, tasty food. Instead, it’s the jungle juice, the
beer, the croissants and the greasy Chinese food with a final
late-night slice of sub-par Philly pizza that create a snowball
effect. Sometimes people don’t even notice the newly created
girth until winter break because they are too busy rushing
through life and eating food whenever there is a free moment.
Therefore, this is my Valentine’s Day advice to singles and
couples alike, if you were too busy doing other V-Day activities this weekend to take a break: treat yourself to something
tasty and enjoy every bite and every moment of it. Go to the
restaurant your girlfriend always mentions casually and enjoy
food for once like the French do all the time. Why? As Loreal says, “Because you’re worth it.” Every American is. Now,
some American should write a book for the French about having a work ethic.
Critically Inform.
Signed up for too many activities and wound up doing nothing?
Wanted to get involved in a campus publication, but didn’t know how?
It’s never too late.
First Call, the Undergraduate Magazine, is always looking for new members:
• Writers
• Artists
• Photographers • Layout
• Marketing/ Sales
Meetings Mondays 9pm JMHH G86
Submissions due Wednesdays at midnight.
No application or experience necessary.
[email protected]
Continued on PAGE PB
P AGE 4
ADVENTURE
Continued from PAGE 1
3 Drunk, jumpy, and lookin’ good, you’re finally out the door.
On your way to the party, you eye the snow and catch yourself
wishing you could just jump in and make some angels. Sharp
pains from the heels you’re wearing remind you that you’re
nowhere near that kind of bliss right now. You hear someone
calling your name. You turn around, and see John, a guy you
hooked up with during NSO. He asks if he can join you.
If you choose to bring him along to the party, proceed to 4.
If you choose to blow him off, proceed to 5.
4 John is clearly already drunk, and you begin to regret
your decision almost immediately. Your roommate and other
friends walk in a separate group now, and you are left to fend
for yourself against the over-excited, touchy-feely boy. He
starts talking about how hot you look, and you smile and roll
your mascara-tipped eyes in response. “Valentine’s day is on
Monday, you know…got anything special planned?” You hate
Valentine’s Day. “I hate Valentine’s day.” “Well, that’s probably
because you haven’t had the right man around.” You fight back
your gag reflex just enough to respond.
If you choose to get rid of the sketch ball, proceed to 5.
If you choose to keep him along for kicks, proceed to 6.
5 After politely informing John that you have a boyfriend
up in Connecticut, rendering you entirely unavailable for
no-strings sex, you continue on your way. You look back once
more to see him hitting on some other girl, and secretly hope
that he is as of yet unaware of her terrible case of gonorrhea.
Approaching Walnut St., your roommate trips on some ice
and falls flat on her mini-skirted ass. Clutching her ankle,
she claims that she’s fine and can still make it to the party.
You notice a slight limp in her step, and though the alcohol
is just starting to really work its magic, you still have enough
sense left to know that walking, dancing, partying, and most
probably eventually skipping on that ankle would not be the
best idea.
If you choose to insist on heading back to the dorm,
proceed to 7
If you choose to trust your roommate’s insistence on being
fine and continue on to the party, proceed to 8
6 “Well then I guess I’ll just have to keep looking for one,
then,” was all you could think of. Why not lead the boy on
for a bit? At least it would ensure some entertainment for
the evening. You all continue walking, and finally, after three
more blocks of shameless flirtation and flattery, you arrive at
the party. A swarm of people engulf the gateway. You spot
a couple of faces you recognize from Shatte’s class, and ask
them what the hold up is. “No guys are allowed in, except for
brothers and pledges.” You realize that the chances are slim of
all of your friends getting in. You know that there is absolutely
nothing else going on tonight, unless you feel like returning
to your roots at the Hillel by attending a midnight lecture on
how to help your people take over Penn.
If you choose to try to charm your way in with the girls,
proceed to 8.
If you choose to stick with the guys you came with, and head
back for an evening of a drunken OC marathon, proceed to 9.
If you choose to attend the lecture at the Hillel, proceed to 12.
7 You start explaining to your roommate and friends that a
sprained ankle will only get worse unless elevated and pressurized with ice. They start laughing, tell you that you sound
like your mother, and trek onwards, leaving you shivering in
the realization that you are sobering up entirely too quickly.
J&B
F EBRUAR Y 14, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 12
You spot a friend sipping on a bottle of clear liquid.
If you have absolutely no clue what’s going on right now,
proceed to 3, and next time, say no to drugs.
If you choose to pounce on him and hope it’s not exactly
water, proceed to 10.
If you choose to speed up a bit to catch up with your friends,
proceed to 8.
8 Finally arriving at the front of the line at the party, you start
working your magic on the bouncers, who consist of three
freshman pledges. They immediately start protesting that you
and the girls can come in, but the guys have to stay outside.
You try every trick in the book, but to no avail. “If you can get
a brother on the phone who says they can come in, they’re in.
Otherwise, we just can’t allow it.” You recognize that voice, but
you just can’t quite place it. Suddenly, it hits you!
If you realize it’s your third cousin whom you met at a Chanukah party two months ago, proceed to 11.
If you realize it’s that hot guy you met on Locust walk when
you decided to donate money to some environmentalist he was
flyering for, proceed to 13.
9 “If you can’t get in, I’m not going in either,” you tell the
guys, expecting them to appreciate your display of solidarity,
and to warmly thank you for your kindness and compassion.
Instead, you notice them looking at you a tad bit below eyelevel. “Just get us in with those.” One of them says, and you
immediately zip up your poofy black jacket to your chin. “Excuse me?!” you defiantly respond. “I can’t believe you just – “
“Relax. It’s a joke. We just mean, we should at least try and get
in first before giving up and heading back to the dorm, right?
Go be a charmer.” Proceed to 8.
10 It was water. Good job, sport. Proceed to 8.
11 “Remember?!? We shared the last Latkeh!!” After about
5 minutes of persuasion, your long-lost relative gives in and
opens the gate for you and your friends. Proceed to 14.
12 Mazel Tov, your mother is very proud of you. Unfortunately, as soon as you arrive at the Hillel, you realize that the
lecture is not really as advertised, and instead you are forced
to witness a massive orgy in which all participants are wearing
masks and black cloaks. You finally understand what all the
hullabaloo about the Hillel is about, and you get back to your
room at around 2 am with a new respect for your heritage.
The End, bubbeleh.
13 “Remember?!? We saved the rainforest…together!” After
about 5 minutes of persuasion, the guy gets sick of listening to
your bullshit and tells you there is no chance in hell that you’ll
be getting in to this party.
If you choose to walk the 5ish blocks back home,
proceed to 17.
If you choose to call 898-ride and get a lift from Penn Transit,
proceed to 18.
