October 11, 2004

The Undergraduate Magazine
Vol. V, No. 4 | October 11, 2004
Girl Empowered
Srivastava examines the role of women in the upcoming Afghan election
Page 3
The Great Dictator
In Your Dreams
Read about Jou’s experience When
Guys Drop Their Pants
Page 4
Saul nods off about detrimental
sleeping habits
Page 5
Curse You!!
Goldstein ponders the relevance of the
many baseball superstitions
Page 8
THE DP ON SEX, MONEY, AND IDIOCY
ANDREW PEDERSON | BRUT FORCE
DP EDITORIAL COLUMNS
have never been known
for their keen insights nor
their skilled rhetoric. On
the contrary, most opinions
expressed in the campus
newspaper are badly reinterpreted forms of the
ten or fifteen issues which
circle continuously and lazily
around the public sphere.
However, a sampling of recent DP editorial titles adds a
particularly pathetic dimension to the current dearth of
provocative news.
The usually limited range of topics addressed by these
columnists fell this week from stock pseudo public service
announcements regarding anorexia and drug use, to new
lows of merely stating the obvious. These Forrest Gumpesque pronouncements range from “Penn must speak on
accident at frat” and “Penn apparel is far too expensive”
to “The need to stop genocide in Sudan.” No shit. This
week, I suppose the articles that remained on the editorial room floor were such almost-gems as “Dining hall
floor sticky at times” and “Oranges tend to be rounder
than apples,” not to mention the quintessence of thoughtful writing, “Poop smells different than food.” One bold
soul even goes so far as to pose “Some tough questions for
President Bush.” I am sure the President is terrified.
By far the worst of these shameful circus-freaks of
rhetoric was a dubious piece of lettered phlegm entitled,
“The importance of sex and money.” The course of the
article moves from a stirring, and of course completely
original reference to Donald Trump, all the way through
an actual scientific study, on to another stunningly original reference of a SAS graduate working at McDonald’s,
and then to a decidedly erudite conclusion based on a
quote from Plato’s Republic. All of this content together
represents poor taste, but the situation is exacerbated by
the fact that buried deep down at the core of this awful
editorial is a provocative and edgy opinion piece about
sex and money that is screaming to be let loose. Those
are screams I cannot ignore.
Despite a circuitous and at times random logic, the
point which appears to be the main theme of the piece is
the question of the relative importance of copulation and
financial security. The study which spurred the creation
of this editorial monstrosity in the first place suggests
that people who make less money are happier than those
more monetarily well-endowed as long as they have sex
more often. The article then brings Wharton into the
middle of things with a unique, though unwarranted,
thought experiment. First, the study does not correlate
income with sex; that is, people who make more money
do not necessarily get more sex. Secondly, because the
author equates a Wharton education with immediate
profitability, he cheekily asks: “So why then, are we in
Wharton?” Obviously education is out; MBA hoes all the
way.
The article also highlights the feature of the study
which equates the rough value of a year’s worth of sex to
a salary increase of 50,000 dollars and then questions
which would be more enjoyable. Here again, the article
is merely stating the obvious. Take the money! While
the results of the survey do provoke interesting questions,
I think one of the least would be: “Would I rather have
50,000 dollars or sex once a week every week all year
round?” The answer is obvious.
The question seems idiotic to me since I hail from
a state where money literally will buy you happiness if
indeed one interprets the study to mean that sex and
happiness are interchangeable. Perhaps you have heard
of the Moonlite Bunny Ranch? I can say with only a
small measure of shame that the particular establishment
graced by Howard Stern and Jesse Ventura is approximately a twenty minute drive from the house I lived in
since birth. Take the 50,000 dollars and there you will be
able to buy all the sex that Wharton can’t give you, all the
things a Penn girl with a decent measure of self-respect
Continued on PAGE 5
COALITION OF THE
WILLING ARTISTS
PENGUIN TIME
BY JAMES HOUSTON
BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN WAS YANKED into partisan politics in 1984
when Ronald Reagan appropriated “Born in the U.S.A.” as the theme
song of his re-election campaign. Apparently formalities like listening
to the lyrics couldn’t be squeezed into the Gipper’s chaotic schedule, and
Springsteen immediately called him on his gross misinterpretation of
the anti-Vietnam War anthem. After twenty years of relative political
silence from the Boss, his conscience has resurfaced at the helm of Vote
for Change, a gathering of seventeen recording artists united by the conviction that W stands for Very Bad President.
Split into groups (cells?) of 2-5 artists, Vote for Change played the six
most critical battleground states during the first week of October. For
this, I’m thankful that the GOP juggernaut occupies half of Pennsylvania, since Springsteen was compelled to open his branch of the tour on
October 1st at the Wachovia Center with Bright Eyes and R.E.M. on the
undercard.
The advertised start time was 7:30. As 7:45 passed in a frozen
SEPTA car, I slowly accepted that my inner emo nebbish would be
denied Conor Oberst’s hypersensitive soul-searching. I took my seat
at the show mentally muttering the Bright Eyes line “I’m not angry, it
happens” (from “Let’s Not Shit Ourselves”) just as R.E.M. was beginning
“The One I Love.” The years have made Michael Stipe more androgynous, and as he lurched about the stage in a white suit executing suavely
uncool Elaine Benes dance moves, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to laugh
derisively or question my sexuality. The following eleven songs mostly
consisted of newer material, highlighted by the angry “Final Straw.” The
casual fans perked up when Peter Buck grabbed the mandolin for “Losing My Religion,” and everyone stood when Springsteen came out to sing
half of “Man on the Moon.”
R.E.M. lacked energy. The intangible gleam that makes their records so good was missing. Stipe’s signature detachment made him
seem less like a mysterious genius and more like someone who was really bored. I don’t think most of the audience was as disappointed as I
was, as some bathroom eavesdropping revealed that few attendees were
there for R.E.M.
In fairness, I ought to admit that I would probably go on a killing
spree if I felt a Springsteen song was telling me to, but I promise to
force objectivity for the next two paragraphs. A sparkling instrumental
rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” opened Bruce & The E Street
Band’s set, segueing into “Born in the U.S.A.” which, thanks to Reagan,
now carries the implicit message “screw Republican ignorance.” The
highlight of the show came early: a sweaty, exhilarating, full-band
romp through the usually acoustic “Johnny 99.” After the stirring and
overlooked “Youngstown,” capped by a blistering guitar solo from Nils
Lofgren, Springsteen introduced John Fogerty of CCR, who sang three
Continued on PAGE 7
MARIAN LEE
BRAWL IN CLEVELAND
The Cheney v. Edwards Showdown
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
VICE
PRESIDENT
DICK CHENEY and
Senator John Edwards
met for their first and
only debate last Tuesday.
With expectations high
on both sides of the political spectrum, this V.P.
debate had the potential
to be the first relevant
one in decades. Could Cheney perform damage
control for what was at best a lackluster, really rather
disastrous, performance on the part of President
Bush a few days earlier? Could Edwards build even
more on the momentum gained by the outstanding
win of Senator Kerry against the President in the first
presidential debate? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, walking away from that stage in Cleveland, Ohio could be
one alpha dog, one true winner of this debate. Who
would claim the prize as the numero uno contender
of the evening?
It was the White Rhino himself, Dick Cheney.
Shock and Awe from the V.P.
I was completely astounded by the Vice President’s performance Tuesday night. It has always
been known that Cheney possesses a far better grasp
of usage of the English language than the President
does, but his control of the debate was nothing short
of astounding. From the very beginning, Cheney successfully deflected the majority of Edwards’ attacks.
For example, Edwards opened up with broad attacks
on the administration’s handling of the situation in
Iraq and Afghanistan, saying “very quickly the administration made a decision to divert attention from
[Afghanistan] and instead began to plan for the invasion of Iraq.” The problem Edwards has is this and
other statements fail to add anything new and instead
repeat what John Kerry has been saying on the campaign trail. Where is this man’s ingenuity? At least he
has that fabulous hair.
Dick Cheney had a great deal of new, original
material to offer after what the President said in his
first face-off with Senator Kerry. In fact, listening to
Cheney respond to the criticism he received from EdContinued on PAGE 6
O C TOBER 11, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 4
P AGE 2
FirstCall
Vol. V, No. 3 | October 4, 2004
The Undergraduate Magazine
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Call is published every Monday. Our
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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
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otherwise stated represents the official
position of the administration, faculty,
Editorial
DECOMPOSING BRIDGE OVER
TROUBLED WATER
Recently, Jamee Leffler Lubkemann published a few words of advice to Wharton Undergrads: chill
out, study less and party more. Although Ms. Lubkemann’s experience at Penn State was undeniably
“cooler”, she obviously has much to learn about the lifestyle and study habits of the Wharton undergrads sharing the hallowed halls of Huntsman with her.