14 You’re in! Finally, you’ve managed to make your way into
the over-crowded, entirely too-small room which is absolutely
freezing cold due to the fact that no one notices that the door
has been left wide open. John is hitting on you again, completely ignoring the fact that you have a boyfriend and being
completely obvious about how entirely insecure and alone he
is. He keeps starting to dance right near you so he can stealthily move closer and closer in order to eventually end up dryhumping you in the midst of 50 other happily dry-humping
couples.
If you choose to let him reach that goal, proceed to 15.
If you choose to ditch him in search of the keg, proceed to 16.
Continued from PAGE 7
“I’m going to make a record so I never forget, what it was I wrecked.”
Okay, so I couldn’t help myself from throwing in a Jawbreaker lyric somewhere in there. But
the last one really epitomizes the theme of JTB. The quality and lyrical integrity that followed
the loss of Jawbreaker was more than one could have hoped for. “Orange Rhyming Dictionary”
(September 1998) was JTB’s first release, and arguably their most notable. JTB consistently
drizzles its albums with the best word choice and imagery in the biz, taking the pre-existing
driven emotion enthroned to Jawbreaker and turning the volume down without losing much of
the fascination, regret and heartache. So what if the last album “Perfecting Loneliness” (October
2002) wasn’t exactly well received, perhaps because it was housed by a downright ugly album
cover (a scrumptious mix of diarrheal colors and flying monkeys reminiscent of The Wizard of
Oz in the distance)? That cover art was actually enough to keep me from buying it. It was just
SORRY, FRIENDS
Continued from PAGE 7
exists on the premise that each person involved is either a man
or a woman. Which bathroom would you use? Which doctor
would you go to?
Personally, I got a lot out of some issues of a zine (selfpublished magazine) called Transcendence Transcendence that
features writing from transgender youth. Sexual/romantic roles
are only arena. Religion, the media’s exploitation of transfolks as
deviants, and the Hellenic frat/sorority system all come up.
Heath issues are a major concern. In some cases, someone
considering hormone therapy or surgery, for example – medicine and transgender-specific concerns seem to go hand in
hand. In other cases – how a transwoman explains that she
has no menstrual cycle when student heath asks for the date
15 You and John have been grinding for about 5 minutes,
when suddenly the police burst in and arrest him for raping a
girl in the back of Allegro’s. You flip out and run back to your
room, ignore the sexile symbol on the doorknob, and find
your roommate making out with your third cousin from the
gate. You fall asleep across the hall in a friend’s room, entirely
regretting the wasted evening. The End.
16 You push through the swarm surrounding the keg and wait
around with your cup held out and your entire body shaking
from the cold. Some genius decided to place the keg right next
to the open doorway. It’s almost your turn when they decide
they need a new one, but when they’ve completed the switch,
they realize that the new keg is frozen, and that it would take
about 20 minutes to get anything out of it. Meanwhile, you’ve
been spilled on, pushed, knocked, shoved, and groped by one
too many people, and you’re pretty much entirely sober at this
point. You’ve had enough of this, and signal to your roommate
that it’s time to go. She agrees with you entirely, and you push
your way out into the freezing cold, make your way down the
treacherous staircase, and out the gate.
If you choose to walk the 5ish blocks back home,
proceed to 17.
If you choose to call 898-ride and get a lift from Penn Transit,
proceed to 18.
17 The trek back is long, icy, and painful for your roommate,
who has chosen to walk all night on a sprained ankle. As you
are approaching the lower Quad entrance, you realize that you
forgot your Penn card back in your room, and that you now
have to walk back up to the upper gate to sign yourself in. You
tell your friends to go up without you, and begin your trek.
After running through 3 different possibilities of the last four
digits of your social security number, you eventually make it
through the Specta-guard Fortress of Doom, drag yourself
through the Quad, battle your way through the kitschy Valentine’s decorations your well-intentioned RA put up 2 weeks
ago and into your room. It smells like week-old garbage and
citrus-scented spray. Your roommate is asleep in her clothing,
and your friend visiting from home is sprawled out unconscious on your bed. Snuggling up on your Urban Outfitters
rug, you drift into dreams of Cupid duking it out with Satan
in a ring made of frozen beer. The End.
18 You are standing on the corner of 40th and Walnut, shivering from the cold, and attempting to dial the number with
your gloves on. You ask for a ride back to the Quad, and within
about 2 minutes a Penn Transit van approaches. Things are
looking up, for once. The van slows to a stop, the driver peers
out of his window, sees you and your friends, and proceeds to
drive away. Entirely perturbed, you call back to complain, and
the lady tells you that there are 2 people in line before you, but
that the van will be there shortly. 15 minutes later, still no sign
of the van. You have lost feeling in your toes and pinkies. You
call back one more time, and are told that the van is coming
your way. Sure enough, there it is…and there it went. Passed
by you again. By now, you’re just fed up.
If you choose to take a cab back, proceed to 19.
If you choose to walk back, proceed to 17.
19 You hail a cab, and as soon as you get in, the guy starts
asking you about what you’re studying. You hate cab drivers
who talk to you. You tell him you’re actually a drop-out who
likes to go to the parties and shoot up heroine. He shuts up. As
you’re leaving the cab, he yells out, “Happy Valentine’s Day!”
in a heavy Russian accent. The door slams before you can respond. The End.
Shira Bender is a freshman in the College. You can write to her at
shiratb@sas.
that ugly.
Nevertheless, I’m still floored by the fact that the time I saw them was, unbeknownst to me,
their last. I strangely recall that Schwarzenbach never opened his eyes completely that night,
not even while he was on the keyboard. It was very distinctly June 2003 at Philadelphia’s very
own Trocadero. I will never forget it because it was the night I appropriately fell unexpectedly
and stupidly for an equally unexpected and charmingly stupid boy with his perfect carelessly
side swept blonde hair sometime between the songs “Lemon Yellow Black” and “You’re the One
I Want”. It was true love. We shared the same favourite Built to Spill album, which was ever appropriately There’s Nothing Wrong with Love. Shocker. But with JTB playing in the foreground,
how could a girl resist?
Christine Chen is a sophomore in Engineering. You can write to her at cachen@seas.
of her last period – the connection is more based in medical
practice. The upcoming trans-health conference in Philadelphia, scheduled for March 10th-12th 2005, is a great opportunity
for transfolks, healthcare providers and allies of transpeople to
learn about healthcare concerns in the transgender community.
Look up trans-health.org for more information. Also, The Mazzoni Clinic provides health care that is welcoming to all types of
gender identities.
If you want to delve into an independent gender analysis or
learn more about trans issues, here are a few resources:
In addition to Transcendence Transcendence, you can get
other zines on trans issues and transfolks experiences as well
as literature by trans youth through the Tomatoes = Love Zine
Distro by emailing [email protected], and
Dancing With Myself by Pony in another recommended zine,
out-of-print but still findable.
You can also swing by Van Pelt and check out Trans Liberation by Leslie Feinberg (or anything else by Leslie Feinberg).
Also, Kate Bornstein’s My Gender Workbook has changed lives.
Whether you are currently questioning your own gender, the
point of gender, or if you are looking for a well-written book to
read, pick up a copy. It’s funny, approachable, thought-provoking, and interactive (really!). Hir other book, Gender Outlaw, is
also high on the list. For those of you who would prefer a movie
over a book, “Ma Vie En Rose” and “Boys Don’t Cry” are both
fictional depictions of life as a young transperson; “Boys Don’t
Cry” is based on a true story.
And of course, here are a few of many websites:
www.deadletters.biz, www.strap-on.org , www.gender.org
Roz Plotzker is a senior in the College. You can write to her at
rosalyn@sas.
F EBRUAR Y 14, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 12
TOO LAZY FOR
PILATES, TOO BORED
FOR ROMANCE
M I C H A E L PAT T E R S O N | O U T O F T H E F O L D
AUTHORS WARNING: The following column contains material some may find offensive. It is advised that you not read this
column if:
1) You are a 21 year-old virgin whom the idea of sex frightens
like the plague.
2) You have your head so far up your own ass that you are your
own colonoscopy.
3) You are an evangelical Christian (then just pray for me).
4) You are a homophobe who might find the discussion of
same-sex sex oddly arousing - see my November 8th, 2004 column “Conservative Hot All Male Action”.
5) You are in a deep and loving relationship.
Valentine’s Day has come again, and for the second year in a row, this stud is single and
getting none – barring getting drunk at a frat party. This single life of mine is certainly not by
choice. Over the last twelve months I have gone on many dates, yet I have met no one who I
shared a mutual interest in.
My last failed exploit in the arena of dating – a man in the army whom appropriately I shall
label Pvt. Muscles, was an absolute disaster. Sitting at a local bar over beers this past December,
I watched as this army man smoked cigarette after disgusting cigarette, blowing the smoke in
my face, and then proceeded to bore me with tales of his experiences in the armed forces. Of
course, the whole idea of dating a hunky, muscular 28 year old military man is not without its
attraction. Throughout the two hour ordeal of listening to Pvt. Muscles go on and on about one
thing or the other, I clocked some good fantasy time.
“Yes sir, Pvt. Muscles, I’ll remove my pants immediately!”
Unfortunately, fantasizing about our bodies entwined in various acts of hot sex was just
about all that date was good for. By the time Pvt. Ryan revealed voting for Bush – like so many
military men – I decided that good rough sex simply couldn’t justify keeping this guy in my life
another minute. Satisfaction would be mine, but not that night.
Late last summer, in another conquest that petered out, I went out on a few dates with a guy
with whom I had a marginally better experience. This man, whom I will call “Drexel Boy,” was
so full of himself and completely arrogant all around, it was nearly impossible to hold a decent
conversation with him. I mean, seriously, dates with this guy were beyond boring. I listened to
Drexel Boy prattle on about things that wouldn’t even interest someone locked away in solitary
confinement for years, much less this more or less intelligent college student. The only good
thing about our dates was that they always ended in some nice make-out action, with some ass
groping thrown in for fun. Unfortunately, despite his rock hard ass, I simply couldn’t bring
myself to endure any more evenings of shallow,
meaningless conversation.
The sad consequence of these failures, and
several others, came crashing down on me two or three weeks ago at a party I hosted at my
place. As I imbibed more and more alcohol over the course of a snowy evening in my apartment,
I took notice of how many couples were there. In fact, it seemed that practically everyone who
came – straight, gay, etc. – were coupled as if their next destination was an Ark of some kind.
I, on the other hand, was left to play host, single and lame. By the time I was heading to the
restroom from some overly strong martinis, the idea that I had failed in finding the perfect relationship had taken root in my mind. My drunken mind couldn’t help contemplating that with
my run of bad luck with men lately, perhaps there is a God, and he is punishing me for being
gay. Damn, if only I had some fields of grain for him to smite down.
The next morning, waking up hot and sweaty from a night of drunken sleep, I realized
something. Why should I be jealous that most of my friends are in relationships and I’m not?
What are these stains on my shirt from? Why in the hell do I feel the need to have a boyfriend
so much? I mean, I did the whole long term relationship thing my sophomore and junior year,
and it turned out shitty. In retrospect, wonderful, sober retrospect, it doesn’t seem worth repeating again, at least not now. Therefore, going into my final semester at Penn, I feel like trying
something different from my friends, something that I avoided all last semester and the months
before. Yes, Pilates it is.
But first, today, February 14th, 2005, I announce my status as single and my intent to stay
that way for the remainder of my senior year. I have spent a year working the fields of eligible
men, paid off many for their silence, gone on many a date, and engaged in various activities in
the bedroom with a smaller subset of these men, and in the end, none were able to be that special someone, that guy who exercises my mind in conservation, and my body in bed.
Now, with a scant few months left, engaging in fruitless expeditions into the realm of dating
is simply below me. Instead, I am going to relax, go out with my friends, meet some nice young
men, and have fun with the rest of my college experience.
So I am left to conclude that there is in fact no God to punish me for being gay, I’m far too
busy / lazy for Pilates, and chocolate martinis actually don’t taste all that much better going
down than coming back up. Most importantly of all, though, I can be single and not feel guilty
of committing a crime, particularly on this High Holy Day for couples everywhere, Valentine’s
Day.
“Yes sir Pvt. Muscles,
I’ll remove my pants
immediately!”
SINGLED OUT
Continued from PAGE 1
let’s not forget, it’s also about dishing out hundreds of dollars on gifts to please a girl and hoping that she’d do anything you want her to do in bed.
Learning about Valentine and watching sorority girls walking through CVS with D-cell
batteries in their shopping basket got me thinking: Is being single on Valentine’s Day really
so bad?
I’d rather embrace singleness than fall victim to low level, pitiful V-day dates. For example,
last Valentine’s Day, my best girlfriend went on a date with a nose picking, manic-depressive
pedophile who spent a whole evening explaining to her the multitudinous nuances of car detailing and motocross expos. Poor girl almost converted to lesbianism (she makes everything
into an “ism”) because she was convinced that she would never meet a decent man who could
offer the sexual solace she craves.
My most pathetic V-day adventure consisted of sitting alone in an upscale fancy restaurant,
dressed to kill, waiting for the date to show up. Twenty … 30 … 45 minutes … are you kidding
me?
Amid the semi-averted glances and pitied whispers of in-love patrons, my lovely waiter
decides to drive a stake into my weary heart. Peering down at me he condescendingly inquires,
“He is going to show up, isn’t he?” I couldn’t handle the embarrassment of being stood up in
public, so I lied, saying how he just called and is going to be a little late. Two hours later, Prince
Charming, dressed ghetto style, showed up with an incredulous excuse: <thug-like accent> “Yo
sweet thang. My main man and I were out with da ho’s and we were keeping it real with some
off da hook shit. Keepin’ it realz aiiiiiite?” That awful evening ended with his saying, “Peace
out, biotch.”