Penn undergrad is well-known for its unusually happy balance of hard work and intense play. Instead of getting drunk in a random corn field where there is nothing and no one of interest for miles,
Penn students and Whartonites chose to expand their options. While Ms. Lubkemann is proud
of Penn State’s high “party” ranking, holding a spot at the top of the list of the nation’s “best party
schools” is usually a euphemistic spin on being stuck in the middle of nowhere with huge numbers of
people who have nothing better to do than appreciating the great outdoors while drinking themselves
into a stupor everyday, miles away from any form of civilization.
Many Wharton professors prefer to teach undergraduates instead of MBAs because these grad
students often speak authoritatively on topics about which they lack even basic knowledge. Exhibit
A: Lubkemann’s editorial. She used her limited knowledge about Wharton undergraduates to brand
them as aggressive, defensive workaholics. To buttress this stereotype, she provides several weak examples. The first cites a student who followed his female TA in the bathroom to ask a question about
homework. Unless this MBA lives in an alternative, Ally McBeal-inspired universe, we are not aware
of any co-ed bathrooms on this campus. Besides the strange, implausible bathroom dimension of
this story, he is one student among many—hardly a representative sample of undergrads as a whole.
Every class has its crazy people, but that doesn’t make the rest of us crazy by rough association. The
other baseless example Lubkemann uses is students who write emails to their TAs after 9 p.m. on Friday and Saturday nights. Any section of thirty students will inevitably have several people who either
work constantly or have packed weekends from hell. Maybe he likes to work on Friday and party on
Saturday.
Income, stability and job security should be regarded as important. Perhaps the author didn’t have
to worry about such minutiae when she was in undergrad, yet somehow she ended up in Wharton
MBA. It’s hard to comprehend how she managed such a feat if her interests as an undergraduate
were really just “football and sorority functions” instead of “finance and statistics”. Using the two or so
students that she has had indirect encounters with to describe an undergraduate body that is known
for its people skills and ability to balance all of life’s sectors is statistically absurd.
People have a choice about what they take on and how they handle their workloads, and any school
of a high caliber will invite students to be serious about their work. If the thought of being conscientious is so surprising to Lubkemann, she must also fail to understand why students would want to
attend any of this nation’s other top institutions as undergraduates.
In First Call’s first year, a columnist wrote an article filled with many of the charges against MBAs
that are commonly held beliefs among undergrads. Outrage was the response to such a divisive article within the Wharton community: a critique of Wharton MBA manners was not welcome, particularly from a sharp-witted undergraduate. However, this most recent Wharton Journal article is
a similarly singular critique of undergraduate culture as it attempts to address even the level of students’ adjustment or their motivations in choosing their course of study. Such a description extends
in scope even further than the First Call article that was received with such anger. Yet, the Wharton
Journal has not received the same censure in spite of the fact that its editorial was equally divisive. As
one undergraduate notes: “I have met some wonderful MBAs and am personally friends with many
of them. I just thought the portrayal of the undergrads was completely skewed. The writer sees her
fellow cohort mates at the pub and parties downtown, but she has not had any clear contact with
the undergrads outside of the classroom. And that one narrow view makes her compose this biased
article. Yes, the school is difficult. Yes, there is a lot of pressure; yet it is filled with great knowledge
and opportunities. But just because we are sitting late and studying accounting does not mean that
we cannot socialize, talk to clients, or attend special events.”
The bottom line is that undergrads and MBAs share more than a few characteristics including
the drive to succeed and the need to BS their way into a professor’s inner circle. MBAs don’t need to
worry as much about grades because it isn’t a major factor in their graduation or wonderful future
careers. Undergrads, on the other hand, must worry about grades or they won’t have that wonderful
future career. While such stereotypes and hyperbolic stories about either undergrads or MBAs make
for great comedy, the persistence of them in a negative manner is completely useless. We are all trying
to achieve the same things in the same way at the same place. Such outlandish articles only to serve
to divide the community not bridge the gap between MBAs and undergrads, which is precisely what
we should be doing.
O C TOBER 11, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 4
P AGE 3
A WOMAN IN CHANGE, A WOMAN IN CHARGE
BY PRIYA SRIVASTAVA
IS IT JUST ME OR are Bush and Kerry sounding more and more similar these days? The
United States had been doing this election thing for over 200 years now and our candidates have barely diversified. They have the same cookie cutter qualifications: wealthy,
white and male. In fact, it’s been this way since the eighteenth century. Let’s talk about
political candidates that are really exciting—like the woman running for president in
Afghanistan.
I’m serious. This coming Saturday, Afghanistan will hold its first-ever presidential
elections. In a country where less than ten years ago, the plight of women was considered
a human rights catastrophe, one of eighteen presidential hopefuls is Dr. Massouda Jalal,
a 42-year old mother of three. Having risen politically beyond anyone’s wildest imagination, Dr. Massouda means to play an important role in Afghanistan’s steady if not painstaking transition to democracy.
Back in 2002, Dr. Massouda ran for interim president and finished second, winning
the support of 171 delegates to Hamid Karzai, the US backed candidate’s 1,295. Displeased with the warlord’s influence in the interim government, Dr. Massouda refused
Karzai’s offer of the vice-presidency. She would later gain the requisite support of 10% of
the delegates to become a candidate for the presidential elections.
Before running for public office, Dr. Massouda, a pediatrician, was a lecturer at Kabul
University. After being ousted from the university by the Taliban, Dr. Massouda joined
the UN and worked for its World Food Program, concentrating
on health and gender issues in Afghanistan. She has worked
with amputees, refugees and orphans and set up networks of
women’s bakeries.
Dr. Massouda’s platform is straightforward: more food,
more jobs, roofs over heads, access to health and to safe water, peace and security. She has also pledged to eradicate the
influence of the warlords, who have terrorized civilians for
the last 25 years. “The people of Afghanistan need a doctor to
treat them, to heal Afghanistan. And they need a mother to
take care of them until Afghanistan can stand on its own two
feet,” Dr. Massouda says. For many, women and men alike, the
greatest hope for reviving a bruised and battered Afghanistan
lies in Dr. Massouda.
Incumbent President Karzai’s goals are not dissimilar to Dr. Massouda’s. He has
attempted to provide basic food and shelter and end corruption in his past two years
in office as interim president, but without much success. However, Karzai continues to
retain the support of the United States government which is virtually running his media
campaign for the upcoming election. The combination of US support and high name recognition makes Karzai’s victory this Saturday a very likely one.
Dr. Massouda is not unaware of this fact. While she stands little hope of winning the
election, the mere fact that she is free to be a candidate is remarkable. Only three years
ago, under the Taliban, Afghan women were forbidden from attending school or entering
the workforce. Furthermore, the Taliban enforced a strict dress code as well as numerous
rules restricting the movement of women. Massouda herself is amazed, “Three years ago,
I could not even dream of being a presidential candidate.” She refuses to consider her candidacy a failure, irrespective of the final outcome. “I am thirsty for bringing a change, a
positive change,” Dr. Massouda insists. “If it is not a success it does not mean that positive
change has not taken place.”
Dr. Massouda’s candidacy is about sustaining and then spreading such positive changes already underway. At present, women are educated and employed only in the major
cities. Outside of the cities, most women still remain at home, their movement limited by
their fathers and brothers. Even more distressing: women might not get to the polls election day. The Human Rights Watch in New York issued a report last Tuesday that found
evidence of Taliban insurgents and local warlords threatening women and discouraging
them from voting. In various parts of the south and east, letters have been distributed
during the night, warning women not to vote. “A pervasive atmosphere of fear persists
for women involved in politics and women’s rights in Afghanistan,” the report said. These
lingering remnants of hard-line Islam intimidation will undoubtedly affect the voting
numbers.
The election will be an important milestone in Afghanistan’s rocky transition to democracy over these last few years. Of the ten million Afghans registered to vote, 41% are
women. This is Dr. Massouda’s greatest hope for victory, as Afghan women in particular
consider her a most attractive candidate. These women are hopeful the election will set
into motion freedoms anchored in the new constitution passed in January—which includes equal rights for women and is thought to be one of the more enlightened in the
region.
But the United States already has an ‘enlightened’ constitution. In fact,
not only do we have a constitution guaranteeing equal rights for women
here in the United States, but women are 100% free to attain an education, seek employment, own property and exercise their political rights. And
to a great extent, we do so. Where then, is our female presidential candidate?