Okay, I’m kidding. I have never been privy to gruesome dates with thugs, but in the past,
I have been on dates where the person had no concept of punctuality and was as stupid as a
rock. Had I had the foresight to see that Cupid would do everything his in power to shoot his
smelly diapers at me instead of love arrows, I would have stayed home to watch reruns of Sex
and the City.
Clearly, if you’re in a relationship, Valentine’s Day is a fun excuse to do something romantic
or sexually adventurous. Don’t skip it because of my fictitious stories! I bet you have been anxiously counting down to the one night you can wear that really naughty and provocative black
lacy baby doll Victoria’s Secret. For those of you who are going to get lucky this V-day, have fun
and be extra, extra kinky!
However, if you’re single, you could just consider S.A.D. as being about an amorous priest
who tried to get some ass before getting whacked in the name of sexual repression.
If you’re going to be alone tonight, I suggest you download some porno. There is a plethora
of ridiculously absurd, yet entertaining, pornography in the internet. There’s something for everyone: naughty Asians, hentai, farm girls gone wild, barely legal teens, Paris Hilton sex tapes,
steamy gay sex, hot lesbian sex, and more. I even stumbled upon Disney porno. Just imagine
Snow White and the Seven Dwarves in an unreleased NR-17 version. Somewhere Walt Disney
is rolling over in his grave.
Don’t feel ashamed that you will spend this overrated holiday watching porno. At least you
are not one of those pathetic people trying to get ass by posting hideously futile ads such as:
“One discreet encounter wanted. In my fantasy, it’s a dumb frat boy with a small dick. Send
me pics if you have them...I am available tonight.” (Drexel student)
“Ride me like a dime store pony” (Nursing Student)
“I’m 22, an architect; Italian/Irish, attractive, hung, aggressive…and I just want you to
handcuff and spank me. I don’t care if you’re ugly… I’ll just wear a blindfold.” (Pretentious
artsy student)
“Looking for hot, wealthy MILF for some possible afternoon fun.” (Wharton Undergraduate)
God save their filthy souls.
Thuy Tran is a junior in the College. You can write to her at thuytran@sas.
Michael Patterson is a senior in the College. You can write to him at mjp2@sas.
Dear Abby?
Ask THUY.
Email First Call’s Thuy Tran for relationship advice
and read the response in her column, Simple Truths.
[email protected]
*Not every week’s Simple Truths will be devoted to responses.
P AGE 5
Jay Kim is a junior in the College. You can write to her at jihea@sas.
P AGE 6
F EBRUAR Y 14, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 12
IS THIS POST-GAME STILL ON?
FOX29’s report rubs Rob the wrong way
ROB FORMAN | MY 13-INCH BOX
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY
6TH,
2005 was not
the greatest of
nights
unless
you’re a Pats fan.
And let’s be honest, Boston/New
England people…
you got your
victory in October. Not being qualified to
comment on the game itself, I’ll let the sports
commentator wannabes on campus continue
to grumble about McNabb and move on to the
non-football portion of the broadcast.
Offender #1: Paul McCartney
Paul, Paul, Paul. I love a great deal of your
music. But I wasn’t the only one struck dumbfounded with the sheer simplicity of your
halftime performance. There’s a large, blurry
area between Janet Jackson’s Nipple and Being Boring. I imagine a number of Americans
were pleased with the innocuousness of the
routine. I myself was truly impressed by “Live
or Let Die,” one of my favorite Wings songs.
But the show, as a whole, offered little excitement.
Offender #2: Movie Trailers
Hollywood, what happened to you? The
Super Bowl has traditionally been the launch
of marketing campaigns for some of the summer’s biggest blockbusters. Last Sunday, we
were understandably treated to previews for
February releases Hitch and Constantine. But
March’s Robots? The new Vin Diesel movie
that I swear is a remake of a bad Schwarzeneg-
ger flick? Easily forgettable. Thank God
Spielberg got June’s War of the Worlds in as a
saving grace, but the evening lacked, without
any new Star Wars, Hitchhiker’s Guide, or
Fantastic Four trailers.
Offender #3: The Ads
You may have noticed the theme of these
complaints by now… offensively boring. This
year’s ads, which cost an average of $2.4 million as FOX so brilliantly pointed out in
a promo for the next
night’s 24, were characterized by talking
animals and a sparse
few gems, many of
which were actually
parodies or references
to past commercials.
Losers for the night
include
anything
with a talking baby,
animal, CGI superhero, or action figure.
Winners include Bud Light’s “Guy Jumps Out
of Airplane For Budlight,” GoDaddy.com’s
“GoDaddy Controvesial Ad,” the MC Hammer
cameo in “Old Man Henkins Never Throws
Back,” and Cedric the Entertainer’s “Designated Driver.”
Oddly enough, the FCC still got complaints about the night, despite the above lack
of sensationalism. GoDaddy.com’s ad generated the most heat, with eight complaints to the
government. This strikes me as odd, because
it was simply laughing at Janet Jackson. Ap-
The hour-plus of news
might have been
acceptable if (a) the
Eagles had won, or
(b) there was something to talk about.
BEST BETS
2/14 - 2/20
Rob’s TV picks for the week
Monday: 7th Heaven “Red Socks” (The WB, 8 p.m.) I don’t know why so many
people watch this show, just picked up for its tenth highly moral season which
will make it the longest running family drama ever, but this episode is a very
special musical episode. We all know I loved Buffy’s musical extravaganza. This
is no “Once More, With Feeling,” but props for the attempt.
Tuesday: American Idol “Auditions in Hollywood Continue, part 3” (FOX, 8
p.m.) Okay, I recommended the American Idol juggernaut, stop pinging me to
recommend a show that doesn’t need any more pimping. It’s annoying. Also
the episode title is highly original. I’ve got to say, Simon’s zingers have not been
as funny this year.
Wednesday: Lost “… In Translation” (ABC, 8 p.m.) I haven’t been as excited
about an episode of Lost since the installment centering around Sun, the female
Korean woman. This one is all about Jin, the male half of the Korean couple.
Besides the fact he’s the only person on the island who can’t speak English and
he’s in love with Sun, we really know nothing about him. Plus, anything that
reminds me of the Sofia Coppola masterpiece earns bonus points.
Thursday: Survivor: Palau “This Has Never Happened Before!” (CBS, 8 p.m.)
What’s with reality shows and their strange titles? Anyway, it’s season ten of
Survivor, which means another change in format to spice things up. This season, there are 20 castaways, three eliminations in the first episode, and no help
whatsoever given to the contestants. Suckers. Actually, this is a really great
opening episode. At least it’s not boring!
Friday: Jonny Zero “Bounty” (FOX, 9 p.m.) Jonny Calvo is the baddest bad-ass
in New York, but now he’s trying to lead a good life. So, why does he keep taking jobs that are clearly not straight-and-narrow? This week, he’s been hired by
an expecting father who’s skipping out on jail-time to see the birth of his child.
His job is to keep some bounty hunter from bringing the guy to justice. But the
bounty hunter is female. Hot, sexy sparks ensue.
Saturday: College Basketball “Illinois at Iowa” (ESPN, 12 noon) Since the
Quakers’ game against Yale isn’t being aired on TV, I figure you can catch up on
some Top 25 action.
Sunday: Desperate Housewives “Impossible” (ABC, 9 p.m.) It’s back! Thank
god, my Wisteria Lane withdrawal symptoms were beginning to set in until last
week “Love is in the Air”. That Valentine Day themed hour was nothing compared to this juicy, mystery-laded episode. Mike is getting blamed for Mrs. Huber’s murder, Lynette undermines Tom’s imminent promotion, and Bree reacts
to finding a condom in her house. Plus, something so shocking with Gabrielle,
you’ll have to see it to believe.
If You Can Only Watch One: Desperate Housewives.
parently the company is angry with the NFL
and FOX because it paid for two spots during
the game, thereby qualifying for a “Super Bowl
XXXIX brought to you by GoDaddy.com”
marquis, but only one was aired due to the
offensive material.
All of these problems with Sunday night
pale in comparison to my big grievance:
FOX29, the Philadelphia FOX affiliate airing the game, really
screwed up. You might
recall all through the
night, FOX aired promos for the post-Super
Bowl special episode
of The Simpsons and
the preview of Seth
McFarlane’s American
Dad. The idea behind
airing shows after the
big game is simple:
ratings. The Super
Bowl draws in a little
under 90 million viewers, anything airing after it will undoubtedly
get big numbers because people are too lazy
to change the channel and have probably been
enticed into watching the heavily promoted
post-game entertainment.
Well, the Super Bowl and post-game
shenanigans ended at around 10:16 p.m. on
Sunday night. There was a brief and entirely
acceptable post-game on FOX, though the
elongated trophy ceremonies bored even the
most feverish sports fan I watched with. It’s
part of the idea behind championship games.
The Simpsons? It didn’t start until 11:40 p.m.
That’s almost 90 minutes, people.
Why? Because of a FOX29 evening
newscast. I sat through the entire news program, assuring my friends, depressed over the
Eagles’ loss, that a really funny episode of The
Simpsons was just moments away. After the
fifth iteration of the interview with Andy Reid,
even I was wondering if the Philly affiliate
had decided to just skip showing the cartoons
because the Eagles were playing in the game.
Hell, the hour-plus of news might have been
acceptable if (a) the Eagles had won, or (b)
there was something to talk about. There was
nothing, however.
At first I assumed there was local news
everywhere and FOX had simply dropped
the ball. Two years ago, when Alias has its
fantastic post-game episode, ABC’s post-game
lasted for an hour, causing a massive audience
drop. In addition, the episode didn’t air until
after 11 p.m. on the East Coast, eliminating it
from “prime time,” as far as ratings are concerned. I found out on Monday that, in fact,
The Simpsons began at 10:16 p.m. on the East
Coast, and American Dad started at 10:46
p.m. Except in Philadelphia. So, when what
Eagles fans needed was a good laugh (except
the last few minutes of an otherwise classic
The Simpsons episode and at least half of the
highly derivate American Dad), they only got
repeated, depressing news.
Way to drop the ball, FOX29.
Rob Forman is a junior in Wharton. You can write
to him at robertf@wharton.
THE BREAKUP FELT
‘ROUND THE WORLD
CHRISTINE CHEN | TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT
THEY BROKE UP? But but they were so perfect together,
I refuse to believe it! It seems it was only yesterday when I
saw them playing happily — carefree and well. I responded
to the knowledge (found out insultingly via a message board
no less!) of the unexpected break up first with feelings of
anger, and then despondency. But I doubt it’ll ever come
to the point of my not caring. They left their fans no inkling
of any lackluster in the relationship, instead leaving us only
with disappointment and sadness. I never felt so betrayed.
No, I’m not talking about Jen and Brad, but another J and
B, namely, Jets to Brazil, otherwise known as Blake Schwarzenbach’s post-Jawbreaker-Indie-band-success project. A mouthful, I know.
I should have suspected foul play when the band’s website first morphed from a pacifying
grassy scene into some hideous black and white checkered FrontPage web theme, and then
curiously ceased to exist entirely. A visit to their record label, Jade Tree’s website validates the
rumors: “Jets to Brazil: 1997-2003.” The finality on their cyberspace tombstone is crushing.
They didn’t even have a farewell tour. In a way I suppose that is most respectable. It’s not like
they were trying to cash in on their break up like a certain Focker. How many times did Barbara
Streisand say she would perform no more? And each time she did her “last” Farewell Tour the
ticket prices hiked up a gazillion dollars. Coincidence? I think not. I guess, as was the case
with JTB, things just end quietly sometimes. I think those are the saddest endings. I suppose
that kind of end was ultimately the only befitting way for JTB to leave — to leave without saying
good-bye.
In memory, a choice sampling of what was:
“Double-edged and super blue, vertically letting the life from you”.
“And your teeth make me weak. And you’re keeping them from me.”
“Dear infatuation, you do not see me. Die here beside you, in see-through obscurity”
“It hasn’t been my day for a couple years. What’s a couple more?”
“I’ve been eating for you.”
Continued on PAGE 4
m
s
i
l
l
a
c
our dose of
t
s
weekly wisdom
fir
CANDY HEARTS: REAL
LOVE WON’T MAKE YOU
CHOKE.
F EBRUAR Y 14, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 12
P AGE 7
JAMES HOUSTON | THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS
First Call’s Weekly
Album Reviews
Slipknot, Iowa
At this point, Numetal can safely be referred to as a completed
event. Linkin Park will
still sell tons of records
and young people will
still hate themselves,
but the halcyon days of
P.O.D. jockeying for rock
chart supremacy with
Papa Roach and Mudvayne appear over. Good
thing? Well, consider
what may be remembered as the genre’s signature album:
Slipknot’s Iowa. The second major-label release from the
Des Moines nine-piece (nontet?) achieves the rare effect of
saying exactly what’s on the listener’s mind with its first line:
“Here we go again, motherfucker.” Thus begins track two, the
fantastically-titled “People = Shit.” Track one has no words (or
music), just a stew of gasps, grunts and fuzz that evidently has
something to do with death.
The rest is about what we’d expect from a band that puts
a photo of a fetal horse on their CD tray card: Drop-tuned
minimalist guitar chunking, ballistic bass drumming evocative of a meth tweaker’s heartbeat, and vocalist Corey Taylor
barking things like “Everything sucks and I can prove it” and
“I wanna slit your throat and fuck the wound.” When words
can’t express what’s on his mind, he falls back on the trusty
“RRRRAAAGGGHHHH!!!” The first hint of melody comes
on “My Plague,” though the sung chorus is less memorable
than the boast “I’ll reach in and take a bite out of that shit you
call a heart.” Yummy.