Besides being the only female candidate and having to deal with the lingering hard-line
Islamic perceptions of women, Dr. Massouda is the only candidate without political, military or financial backing. Her campaign headquarters are a borrowed apartment, her car
on loan from a wealthy supporter. She lacks adequate funding and access to the media,
both of which are controlled by the other candidates. And yet,
despite facing seemingly insurmountable challenges, Dr. Massouda has managed to put together a legitimate presidential
campaign.
Well, what’s our problem?
Here in the United States, where women are educated
and employed on theoretically equal terms as men, we might
doubt that a female presidential candidate would face the
same challenges as does Massouda. But the unfortunate fact
is that female politicians do have similar troubles gaining political, military and financial backing. While Afghanistan may
be struggling with basic gender equality issues, such as rights
to education, for example, the United States is dealing with
obscure ones. Pointedly, there is lack of faith in female political leadership. While women
make up a significant portion of the House of Representatives, they are still a small minority in the Senate, the Supreme Court and in the upper levels of the executive branch.
And unfortunately so. There are scores of bright, motivated women interested in
public policy, and with creative and dynamic ideas for implementing such policy. Around
the world, thousands have been impacted by the policies of Margaret Thatcher, Indira
Gandhi and Golda Meir. Even in countries far less economically and socially stable than
ours, such as Rwanda, Burundi and Senegal, women have risen to the highest political office. But here in the free-thinking, open-minded United States, political parties are hesitant to place the possibility of victory, and to some extent, political power in the hands
of a female. Women can teach, we say, women can conduct research and run companies,
but when it comes to leading our country and representing the American people, it’s been
men all the way.
The fact that there are a whopping eighteen contenders in the Afghan presidential
race is an obvious indication that there are various ideas circulating as to where Afghanistan is going in the future. Dr. Massouda’s platform is one of many. The singularity of her
candidacy is two-fold, or perhaps even three-fold. Not only is Dr. Massouda a female in
the foreground in a country where females have long been pushed in the shadows, she is
also a passionate nationalist, seeking to spread her message far and wide despite pitiful
funding. Furthermore, she is a role model for women with political aspirations in the
United States. Surely if Dr. Massouda can go so far, face so many obstacles, there is no
reason why American women cannot do the same.
Let’s talk about political
candidates that are really
exciting, like the woman
running for president in
Afghanistan.
Priya Srivastava is a sophomore in the College. You can write to her at psrivast@sas.
IF IT SOUNDS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE...
It’s probably bad healthcare policy
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
WHEN WE THINK ABOUT
the issues surrounding the
2004 presidential campaign,
two things come to mind: war
in Iraq and homeland security. Given that both of these
subjects have been exhausted
to the extreme, I feel that it is
time to talk about something
else, say, healthcare.
Why talk about it? While
it may not be as immediate a problem as the war, healthcare
is undergoing a crisis: 45 million Americans are uninsured,
malpractice premiums are skyrocketing, and Medicare’s physician payment plan formula is flawed—problems that will
eventually have to be addressed. On November 2nd, it really
may be the deciding factor for a number of people unable to
find a definitive stand on the war.
Selecting a candidate based on healthcare criteria does not
come down to who has the better plan but rather who has the
more executable and realistic one. It is one thing to propose
sweeping reforms costing millions and another thing to actually bring them into effect.
That is precisely why Kerry’s plan doesn’t hold as much
appeal for me as it could, given the nature of the reforms he
proposes. Wanting to provide healthcare insurance for the
maximum number of uninsured is a very commendable prospect, but I do not foresee Congress passing a bill that would
appropriate $653 million dollars over 10 years to the cause.
It would be amazing to finance a plan that would insure
26.7 million Americans, but we simply do not have the resources to expand public coverage, subsidize premiums, and
offer incentives for smaller businesses to provide healthcare
insurance. Currently, the country has a deficit, and rather than
being able to climb out of its debt, the U.S. continues to fall
further into it; this does not create for an environment most
conducive to significant budget expansions.
Bush, on the other hand, calls for far more moderate
reforms that include tax breaks and association health plans
that would give small businesses an edge by promoting their
purchase of employee coverage as a group, not individual
companies. Such a plan is projected to alleviate the healthcare
burdens of only 2.1 million at the cost of 90 billion dollars over
10 years, but while it is smaller in scale it is also much more
reasonable.
It is one thing to propose
sweeping reforms costing
millions and another thing
to actually bring them into
effect.
We do not live in a society that has nationalized healthcare, and therefore we shouldn’t try to take care of everyone as
though we do. In the past four years, the number of uninsured
has increased by five million; getting numbers back to that
previous point is the kind of goal that should be taken up by
the candidates.
From the physicians’ end, the major healthcare crisis has
mostly to do with medical liability and the rising costs of malpractice premiums. Here too, Bush gains an upper hand because his proposals are simply more believable than Kerry’s.
The former appears to be in tune with what the AMA has
been fighting for—favoring the establishment of a monetary
cap on non-economic damages. In a nation having a love af-
fair with tort law, nothing could work as limits. If caps are
set, malpractice insurers will no longer feel as threatened by
having to dish out large sums, and lawyers will be discouraged
from filing excessive numbers of lawsuits for fear of failing to
profit sufficiently from the payoff.
Kerry, alas, does not care for monetary caps and instead
wants to submit potential lawsuits to a medical expert review
and to penalize lawyers who file them frivolously. But while
I could see some of these strategies working in their refined
form, as Kerry presents them they mean nothing.
Words like “frivolous” make me think “major ambiguity,”
and that is a serious problem. Lawyers are smart and they will
find ways to get around such terminology to prove that their
lawsuits are significant and ought to be filed. After all, money
gives people drive, and that drive will prevent penalties from
being successful deterrents.
Furthermore, even if employing a medical expert review of
a case could successfully weed out the frivolous lawsuits, the
process could prove to be very expensive and time-consuming.
Malpractice suits would become even more burdensome for
the physicians, and malpractice insurers would become even
more reluctant to lower premiums. While in theory, Kerry’s
plan could work, it is hard to believe that his reforms will be
executed so effectively in practice.
Of course, in talking about malpractice insurance, bringing up John Edwards’ former occupation as a malpractice
lawyer is unavoidable. Perhaps being a candidate for the
second most coveted spot in government has made him a
different man, but personally I have a difficult time buying a
healthcare reform that targets malpractice attorneys from a
malpractice attorney.
Anna Strongin is a junior in the College. You can write to her at
astrongi@sas.
O C TOBER 11, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 4
P AGE 4
CONFESSIONS OF AN AMATEUR DIRECTOR
MICKEY JOU | SITES AND SOUND
BEFORE SPRING SEMESTER ended last school year, I
agreed to direct a fall show
for the Chinese Student Association. I didn’t realize it
at the time, but that meant I
had to produce and direct a
show in little more than three
weeks. Here’s the deal: I had
to put together the rehearsal
schedule, the production designs, oversee the actual production, and make sure my actors
knew their lines. I started September armed with a schedule
etched in stone, ten set designs, a master props list, no lighting, no sound technicians, and no stage crew.
Week One
Hi Mickey, I have class on Thursdays from 6 to 9, so I
don’t think I can make it to rehearsal those nights. Sorry!
Hi Mickey, I can’t come to rehearsals on Wednesdays because I have class until 7:30. See you at rehearsal.
Hi Mickey, the person at Iron Gate Theatre wanted to
know what kind of equipment we’re going to need for the
night of the show. Can you write back and let me know
ASAP? Thanks!
Hi Mickey, because I was unaware of the fact that I have
been cast in the role of Fiona for the play, I had made other
commitments for the school year. Therefore I will not be able
to take part in the CSA Fall 2004 Production of “When Guys
Drop Their Pants.” Good luck!
Dear Mickey, the guy you told me to e-mail about the furniture (like benches and stuff ) still hasn’t emailed me back.
Can I quit? J/k…
My original plan was to buy my way into the actors’ hearts
at the first read-through by feeding everyone pizza. Through
bribery, I hoped I could win their undying loyalty. Obviously, I
was wrong. People not coming to rehearsal was, however, the
least of my problems: I had lost one of my lead actresses, and
I had two more weeks to rehearse.
Enter Miracle Number One: Evelyn Chou, my show producer, agreed to play the role of Fiona. Throw in my other
producer, Jean Hsu, CSA board member Emily Chang, and
a willing—if only temporary—transvestite, Joshua Yap, and
I somehow put together a full cast by the end of the week.
Now if I could only figure out how to design the light and the
sound…
Week Two
Dear Mickey, here’s the audio editing program you needed.
Hope the show’s going well.
Hi Kirsten and Nancy, welcome aboard the CSA Play
Production! Attached you’ll find a master props list and a
script…
Dear Cast, you are all doing your own wardrobe. I have
bigger things to worry about, like lighting and sound, that
your clothes. Josh, if you have trouble finding the Benjamin
Franklin costume, let me know as soon as possible so we can
figure something out. Two more things. Show up on time.