Here’s the rub: This band doesn’t suck. Silly moments notwithstanding, Iowa creates an authentic mood and runs with
it. Difficult as it is to admit or explain, we feel sorry for the guy
banging the corpse in the epic title track, and are disarmed by
eloquent gutter poetry like “I wanna dress in your insecurities
/ And be the perfect you.” The book is closed on Nu-metal’s
marginally successful attempt to make pain the new pleasure,
which is a good thing because bands like Slipknot only get to
make one or two albums before they start repeating themselves. But with icky artistry, Iowa accomplishes the simple
goal it sets out after: Making us feel like the shit we are.
Grade: B
James Houston is a senior in the College. You can write to him at
jhouston@sas.
N.W.A., Straight Outta Compton
Ice Cube would be well-advised to fire the person who
suggested he read the
script for Are We There
Yet? Better yet, he
could give up movies
altogether, call Dr. Dre
and the other living
members of N.W.A.,
and have a reunion
tour underway by the
summer. As we run
out of fingers and toes
to count the subgenres
of hip-hop, the market
for “classic” acts is bound to become a legitimate cash cow.
N.W.A. would likely find a huge audience—1989’s Straight
Outta Compton was a runaway hit, officially breaking the East
Coast’s monopoly on rap and pissing off Mrs. Al Gore (and the
FBI) in the process.
Drawing such intense heat from censors is perhaps the
most-traveled trail blazed by these seven angry men. Prior
to Straight Outta Compton, no million-selling record had
depicted murder and misogynistic sex so flippantly. The establishment’s outrage is unsurprising: On the infamous “Fuck
Tha Police,” Cube promises “Ice Cube will swarm / On any
muthafucka in a blue uniform. . .And when I’m finished, it’s
gonna be a bloodbath / Of cops, dyin’ in L.A..” On “Gangsta
Gangsta” he says of a woman who turns him down “Dumbass
hooker ain’t nothin’ but a dyke.” There are no warm, fuzzy
feelings here, and depending on your first impression, the
unapologetic presentation either makes that fact cooler or
more despicable. Dr. Dre discouraging drug use on “Express
Yourself ” and MC Ren glorifying language over hedonism on
most of his verses tend to be overlooked, which is probably
justified in light of the record’s prevailing themes.
Come to think of it, I take this one back. Straight Outta
Compton is a romantic album, in spite of the late Eazy-E’s
declaration that “The bitches wanna trick and go stupid for
the dick. . . So slip the C-note and you can choke / On a wing
ding ding-a-ling down your throat.” (“Parental Discretion Iz
Advised”). The real reason rock became a generational iron
curtain was that its backbeat simulated the rhythm of screwing, which presumably appealed more to youth than to their
parents. Hip-hop took it a step further when it borrowed
beats from rock and its close relatives and pushed them to the
musical forefront. Dr. Dre’s genius as a producer was still in
its larval stage in 1989, but the beats he crafts on this record
(see especially “Quiet On Tha Set” and “Something 2 Dance
2”) are unambiguous gender-neutral invitations to get down.
Grade: A-
American Idol, Greatest Moments
Show of hands: Who saw season three of VH1’s The Surreal Life? Remember
the episode when Ryan
Starr ran sobbing into
the bathroom because
she didn’t want to sing
another pop song?
Oh Ryan, Ryan, someday you’re going to
look back on that and
appreciate how ironic
it is for a seventh place
finisher on American
Idol to cry about artistic integrity. Just in case the annual deluge of singles and
holiday albums from Ruben, Clay, Kelly, and Fantasia still
leaves heart or Christmas tree-shaped holes in some lives,
pop culture is poignantly littered with Idol also-rans starving
for minute sixteen.
This first Greatest Moments is a mercifully short recap of
the season one finals, when an airhead from Texas triumphed
over a Sideshow Bob clone with the second most obvious nose
job in pop history. Idol will always be a source of awful music
because its contestants don’t understand that a good Mariah
Carey impression doth not an artist make. The best pop
singers—Whitney Houston, Frank Sinatra, Linda Ronstadt,
et al.—know how to make songs they didn’t write sound like
sound like the very essences of their souls. On the first season, only Tamyra “Fourth Place” Gray showed a trace of this
ability. Ergo, her smooth—albeit boring—handling of the
Bacharach/David chestnut “A House Is Not A Home” is this
album’s most bearable moment. Kelly is under the impression that adding a coarse growl to her perfect karaoke chops
makes her Aretha Franklin, and Nikki “Who?” McKibbin
gives a girly rendition of “Piece Of My Heart” that would earn
her a whiskey bottle smashed on her head by the late Janis
Joplin.
The worst is Edwin McCain’s “I’ll Be” as caterwauled by
Ejay (not to be confused with A.J. or RJ). Inept phrasing and
bungled lyrics aside, the only word this permed hack is able
to infuse with meaning is “suicide”. It’s the clearest example
of what’s wrong with this whole circus: Nowhere on Greatest
Moments do the cloying sentimentality and phony sass even
suggest intimacy or attitude. The last track is a weird ensemble cover of The Mamas and the Papas’ “California Dreamin’”
(ohhh, I get it). Whelp, when a ham sandwich finally takes
out Kelly we’ll always have this memento of when she was
crowned queen of the turkeys.
Grade: D
WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS
ROZ PLOTZKER | SEX AND THE UNIVERSITY
THIS PAST WEEK, I learned
a lesson the hard way. Actually,
I learned a few lessons, most of
which I already knew in theory,
but this week I finally had the opportunity to experience them. Let
me tell you, things in theory are lot
less complicated than they are in
practice.
I owe a friend an apology. The
last article I wrote for First Call,
“Sexy Pronouns,” had sensitive personal information about my
friend’s gender identity, which should not have been printed,
including squir former name and outing squir as genderqueer.
(“Squir” is a gender-nonspecific form of him/her). Yonah, I’m
so sorry. Lesson number one: even if it seems like using names,
information, or anecdotes is okay, always always check with the
source. A person’s information belongs to them, and only that
person has the right to say you can borrow it.
The article also contained inaccurate definitions of terms
used to describe transgender issues, which might have offended
people. Lesson number two: honest mistakes, not to mention
the spelling mistakes, are still mistakes and must be corrected.
First the spelling corrections on some pronouns: Ze (not
Zee) is used in place of he /she, along with squee. Squir (not
Squeer) is used as him/her and his/her, as is the term Hir.
As to the definitions: The thing about words is that they
are relative to context. Words are tricky. There are buzzwords,
catch phrases, words that are reclaimed, words that are made
up, words that are redefined. Last week I tried — and half-failed
— to outline some basic terms that are used in genderqueer
communities.
I asked my friend for help with this article, and Yonah directed me to an online terminology resource, designed by Michelle O’Brien: http://deadletters.biz/studentbasics.html
“Definitions are difficult for many trans people. Trans
people have lived part or all of our lives being identified with
a gender we don’t feel entirely comfortable with. Trans people
have all been mislabeled… As a result, many trans people are
uncomfortable with any easy labeling – with tossing out words
and quick explanations and thinking that covers the full complexity of someone’s experience. Please understand that how
each trans person understands these words is different; they
vary geographically and culturally. Use these basic definitions
only as a place to start. Most importantly, listen to what trans
people say about how we identify ourselves and wish to be understood,” writes O’Brien.
Here are some important words with definitions that you
can’t find in Webster’s:
“Trans is an abbreviation of transgender or transsexual…
“Transsexual is used to describe people who identify with
a gender different than what they were assigned at birth... A
transsexual person might engage in hormone therapy, have
surgeries or other procedures to become more comfortable with
their bodies. In some circles, particularly conventional medical discourse, transsexual is used exclusively to refer to people
who have had or intend to have Genital Reassignment Surgery
(GRS). Today, however, many understand that transsexual
people might choose to not have any form of surgery.
“Transgender refers to many kinds of people who experience
some discomfort with their assigned gender… including transsexuals, drag kings and queens, genderqueers, cross-dressers
and other gender variant people…
“Trans women identify and understand themselves as women. Respectful labels [her, she] usually refer to where someone
is heading, to their future, and not to their past. A trans woman
might identify herself as ‘MTF’ or ‘male-to-female’…
“Trans men identify as male. [Similar to a trans woman, he
might call himself ‘FTM’ or ‘female-to-male’.]
“Assigned gender refers to the gender one was identified as
at birth. Sometimes people call this one’s ‘birth gender’. Often
this assignment is made on the basis of genitals...
“Intersex people are born with bodies that don’t easily fit into
categories of male or female. Often intersex people undergo sur-
gical procedures on their genitals as newborns, and might have
been raised with hormone therapy and further surgeries. Today,
many intersex people stand with transsexuals in demanding the
rights to self-determine the form of their own bodies, opposing
treatments on infants.
“Genderqueer is an increasingly popular identity among
some young gender-variant people. It is often used by people
who feel their gender identities don’t easily fit into a male/
female binary. Maybe a genderqueer person feels they are both
male and female, or neither one, or flexibly transform between
expressions or identities.”
Okay, I know it’s sort of a cop-out to just cut and paste someone else’s definitions. It’s time for lesson number three which
might discredit a few previous paragraphs: Roz is not trans.
The closest thing I have come to transcending my own gender
role is living as a tomboy between the ages of 3 and 22 years old.
That definitely doesn’t count. How can I even try to paraphrase
a transgender point of view? Please. I don’t have the proverbial
balls to do that. Writing about some topics is as tricky as the
words that get used in the process. I am not an expert on most
things I write about. I am definitely not the mouthpiece of any
trans community. As readers, you shouldn’t trust me. Be critical,
do your own research. Quadruple-check your facts, because I’m
just a non-transgender college kid who spends a lot of time on
the web and is working on being a good trans ally.
If you do decide to do your own research on gender analysis,
you’re going to find a lot more than pronoun modification and
new words. Look for transphobia. It extends beyond hatred
and violence towards trans people, to situations or places that
a gender variant person would be limited by being trans. “From
violence by partners, police or strangers to gender-segregated
facilities, from outright denial of services to people refusing to
take our gender identities seriously, from lack of access to affordable care to anger from our families,” writes O’Brien. Think
about how many times you have chosen between M or F on a
written form. Example: If same-sex marriages were legal, it still
Continued on PAGE 4
THE UNDERGRADUATE MAGAZINE | F EBRUAR Y 14, 2005 VOL . V N O . 12
FROM RUSSIA WITH DESPERATION
The Post Office finally comes through
A N N A S T R O N G I N | A TA S T E O F M E D I C I N E
TIRED OF MAKING Valentine’s
Day just another day of self-love?
Yearning to spend it gazing into
the eyes of a beautiful woman
over a plate of hot borscht? If you
answered “yes” to the preceding
questions, then I’ve got the
perfect solution for you: Russian mail-order brides.
With just a few clicks of
the mouse, Natasha, Olga, Svetlana, or all three could be on
their way to your house to provide the companionship and
satisfaction you’ve been seeking all these years.
Don’t be discouraged by the preconception that these
women are selfish materialists, simply using marriage to
foreign men to get out of Russia and improve their economic station in life. While this may be partially true, women, who outnumber men in Russia by 12 million, also just
yearn to be appreciated for the many talents they possess:
First, they can whip up a delicious meal by using nothing more than some chicken bones and a peapod—a skill
they perfected in the Communist days.
Second, they are known for their maternal instinct and
childbearing hips, meaning that they will be more than
willing to propagate your lineage.
Third, with their big hair, high cheekbones, full lips, and
porcelain complexions, they are considered to be some of
the most beautiful women in the world. Real arm candy!
And last, but definitely not least, they know very little
English, which means that they will listen and obey, but never
speak.
Aside from these four fabulous qualities common to all, the
Russian mail-order brides can be customized to your liking. As
you skim through the thousands of pictures, you will be awed
by the large diversity that you will encounter. Whether you
want her tall or short, barely legal or super-mature, brunette or
brunette-dyed blonde you can find the qualities you seek.
If you don’t find what you are looking for, just let one of
the organizations running the bridal service know and they
will gladly find a woman who will say exactly what you want
to hear.
I bet you’re wondering right about now how you could
possibly get the Russian woman of your dreams, being the big
loser that you are. Well let me tell you: it’s as easy as Victimology
taken Pass/Fail.
Why? Because most of you meet the criteria these women
are looking for. That is, you are American citizens or permanent
residents and you can afford a loaf of bread. And in the eyes of a
Russian woman that makes you a winner.
Just find that special girl on one of the numerous mail-order bride websites, send her an e-mail expressing your interest—make sure to use short, easy phrases such as, “I
want your sexy body more than caviar,” and don’t make
any mention of the hideous outfits all the women wear
in their photos—and she will be yours.
So get on the Internet and never spend another
Valentine’s Day alone. Remember, no matter who you
are in the microcosm of the Penn campus, there is a
much bigger world out there where all Americans are
considered to be the elite. It is a world where anyone
with a Social Security Number gets admiration and respect. But most importantly, it is a world where the idea
that love can’t be bought does not exist.
After all, the woman loves living in a country with
far more opportunities and options than in her own
homeland and the man loves having regular companionship. In time, this self-interest love may even blossom into the real, unconditional thing.
But hey, even if it doesn’t become true love, even if
the marriage to a mail-order bride falls apart the minute
that she gets her citizenship, you still get something out
of it—a Valentine’s Day where you have someone to give
flowers and candy to.
And next year, just order yourself another. Because you
can.
Anna Strongin is a junior in the College. You can write to her at
astrongi@sas.