That implies SHOWING UP to rehearsals ON TIME. Also,
know your lines. And don’t touch the grand piano…
Hi J., my name’s Mickey and I’m directing the show for
CSA. Can you let me know when you print the tickets? I promised 15 comp tickets to Harnwell…
Time to break out into chaos. We now had an official rehearsal schedule, except I had sent out so many updates that
no one knew when to come in for rehearsals anymore. About
two-thirds of the cast were always late to rehearsal because we
had to call them on their cell phones to get them to come in.
BY ADAM BURGOS
Meanwhile, I had a list of props and set furniture to somehow
materialize: bench weight, 2 coffee cups, mini-tape recorder,
laptop, 2 round tables, 2 benches, 1 lamppost, wooden sword,
6 cell phones… speaking of which, where was I supposed to
find cell phone ring tones?
Week Three
Hi Mickey, can you give me a budget for how much you’re
going to spend on props, costumes, etc.? I need to submit a
budget proposal to SAC for funding. Thanks!
Hi all, the September 24th Friday Read-Through will be
at the Fireside Room at the ARCH building. Same place
as when we had our first read-through. Plan on being here
7 p.m. sharp, or I will keep you there as long as I need to.
We’ve been having some problems with people not showing
up to rehearsals AT ALL… Two weeks to show time, folks. I
don’t have time to mess around. YOU MUST COME TO REHEARSAL *ON TIME*.
Mickey, I can’t come to the second read-through because I
have a job interview that day. Can we switch it? Thanks.
Dear Cast and Crew, there will be NO READ THROUGH
this Friday (9/24)…
The good news: P. from the Theatre Department had graciously agreed to save the day and became Miracle Number
Two: The Guy Who Provideth the Furniture for the Show. We
Everyone is staring at me
because they all know that
I’m the director of this play
whose preview no one is
laughing at. No one’s
buying tickets. Oh my god.
can’t do a second read-through, but that’s okay. We’ve still got
two more run-throughs and two more dress rehearsals. Plus,
I had the lighting design done and—Hallelujah—someone
else had agreed to compile the sound clips. Good luck finding
those cell phone ring tones, buddy.
The bad news: I suddenly noticed there had been no word
from CSA or J. the publicity director about cast bios for the
program, flyers, or printing out tickets…
Four Days Before the Show, on AIM with my producer
Me: So who’s handling the tickets?
Jean: Oh, M. just asked SAC to print out the tickets today.
Me: When are we getting them?
Jean: SAC is supposed to tell her tomorrow.
Me: Okay. Do you know where I can get flyers to give to
the cast members?
Jean: I think from Shao.
Me: Who’s Shao?
Jean: He’s the guy who’s supposed to print everything.
Me: Oh.
Three Days Before the Show, an internal monologue after
the CSA preview
Oh my god, they’re not laughing. They didn’t laugh. They
hated it. The show is going to go horribly and no one will
laugh and they will all blame ME and no one will ever want to
speak to me again. Look, here comes [one of my actresses].
She says nothing and just WALKS AWAY with her jacket
while I’m packing up the props. She hates me. Everyone is
staring at me because they all know that I’m the director of
this play whose preview no one is laughing at. No one’s buying
tickets. Oh my god.
Two Days Before the Show
Make-up Artist: “Hey, you wanna go buy make-up with
me tonight?”
Me: “…you know that you’re supposed to do a make-up
test tomorrow at dress rehearsal, right?”
Dear Cast Members, thou shall not put costumes on top
of props. Thou shall not be heard off-stage. Thou shall not
randomly misplace props. Thou shall speak up so the audience can heareth you. Thou shall OBEY ME, for I am thy
DICTATOR of this production…
6 PM, Night of the Show, to no one in particular
Me: Anyone know where my stage crew is?
7:55 PM, Night of the Show, in the sound/light booth
Me: “So I’ve been watching Sports Night on DVD.”
Sound Guy: “What’s that?”
Me: “It’s this show about people who work at a television
station who produce a show called Sports Night.”
Sound Guy: “Okay.”
Me: “So in all of the episodes, they always say ‘good show,
everyone’ before they go on the air. Am I supposed to say that
before the show starts?”
Light Guy: “You don’t say that in theatre. It’s bad luck.”
Sound Guy: “Yeah, you’re supposed to say ‘break a leg.’”
Light Guy: “You know, I worked on The Village.”
Me: “Really? That’s cool.”
Light Guy: “Yeah, I joked around with Joaquin Phoenix.”
Me: “Who’s that?”
Sound Guy: “Weren’t we supposed to start the show at
eight?”
Me: “But people are still talking.”
Light Guy: “…if I turn off the house lights, they’ll probably
stop.”
Me: “Oh.”
Day After, blog excerpt
The show went with minor hitches, and I got nothing
but compliments for how well everything went. I’m proud of
the show—but I’m more proud of how well everyone worked
together the night of the show: actors ad-libbing and picking
up slack when their fellow cast members lost a line or skipped
lines; my stage crew making sure that everyone had props and
changing scenes, which is very physically tiring; the light and
sound guys being patient and funny and trying to help me
relax but also being there, helping me make the show perfect.
Everyone tells me that I did a great job—but it makes me a
little uncomfortable because it wasn’t just me. It was everyone, and I can’t begin to describe or demonstrate how much
I love my actors and my stage crew and my tech crew. Yes, I
called the shots. But you know what? They did all the work.
I’m so deeply, deeply grateful for the dedication and talent
they’ve given me… Hank asked me why I decided to direct the
show this year even though it drove me crazy, and I have an
answer now: because I wanted those 15 seconds when I knew
that people loved me back, that adrenaline you can only get by
working together with a group of people who would otherwise
have little in common with each other. It’s quite... something.
You’ll have to try for it yourself.
Mickey Jou is a junior in the College. You can write to her at
myjou@sas.
A NIGHT AT MARRED-BAR
LAST WEEKEND, against my fervent wishes, I was dragged by a friend to that new venerable Penn institution, Mar Bar. Boy, did it suck; I don’t even know where to begin. Upon
arrival, we were met with first a line and then a cover charge. I suppose there is nothing the
owners can do about the line—being businessmen they want there to be a line—but what is
the rationale behind waiting in line for what is more or less an upscale frat party? No one
is there but Penn kids overpaying for bad drinks! Then there’s the cover. I can’t stress this
enough: bars should never have covers to get in. Clubs have covers, not bars. That is pretty
much the worst thing about Mar Bar: it wants to be both a chill bar and a hot club. It can’t
be both.
The space itself is long and narrow, which is not ideal for a dancehall atmosphere. To
make matters worse in the dancing department, there is no one specific area with seats,
tables, and couches. They are spread all over the place. If they were confined to one area of
the floor then a larger, more dance-friendly space could be fashioned. The music is also blaring the entire time—fine for a dance club but not for a bar. You are supposed to be able to
have coherent conversations in bars, which isn’t necessary in clubs because you can occupy
yourself with dancing. Also, techno isn’t exactly the kind of stuff to which people want to
dance these days. If you want people to dance, you should probably just put on Q102—or
anything else with the hip hop and pop hits that people know and enjoy dancing to in clubs.
As is, the only dancing I saw involved two sauced-up girlfriends sloppily grinding on one
another with drinks in hand.
Which brings us back to said drinks mentioned earlier. First of all, everything is overpriced. 40th and Walnut, surrounded by college kids, is not exactly 2nd and Market, surrounded by the city’s social elite, so why are the prices so similar? Sure, I know a lot of
kids who go to Penn are, shall we say, well-endowed when it comes to their wallets, but just
because you can afford something doesn’t mean you aren’t getting ripped off.
When we arrived and headed for the bar to peruse the menu for something interesting,
we noticed that a bucket of five Coronas was apparently going for fifteen bucks—not too bad
a deal. I said apparently, though, because after I ordered it, the bartender shot me a nasty
look followed with a “nah, we don’t have that.” After I asked if they were out of the Corona
or the buckets, he informed me that they “just aren’t serving that right now,” and that if I
wanted a Corona, it would be four dollars. So to recap: something that is on a menu and
prominently displayed on the bar is not being served simply because they just don’t feel like
it. I understand the concept of having specials, but specials are not, I repeat not, listed on a
menu that stays out all night in full view of anyone ordering. If, and this is possible, it was
a menu entirely of specials, why was it out? Not yet brought up in this line of questioning
is why the bartender had to be such an asshole about the whole thing. Thanks buddy, there
goes your tip. Let’s move on.
One of my friends ordered a pint of Yards. Not only was it certifiably skunked, it was five
bucks, at least a dollar too much for a beer that is brewed locally. I guess they were trying to
recoup the costs they incurred importing it. I know one dollar may seem nitpicky, but because I hate the place, I am just going to nitpick. Another friend of mine ordered some Black
Label whiskey, only to be informed that it just isn’t served at Mar Bar. Am I wrong when I
say that if one kind of whiskey is being served in a bar, it should be Johnny Walker Black? At
any rate, the bartender offered him something else that would be around the same price but
then charged him nine dollars for whatever other brand it was. I guess that’s supposed to
be generating repeat customers or something. My friend from the whiskey story adequately
articulated all of our sentiments later that night when he declared that he hopes Mar Bar
burns down. Yeah, he was wasted and using unnecessary hyperbole, but it’s the sentiment
that counts. I’m just glad that one of my friends managed to sneak in without paying the
cover. Hey, when the greed of big business and corporate America are trying to screw you,
it’s every man for himself.
Adam Burgos is a senior in the College. You can write to him at myjou@sas.
O C TOBER 11, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 4
P AGE 5
GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME SLEEP
Adventures in Slumber Purgatory
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
WE
ALL
KNOW
that
dreadful feeling.
During
class, it can
suddenly start,
with only a few
minutes’ notice.
Sometimes it
has little to do
with what time it is, what material is being
covered, or how engaging the professor is
with that day’s remarks. Spasms of exhaustion take over and before there is time to do
anything, eyes shut and a head falls forward
against the person’s will. The cycle repeats.
The head falls, is lifted up, and then once
again falls forward. Each time this happens,
a clicking sensation is felt inside the head, as
the tired person tries to battle sleep, if only to
save face. Little else feels worse than the limbo between states of consciousness. Whether
one is an insomniac who struggles to fall
asleep or an overtired person who struggles
to stay awake, fighting the body’s impulse is
not a pleasant occupation. When I’m alert, I
often see other people experiencing the headdroop. With the exception of impending embarrassment, it feels much worse to struggle
to stay awake in class than it does to give up
and wholly fall asleep.
I was discussing the torture of Sleep
Purgatory with someone one day, and it
reminded me of a contentious issue that
was brought to the world’s attention a little
while ago: America’s use of sleep-deprivation
to break the prisoners at Guantanamo Bay.
America is far from the only country that
has used sleep deprivation as a torture tactic,
and this method has often been condemned.
Those on both sides of the issue agree that it
is a very effective way to break a person’s will.
A BBC article described a British reality TV
show which once challenged people to stay
awake for a week—for a prize of one hundred
thousand pounds. The contestants later said
that it was “like torture” after awhile, and
John Schlapobersky, a psychotherapist who
was tortured by the apartheid government
in South Africa, said that after two sleepless
nights, people normally begin to have hallucinations. Therefore, it can be hard to understand those who boast about all-nighters.
Falling asleep in class is the first sign of being
tired; staying awake for more than twentyfour hours brings a person to a new level of
haze and exhaustion, and it is difficult to view
this behavior as anything other than self-destructive, given the fact that our country uses
it against its most dangerous enemies.
Sleep is a confusing idea for college
students. There are so many things to do
on this campus, whether it’s schoolwork,
various forms of socializing, the plethora of
people so often try to figure out shortcuts,
while still maximizing the utility of their
waking hours. Some will claim three hours is
in fact better than four. Coffee rushes are frequent and entertaining, and the coffee buyers
who wait on line to get their fix enjoy talking
about the extent of their addiction to caffeine. Every so often, some publication will
run an article with a sensational tone about
the ubiquity of dependency on drugs like Ad-
extracurricular activities, or simply hanging
out and “wasting time”, even though it usually
doesn’t feel like it’s being wasted. Sleeping is
almost viewed as an obstacle because it takes
up a chunk of the day’s precious twenty-four
hours. People constantly mention the topic
of sleep, and it can become a conversation
starter, especially on difficult Monday mornings. Many enjoy telling others about the
previous night’s number of hours or how
a nap is happening right after class, if it is
even possible to make it through the lecture
awake. Debates about sleep cycles have
become a boring, repetitive topic as many
derall or Ritalin. In these articles, the writer
usually adds a few anonymous quotations
that conjure up a few sentences from users in
cool, self-assured language as they talk about
how it helped them spend all night writing
a paper, or performing some Herculean feat
without losing their concentration.
College life simply is not conducive for
healthy living habits, though this fact seems
to be most blatant when it comes to shut-eye.
The food situation is not quite as drastic even
though the dining hall does come up with
all sorts of concoctions that are laden with
preservatives, and after people graduate
DP
Continued from PAGE 1
and a natural fecal-phobia won’t do in bed, plus a nifty
T-shirt. Not that I would know from personal experience. Ahem.
The question which in the DP is sanitized into rhetorical, soul searching piece about the importance of
immaterial values and goals is inspirational and cute for
the price of absolute boredom. Sex is more important
than money to a majority of people, as evidenced by the
oft-quoted study, but that does not mean that money
can’t buy sex or happiness at all. Those who come out
of professional programs driven by a conservative, compartmentalized mentality, like Wharton, simply lack the
If money is your only
virtue, people will love
you for it, or will be too
stupid to notice.
courage and creativity to use their money correctly. If you
have money, but no sex, you can buy it! Love, too, can be
a similar commodity if you are not a slave to pop-culture
romantic fantasies. If money is your only virtue, people
will love you for it, or will be too stupid to notice.
In any case, the study only concerned itself with sex,
not love, so we can assume the people who were happier
with sex rather than money are just as shallow. While the
point of the DP article may have been simply that there
are things that money can’t buy, this is also a blatant
falsehood. Money can buy everything, including sex, and
those that say differently are merely ignorant of the wider
world of possibilities.
Andrew Pederson is a sophomore in the College. You can write to him
at awl@sas.
from Commons digestive abuse, most find
it difficult not to depend on Yue Kee and the
local variety of food trucks scattered around
campus. It is no one’s fault but our own,
especially when it comes to upperclassmen.
Fro Gro has as many options as our home
supermarkets; it’s just that few of us want to
spend an hour or more each day preparing
healthy recipes when fast food is tasty, quick
and convenient. However, compared to the
typical American diet, we Penn students still
do well, and we suffer much less from our
diets than we do from lack of sleep.
My entry into Wharton has led me to
catch myself robotically applying new economic concepts to the world at large even
when I don’t want to. Sleep is a precious
commodity that is always experiencing a
shortage. Accordingly, waiting for things,
like for a sandwich with half the ingredients
missing and then again on line to pay at the
ABP in Huntsman, has grown more offensive
than ever before. Time is of the essence,
and sleep always gets shafted in the process
of life. Being efficient and trying to get the
maximal utility out of all time available has
become a compulsion. Thus, being too tired
to focus on work leads many people to more
frustration than usual. I have started to contemplate the opportunity cost of everything
I do. When I am awake but unable to pay
attention during a class, I will zone out until
I only hear phrases like “get rich” as they are
said with inflection every ten minutes or so.
(I’m kidding! Sort of…) During those moments, I stare at those around me, and most
of the time, more than a couple of people are
struggling with their state of consciousness.
If there is anything that takes away from
people’s quality of life here, it is probably
the inability to sleep for enough consecutive
hours on a regular basis. Mathematically
speaking, an all-nighter will bring a person
halfway to experiencing the way our country
treats alleged terrorists. If that isn’t enough
of a reason to spend more time under the
covers, following the advice of last week’s
sex-obsessed DP columnist may precipitate
a return to bed, even if it means giving up
all other worthwhile activities. Okay, time to
take a nap…
Lauren Saul is a sophomore dualing in
the WHollege. You can write to her at
lcsaul@wharton.
BEST BETS
10/11 - 10/17
Rob’s TV picks for the week
Monday: Real World/Road Rules Challenge (MTV, 10 p.m.) It’s Battle of the Sexes 2 as castmates
butt heads and perform other ludicrous activities to extend their celebrity another 15 minutes and for
enough money to pay for a few semesters of Penn.
Tuesday: Veronica Mars “Meet John Smith” (UPN, 9 p.m.) The new Nancy Drew helps reconnect a
son and wayward father, as the mystery behind Lilly Kane’s murder thickens.
Wednesday: Presidential Debate—Arizona State University (ABC, CBS, NBC, 9 p.m.) Domestic issues. Who else expects this one to venture off to Iraq anyway?
Thursday: Extreme Dodgeball II (GSN, 10 p.m.) Not a movie. A sports series. Dodgeball seems to be
all the rage, though I swear that movie was enough to deter anyone from even considering it.