SEX, LOVE, AND (PORN) VIDEOTAPES
ANDREW PEDERSON | BRUT FORCE
IT WAS NOT LONG AGO that
Valentine’s Day was another
of the simple, platonic pleasures of childhood. Inedible
chunks of painted, compressed
sugar candy hearts and quasipersonalized chits of paper
festooned with Barbie Dolls
and Transformers flowed freely
around classrooms, while the yet-inert hormones meandered
peaceably through the bloodstream, knowing that one day it
would all change. What began in our youth as the bastard child
of Easter which merely filled a gift gap after Christmas but before the Bunny has now come full circle into the very frantic,
very public universal search for a romantic outlet. Let’s face it,
having no Valentine on Valentine’s Day now means not only
no candy, but in the public eye, it stamps “Can’t Get Action”
prominently into one’s forehead.
According to a web survey on tootimid.com, an online
outlet for discreet adult orifice fillers, lubricators, various cuffs,
rings, tethers, inflatables and more, a full 57% of people now
prefer “Hot and Steamy Love Making” over “A Romantic Dinner” (28%) or “Flowers and Candy” only (14%). Whether or
not these results are subject to a sampling bias because the
survey box appears next to an ad for the Orgasm Intensifier
Diving Dolphin Stimulator is a question best left to the lonely
statisticians who are qualified to answer it.
In any case, in a society where sex has expanded so far
and so prominently into the socially accepted discourses of
cultural tropes and marketing alike, the choice is not so much
anymore “Does my Valentine’s Day have to be about sex?” so
much as “What kind of sex do I want my Valentine’s Day to be
about?” Even if one is a virgin and prefers to stay that way, the
aura around Valentine’s Day effectively turns everybody into a
twenty four hour slut as they search, successfully or in vain, for
a partner for the day. So much the better, in my opinion. Even
if you’re in the market for a non-penetrative Valentine, the most
important thing is your ability to get one in the first place.
Coming in a very close second, however, is indeed the sex,
as evidenced keenly in bookstores around the city by the copious piles of gripping titles such as: “Bang Your Way through
Valentine’s Day,” “Romantic Chocolate Massage for Dummies”
and the eminent Dr. Ruth best seller, “Septuagenarian Sexual
Revolution.” Originally, I had wanted to give readers a taste
of the best these guides had to offer, so as to aid them in their
quests for an orgasmic holiday, but after reflecting on the topic,
time constraints and general disgust level, I decided time would
be better spent elsewhere.
Even better and more instructive than the printed word is
the colorful, effortlessly demonstrative medium of video. Thus,
I have used my spare time over the last week in reviewing and
carefully grading the various themed pornographic movies
produced specifically for this holiday by the major studios. In
addition, whereas instructional books are applicable only to
those with partners, pornography is the great sexual equalizer,
as it can be enjoyed by single and committed people alike. So,
without further ado, I give you my three top recommendations
for a Valentine’s Day that is guaranteed to please, whether it’s
with one warm body or five warm fingers.
The French Erection, Directed by Colby Adams and staring
Dick Gunn, Sparkle Wheeler, Anastasia Beaverhousen and
Billy Breedum. Available from Xotica Productions, Ltd.
Love truly is the tender trap when you’re a free spirit like
young Ima Hurney (Wheeler) who has left her conservative
Mormon family in Youkum, Arizona, to come to Paris in search
of love and romance. However, tragedy strikes as she loses
her passport and must sweet talk the customs agents (Gunn
and Breedum) into granting her a visa. What follows is one
of the finest and most nimble acts of double penetration ever
attempted by man. Later, she encounters French greeting
card exec and all around man’s man Guy Stiffe (Gunn), who,
immediately smitten with Ima, introduces her into the inner
circle of Paris’ underground network of erotic tourism. Along
the way they pick up another American couple, Boris and Stephie Angles (Beaverhousen and Breedum) and together romp
about the city of lights, leaving no combination untried. Truly,
Adams has outdone himself with this tour de force of direct,
yet tender and exotic couplings of all shapes and sizes. Though
at times Wheeler is prone to loud, unattractive slurping, the
scenes are relatively fast paced and handled with a modicum of
dignity which is becoming increasingly rare in porn. In all, this
film contains something for everyone and ends with a pleasant
cuddle in place of the usual forced cum shot.
Ass Master and the Girl of Tomorrow, Directed by Ansel
Stevens, Starring Aldus Freer, Gentry McEwen and Jess Broo.
Available from Vivvid Video Inc.
Colonel GT McGibb (Freer) and his intrepid crew of the
Space Cruiser Bilabao, who have trekked across the universe in
order to escape the pithy and superficial meaning of Valentine’s
Day on earth, find themselves stranded in a space/time warp
inside the tail of the Valentius comet which renders all of them
helpless to their unbound sexual desires. Although not as plot
heavy as the preceding film, Ansel Stevens manages to give the
three main characters a depth of dialogue which I found staggering. For example, after scene seven, in which Colonel McGibb and First Officer Prize Fillmee (McCowan) perform zero g
body massage and somersaulting penetration, McGibb astutely
remarks, “Fillmee, among the stars, each thrust echoes in eternity.” In addition, breathtaking special effects and brilliant
camera work give this film an incredible visual scope which
excites without nauseating. As well, the emotional connections
forged with the characters is strong enough to breed a palpable
disappointment when the ship is finally able to disengage from
the comet’s magneto-electric waves and the crew, exhausted
and sweaty, falls to the deck in a confused heap.
My Best Friend’s Cumming, Directed by Phillip Graff, Starring Cooper Hewitt, June Crump, Burston Houghes, Howard
Long, Dirk Pitt, Callee Corntner, Frida Feckle, George Talon,
Patty Linder and Eagan Shweitzer. Available from Buena Vista
Productions.
A conceptual performance piece, My Best Friend’s Cumming centers around a young woman’s search for meaning
while she tries to break into the heavily male dominated
performance bicycle manufacturing industry and simultaneously cope with the gender complacency of her social milieu.
Structured as an Andrew Lloyd Webber style rock operetta, the
film moves seamlessly from scene to scene while remaining in
the same setting, a lace draped stage lined with velvet curtains.
With its constantly shifting light levels and camera angles, the
film is highly symbolic of the struggle faced by many women today, and, as an added twist, every actor wears a black mask and
strap-on to obscure the lines of class and gender. Simply put,
this is a masterpiece which belongs in a class of pornography
not realized since Debbie Does Dallas. Director Phillip Graff
has long been an experimenter and innovator in the field, having pioneered such techniques as inverted double-swap penetration and the circular gang bang, which are now considered
industry standards. As Graff has matured as an artist, his early
aggression and relentless invention have muted somewhat into
a more innocuous, but equally striking phantasmagoria of sight
and sound. Some may find this film to be a bit edgy for their
tastes, but for those who are truly adventurers at heart, this is a
classic story of redefinition and self-actualization brought into
a dreamy, liquid state of post modern realism.
Bon Appetit.
Andrew Pederson is a sophomore in the College. You can write to him
at awl@sas.