Friday: 8 Simple Rules “Out of the Box” (ABC, 8 p.m.) Art and dating have been funnier, but I figure
ABC’s best sitcom—not saying much—could use a shout-out.
Saturday: The Secret Life Of… “Secret Life of Donuts” (FOOD, 2:30 p.m.) I find it odd that Dunkin’
Donuts is now best known for its coffee. That is all.
Sunday: Farscape: The Peacekeeper Wars (SCIFI, 9 p.m.) Though the trailers have me excited, I can’t
help but think of this as closure trying to cross the t’s and dot the i’s on a series I should still be enjoying on a weekly basis.
If You Can Only Watch One: Veronica Mars. See my article for Farscape stuff. I somehow doubt
you’d be able to catch the previous 88-episodes in time. And, to be honest, Veronica Mars is doing a
bit anemically. Despite the fact that no college student has a Nielsen box, building some sort of buzz
would help. You can catch old episodes on MTV at 7 p.m.
P AGE 6
O C TOBER 11, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 4
BACK FROM THE DEAD DEBATE
ROB FORMAN | MY 13-INCH BOX
THE ASHES HAVE RISEN and the phoenix has returned.
I wish I were talking about Famke Janssen and news on the
third X-Men movie, still hurting since Bryan Singer ankled
to helm the new Superman film, but this article is about
two sci-fi franchises a bit more obscure than the ubiquitous
mutants—Firefly and Farscape. The 2001-2002 season hit
science-fiction television hard: both shows, considered newclassics, were cancelled.
Joss Whedon’s Firefly aired on FOX during the fall. Despite approving a hugely expensive pilot episode, somewhere
in the $8-million range for two-hours, the FOX brass opted
to air the series’ second episode as the premiere. Clearly, this
confused viewers later on, since the pilot explained the characters and premise of the show, as
pilots are wont to do—a western set in space. No aliens. No sound in space. It’s simply a crew
on a ship intent on survival at the fringe of human civilization. The crew—nine characters,
much like 1939’s John Ford classic Stagecoach—are a captain and soldier who fought on the
losing side of a futuristic Civil War, a joking pilot, a brash and vulgar mercenary, a doctor and
his fugitive sister, a mechanic, a preacher, and a “Companion”—a scholastically-trained and
socially accepted whore.
Fridays are not the kindest day to television ratings, and preemptions for Major League
Baseball displaced the show for several continuous weeks. And, for whatever reason, the FOX
execs decided to air the series out of order and air the pilot as the last episode before the series
was cancelled. Financially, the decision was understandable, as the series cost too much for
its Friday viewership. Or maybe FOX just failed to get the message out. DVD box sets of the
entire series, including three unaired episodes of the show, flew off retail shelves and continue
to sell well almost a year later. The series even won an Emmy for Best Visual Effects.
Recall Family Guy. The FOX executives didn’t understand the animated comedy, mishandled and misadvertised it, then cancelled it. After superb DVD sales and great syndication
numbers, the show will return in May 2005. While you can’t expect to see Firefly back on TV
any time soon, a massive fan campaign and hard work on the part of the producers caught the
attention of Universal Studios. A feature film, titled Serenity, will be theatrically released on
April 22nd, 2005. All nine main cast members reprise their roles, and the producers promise
the film will be accessible both to those who saw Firefly and those who did not. Take my advice: find Firefly DVDs and watch the series regardless. You won’t regret it. I promise that
after watching the episode “Objects in Space,” you’ll be eager for more. An odd side note: the
Friday at 8 p.m. time period has never improved on Firefly’s numbers before its cancellation.
Farscape is almost Firefly’s complete antithesis. The show premiered in 1999 on the Sci-Fi
Channel and continued into its fourth season with both fans and the executives fully behind
it. The show is a tad more complicated than Firefly. A human astronaut is pelted into a
distant part of the galaxy and almost immediately finds himself at the crux of an interspecies
war. Compared to the dusty western pallor of Firefly and the rigid sterility of the more recent
Star Trek series, Farscape is a breath of crazy, colorful fresh air. The aliens are far more varied,
vibrant, and detailed than your average Klingon or Romulan, and many are made by the Jim
Henson company—yes, the muppetmakers themselves.
Trouble began abruptly on the Australian set of Farscape in 2001—the cast and crew finished filming the season before Christmas even though it would not air for a few months. SciFi originally informed the producers that a fifth season was guaranteed, so an envoy from the
network telling all involved that the season finale would in fact be a series finale was a complete
surprise. Even more surprising: the message came during the filming of the final episode, not
leaving time to rewrite, change, or wrap up anything despite the series’ arc. Farscape’s season
finales have all been cliffhangers, leaving cast members dead or otherwise imperiled in order
to keep viewers buzzing until the show’s return the next season. When the finale shot of the
series was the sudden, unforeshadowed deaths of the series’ two main characters, fans were in
an outrage.
Science-fiction fans are nothing if not obsessive and vocal. The Farscape campaign didn’t
involve finding a feature studio to produce a possible movie franchise. They found financiers,
who hadn’t watched or been aware of the show until the campaign, to front the bill for a miniseries. The four-hour result, Farscape: The Peacekeeper Wars, is one of my Best Bets this week.
It begins Sunday, October 17th and ends Monday, October 18th.
Fans and producers of Farscape alike are hoping the ratings are sizeable enough to warrant
another miniseries, just as Firefly fans are working to make sure Serenity is a big enough hit
that Universal will option a trilogy and more of the franchise. In the meantime, science-fiction
fans can be content in spurning the unoriginality of Enterprise.
Rob Forman is a junior in Wharton. You can write to him at robertf@wharton.
Continued from PAGE 1
wards on everything from Iraq, the war and terrorism to the anti-ballistic missile treaty would
cause one to think it was Cheney who sat in the number one seat at the White House, not the
bumbling fool we saw debating against John Kerry. The problem Senator Edwards had in debating Cheney paralleled Bush’s problems. Everything Edwards had to say was nothing more
than regurgitation from before. I felt as if I were staring at a 90-minute political ad.
Don’t Mess with the Rhino, son, or you’ll get hurt.
There were two specific moments during the night when Cheney literally creamed a too
youthful appearing Edwards. First, Vice-President Cheney chided the Senator’s attendance record in the U.S. Senate. Cheney told Edwards, “You’ve missed a lot of key votes on tax policy, on
energy, on Medicare reform. Your hometown newspaper has taken to calling you Senator Gone.
You’ve got one of the worst attendance records in the United States Senate. Now, in my capacity
as Vice President, I am the president of the Senate and the presiding officer. I’m up in the Senate
most Tuesdays when they’re in session. The first time I ever met you was when you walked on
the stage tonight.” Ouch. I even felt the sting from a blow made worse by the look on Senator
Edward’s face. The sad thing is he couldn’t even refute this accusation, making it obvious he was
completely unprepared for this type of attack.
The second time Cheney scored a major point occurred when he accused Edwards of demeaning the contributions of the Iraqi people to the military operations in Iraq. While Edwards’
claim that Americans are taking the majority of the loss of life was, I believe, quite correct, the
V.P. was able to spin the statements in accusations of disrespect for Iraqi soldiers and for those in
the “coalition”. Edwards failed to do anything meaningful in response to counteract this attack.
Again, at least Edwards has that hair.
With everything that went well for Cheney, the debate certainly was not a clear sweep for
him. For one thing, Edwards came across as much more relaxed and charismatic than the former Halliburton CEO. I’ve been using the term White Rhino to describe the V.P. and with good
reason. Beyond being rather large, white, and rarely seen in public, he conveys little in the way
of personal charm. Honestly, if I were in the audience that evening and he came toward me, my
gut reaction would probably be to flee.
Edwards, however, appeared to be about as likeable as possible. For one thing, he’s absolutely gorgeous. Yes, he’s 51 years old, but he’s just so dreamy. During the debate, when he was
asked a question in which he was not supposed to use Kerry’s name and he did, he realized his
mistake, put on that big southern grin and apologized. Who could resist that charm except perhaps Cheney? Even he, when looking at Edwards, had to have had moments when he wished
President Bush did not oppose same-sex marriage.
Bush Who?
On a more substantive level, the Vice President made a fairly interesting mistake throughout the debate. Edwards referenced John Kerry time and again, to the point where he sounded
like a five year old bragging about how great is his dad. While this was an annoyance, Cheney
took the other extreme. In the entire debate Cheney mentioned President Bush by name about
twice. Once was at the end, almost as an afterthought, and the other time was in reference to
the less than flattering distinction of President Bush calling for amending the U.S. Constitution to ban same-sex marriage. In response to a question on this topic, Cheney stated that his
own personal opinion remains that states should handle the question of marriage. Cheney then
highlighted how he [President Bush] sets the policies for the administration and that he [again
the President] feels it is wrong for courts to impose same-sex marriage rights. I think political
pundit Chris Matthews had it right when he said, “We are having a vice presidential debate with
an incumbent president, George W. Bush, who is running for reelection, I believe on the same
ticket as Dick Cheney. I never heard the president’s name except when he was the gay basher.
He was the one, according to Cheney, that wouldn’t let his daughter off the hook.” Indeed, Vice
President Cheney’s daughter Mary Cheney is a lesbian, which would explain the subtle difference between Bush and Cheney on this issue. Talk about awkward.
Absolutely nothing Cheney said last Tuesday could possibly impress anyone about President
Bush. While Cheney spoke, I kept thinking he could effectively be president right now instead of
Bush. This poses a problem for Bush, as people will look to him when voting, not his V.P. running mate. In failing to evoke Bush other than to blame him for the Federal Marriage Amendment, Cheney fumbled an excellent opportunity to give the President a boost in the polls. The
most Cheney accomplished was to perhaps increase his personal likeability with voters, leaving
Bush himself out to dry.
The final word:
Edwards, with all of his youthful charm, came across as a well-meaning person with a lot to
learn. Unfortunately, he also came across as a naïve V.P. wannabe who needs more experience
to play with the grownups. On the other hand, Cheney appeared well-polished, well-briefed
and strong as the man who could be president if needed. His broad experience in foreign policy
and his well-researched attacks on Senator Edwards were apparent to anyone watching. Aside
from making little connection between himself and the President, Cheney gave a near flawless
performance.
Michael Patterson is a senior in the College. You can write to him at mjp2@sas.
O C TOBER 11, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 4
P AGE 7
GREEN AT NINETEEN, GREY AT TWENTY-TWO
Enrolling in the Accelerated Emotional Aging Program
BY CHRISTINE CHEN
PLANNING FOR THE SUMMER in the meager beginnings of fall is a reality for many
and upsetting to say the least. It is about as annoying as when the local five-and-dime
puts out the dancing Santa Claus next to the fifty-cent inflatable beach balls in the
middle of summer. I passed by that display window pissed beyond words. Nobody lives
in the now anymore. Instead, we live in the hazy limbo ranging anywhere from five
minutes to five years from now.
The life of an undergraduate student at Penn ebbs with an undercurrent of uncertainty. Some might say that this is the most exciting time in our lives, but at the same
time, the ambiguity of the future shapes our prison, cleverly disguised in ivy covered
walls, eternal intellectual sunshine, and mixed drinks. We strive towards attaining some
sort of stability. That is a common driving force behind pusuing higher education in the
first place. While freshman year is fun and games for the most part, this reality becomes
more crucial and foreboding in the following years.
Youth is inherently beautiful; filled with the naivete and the unequivocal hope, or
faith rather, that one will get there, wherever “there” is, in
the end. Perhaps that is partially what appeals to creepy
underclassmen frat boys that target impressionable freshman girls, aside from the notoriously obvious biological
appeal. Regardless, while in fifty years we may actually
not have enough time to do all that we want as life winds
down, this is the period in our lives when we do have all
the time in the world, yet it just doesn’t feel that way. Partying and drinking yourself into a benign state only delays
the inevitable. It’s a mini-break in a sea of ivy despotically
choking out the growth of any other type of greenery. Like
ivy, the Penn lifestyle is a beautifully villainous Catch-22.
Time flies by in your inebriated bliss, and by the time
you’ve sobered up, you think “Shit! There is so much I
have to do! Like save the baby whales!”
“You’re born and you’re red /you’re dead and you’re blue. You’re green at nineteen /
and grey at twenty-two” says Les Savy Fav, in their deliciously commanding song Dishonest Don Part II. Never mind the title, the best ones usually doesn’t correlate to the
content of the song whatsoever, but it sounds cool, and that is precisely what youth is,
and should be about.
What exactly takes place in the subtle transformation from freshman to sophomore?
We all know the transition as former “wise-fools” in the high school seniority hierarchy
first hand, but somehow it is different in college. It is high time to deconstruct this
quandary at its source.
Exactly this time last year, I remember randomly conversing with a girl in Houston
Hall during the insanely crowded lunch time slot somewhere between 12:30 and 1:30
pm. She asked with a tone of expectation, “Are you a freshman?” and I confirmed her
suspicions, but to her surprise, I pressed the issue further. I was interested in how she
gauged my “freshness.” What made it so screamingly obvious? I mean, by then I knew
vaguely where I was going and was on a schedule. Where had I gone wrong? I would
later obsess over her comment in the two weeks that followed, promptly forget, and now
a year later, remember it clear as day. Open and approachable, decked in a mildly worn
tee shirt and jeans, she went into a couple choice vague comments like “you dress nicely,”
which was just meaningless birdseed. I mean, I will dress presentably until the day I die!
It’s the way I’ve been raised. She ended with the final road block of “I can just tell,” with
which I was left at the same place where I had begun, but with a tingling curiosity that
began to fester like herpes. This wise fool did leave me with what little solace she could
before packing up her salad bowl and plastic utensils: “You’ll see what I mean next year.”
Then she promptly continued to spread her philosophical STD elsewhere.
Only time will tell, and dammit, only time can tell you that that cliché is true. It is
now the one year anniversary of that chance conversation, and in the grand tradition
of youthful exuberance, I am pondering every aspect of change that has internally occurred. It is painfully clear now. I reflect on what I have done during round one
at Penn, and I cringe. A lot. And when I see other freshman doing the same, I cringe for them. The difference
is this: I am aware of my youth, inexperience, and I am
most aware of the abundance of time. Thus, I am defensively armed with a reaffirmed mission: to let it happen.
Anything at all. I’ve been chastised before about my lack
of planning, my seemingly aimless wandering. Fingers
have been wagged at me by my peers, my friends, but
I remain resolute in doing what I want regardless of
whether it will be of any use to me in the future. I have
been in the world where the day is planned by a palm pilot before. In high school it was structured planning for
college, and this time around it is geared for internships
and jobs, but in essence it is déjà vu. I am not going to lie and say I have done absolutely
no work toward securing such an internship or research position or that it is unimportant, and anyone who does say this is either full of shit or going to be in it. I guess I can’t
explain it as coherently as I had hoped, but it’s an attitude that I have acquired layer by
layer over the year. Or maybe that’s more circular wise-fool speak, in which case this
makes complete sense.
Although it is unreasonable to expect, or even want to be, as “green” as we were freshman year, let’s aim for Kelly green or worst case scenario, hunter green, rather than grey
at twenty-two. And let’s try to spell as many English words with British spelling while
we’re at it because we have a lot of time.
Time flies by in your
inebriated bliss, and by the
time you’ve sobered up, you
think “Shit! There is so much I
have to do! Like save the baby
whales!”
Christine Chen is a sophomore in Engineering. You can write to her at cachen@seas.
VOTE FOR CHANGE
Continued from PAGE 1
of his songs including the highly appropriate “Fortunate Son.” Almost immediately
after Fogerty left, Stipe was back—in a Kerry shirt—to duet on “Because the Night,”
which ended up being his finest performance of the evening.
Instead of introducing the E Street Band during the instrumental break of
“Mary’s Place” as he usually does, Springsteen staged a mock conversion of an actor
dressed as a conservative stereotype. It was stupid, but everyone was too giddy to
care. Fogerty returned for “Proud Mary,” and then I and the other five Bright Eyes
fans in the arena applauded conspicuously as Oberst followed Stipe onto the packed
stage for the final two songs, both covers: Nick Lowe’s “What’s So Funny ‘Bout Peace,
Love, and Understanding” and Patti Smith’s “People Got the Power.” Despite the
confusion over who was to share which microphone with whom, it was a pleasant
end to a fantastic show. That was all completely objective, I swear.
That the entertainment industry is unabashedly liberal is far less noxious than
the preponderance of Bush supporters among America’s corporate fat cats. Springsteen and Co. are certainly rich enough to personally benefit from the current lopsided economic policies so the fact that they take up the opposite cause reflects authentic, selfless concern for the underdogs. Anyone familiar with Springsteen knows
that’s nothing new for him. Everyone else should be heartened by this not-for-profit
coalition, which serves as an electric reminder that dissent is patriotic, even if you
forgot Poland.
Springsteen: A R.E.M.: C+ Bright Eyes: Damn you, SEPTA
James Houston is a senior in the College. You can write to him at jhouston@sas.
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THE UNDERGRADUATE MAGAZINE | O C TOBER 11, 2004 VOL . V NO .4
Critically
Informed
DUAL DEGREES & THE JUJU CRISIS
BRIAN HERTLER | SLEIGHT OF HAND
PENN WAS FULL of bad juju.
An evil group of dual-degree
students, each with majors in Philosophy and Atomic Physics, had
gained a stranglehold over campus karma. They’d applied the
power of the atom to their theory
of Pessimistic De-Humanism, and
all of West Philadelphia felt the
effects. Investment bankers were
predicting recession, food carts were inflating their prices, and
nobody raised their hands in recitation. As the theory spread,
Penn was falling apart.
Danny Keyhole, a brave Astronomy major, burst into Amy
Gutmann’s office in College Hall. “Ms. President!” he cried.
“Something terrible is about to happen!”
President Gutmann, from behind her desk, only stared
back at him. An expression of pessimistic dehumanization
was plastered across her face.
“I’ve discovered,” Danny continued, “that Penn’s bad karma has affected the whole country! There have been natural
disasters—hurricanes in Florida, earthquakes in California,
even a volcanic eruption in Washington—all because of our
tainted juju! And now there’s something much worse: a
meteor is speeding towards Earth, and it’s aimed directly at
Penn!”
At this last statement, President Gutmann finally raised
her head. She blinked her eyes rapidly and appeared bored,
angry, and defensive by turns. Finally she said, “So we’re
doomed. Who cares?”
She called security, and Danny Keyhole was escorted
outside. He was flabbergasted—Penn faced a disaster, yet
nobody seemed to mind. He’d expected President Gutmann
to destroy the meteor from space, or to start digging impactproof caves under Hill Field. Instead, the bad juju had sapped
her will to act.
Danny, filling with resolve, decided to solve the problem
himself. He’d find the dual-degree students and stop their
harmful experiments. Once harmony was restored, the meteor would surely turn away from Penn.
He set out for their secret hideout, which was located at
the top of High Rise South. Unfortunately, campus seemed
to be deteriorating before his eyes. All the manhole covers
had burst, and were all spewing geysers of brown, foul-smelling sewage. Locust Walk was submerged and impassable, a
veritable river of slime, and students were fleeing into buildings for safety. Little did they suspect that the cafeterias and
dormitories, too, were shin-deep in human waste.
Penn’s juju, Danny thought, must’ve been getting worse.
Undaunted, he took his shoes off and waded heroically towards the High Rises.
In his mind, there had always been something untrustworthy about dual-degree students. When students are
choosing their majors, he thought, they should have to make
a choice: either the enjoyable subjects in the College, or the
useful subjects in Wharton, Engineering, or Nursing. To have
both at once was simply greedy—no wonder these atomic philosophers had caused evil.
As he made his long, hard slog through the quagmire, he
noticed some of the Locust Walk debris that floated past him:
there were political ads for the UA—”Vote for me because I
drink a lot!”—and t-shirts with blurry, poorly-scanned faces
on the front. A thought struck him—could faulty voodoo be
responsible for Penn’s stupidity?
The sewage flood finally ended at the 38th Street bridge.
Danny shook himself off and, deciding to clean up at the
nearest dormitory, ran across the bridge to High Rise East.
Unfortunately, he found the entranceway covered in ominous
flyers: Attention! Today there is an Emergency Water Shutdown in effect. Students are advised to take their hygienic
needs elsewhere.
Everything on campus was going wrong. He tried to ring
the doorbells on some of the nearby frat houses, but the buzzers weren’t working—the electricity must’ve been out! Danny
realized that Pessimistic De-Humanism had been affecting
maintenance workers, too.
He gritted his teeth. He didn’t need to be clean; he
needed to stop the philosophers in High Rise South. The
building had just gotten a 28 million renovation, but Danny
knew enough to be careful. He walked inside and, very cautiously, swiped his PennCard on the newfangled sliding-glass
machine. As he tried to pass through, however, the glass suddenly slid closed, almost slicing him in half; only with cat-like
reflexes did he leap to safety. Had evil mojo somehow gotten
into the machinery?
None of the elevators were working, so he began the long
climb to the Rooftop Lounge. It was much later, then, that he
emerged into the secret lair of the dual-degree students.
“Halt your mischief-making!” he cried, still gasping
for breath. “You don’t know it, but your experiments have
brought terrible consequences! A meteor is headed this way,
ready to destroy the school! We’re having problems with the
most fundamental maintenance issues; our students are getting hysterical and stupid over politics; and, worst of all, the
Administration refuses to respond to even the most critical
problems. You’ve got to purify our juju!”
The dual-degree students looked up from their calculations. They’d filled the Rooftop Lounge with blackboards;
each was covered in obscure calculations —the speed of
light multiplied by Nietzsche, divided by the number of
pages...— but also question marks and empty spaces. One of
the students scratched his head. “But we never completed any
experiments.”
“You must’ve finished at least one,” Danny protested. “Penn
could never get so messed up on its own—not after we’ve paid
so much money. At least, it shouldn’t get so messed up...”
In another moment, the truth sank in. He and the dualdegree students pondered the situation for a while, then found
an ideal solution: they’d all take the semester abroad, so they’d
be gone when the meteor hit.
Brian Hertler is a senior in the College. You can write to him at
hertlerb@sas.
THERE’S NO CURSES IN BASEBALL!
BY ADAM GOLDSTEIN
BASEBALL IS A SPORT full of superstition.
Little leaguers and big leaguers share many
of the same ritualistic practices while on the
diamond. Some refuse to step on the foul
lines when entering and exiting the field, others will continue to wear the same underwear
and socks during a hitting or winning streak,
while still more insist upon always eating the
same pre-game meal. Many of the most distinctive rites in baseball are associated with
particular Major League teams. In times of
crisis, Braves fans enact the infamous tomahawk chop, Philadelphia natives count on
the magical powers of the Phanatic’s famed
pelvic thrusts, and the Angels’ faithful pray to
that idol known as the Rally Monkey. Then
there are the players themselves, who are just
as superstitious and quirky as the fans who
root them on. There’s Sammy and his kiss
to the camera, Nomar’s OCD routine in the
batter’s box, and Johnny Damon doing his
best Encino Man impersonation.
Yet each year, as hot summer days fade
into cool fall nights and baseball’s postseason
gets underway, the sport’s most feared supernatural entity threatens to rear its ugly head.
I refer, of course, to The Curse. The very mention of the word is enough to make some fans
roll their eyes in disbelieving disgust, while
causing others, those more supernaturally
inclined, to plug their ears and begin screaming as they scamper off to their respective
house of worship. Whether one speaks of
the Detroit Tigers Curse of the Colonel, the
hex placed upon old Anaheim Stadium after
it was built on an Indian burial ground, or
the Cubs’ infamous Billy Goat curse, every
fan, coach, and player has an opinion about
whether or not his team is doomed to fail.
This autumn, with the Tigers and Cubs
having failed to make the postseason and the
Angels having rid themselves of their blight
after recently winning a world series, there February 14th Yankee signing of A-Rod the
remains just one team and one curse still Valentine’s Day Massacre and claiming the
alive—the Boston Red Sox and the Curse of Curse of the Babe had struck again. As had
the Bambino. The Sox curse is said to have happened on that infamous day in 1920, the
begun in 1920 when the team’s owner sold a Yankees had once more stolen a great player
pitcher named Babe Ruth to the New York from the grasps of the Sox and seemed desYankees for 100,000 dollars. In the years tined to win another title.
that followed, Ruth became arguably the
But a funny thing happened on the way
game’s greatest player, and the Yankees went to October. The Yankees did not play to the
on to win 26 World Championships. In con- level of their lofty expectations, mainly betrast, the Red Sox, after winning their fifth cause many of their high-priced stars failed
championship in 1918, would reach only four to perform at a consistently high level. Alex
World Series after dealing Ruth. They lost in Rodriguez found himself in a slump during
the final game of each of those series. Over the early part of the season and finished the
the last 85 years, scores of Yankee fans have year hitting 11 fewer homeruns then he did
dosed off peacefully while recounting the tri- last year, as his batting average fell nearly
umphs of their heroes:
20 points below his
Ruth and DiMaggio,
Each year the sport’s most career average. The
Jackson and Berra,
team’s captain Derek
feared supernatural
Jeter and Rivera. In
Jeter got off to the
Boston, however, Sox
worst start of his
entity threatens to rear its career, going hitless
fans shiver at night as
they try to shake imin 32 straight at-bats
ugly head: The Curse.
ages of Buckner and
during the spring.
Boone from their tired
During home games
heads.
in May, Jeter was actually booed by Yankee
This year, though, something just feels fans, a phenomenon on-par with, say, Gandifferent. For once, it seems as though the dhi getting heckled at a peace rally. In July,
Red Sox are the ones destined to succeed slugger Jason Giambi fell mysteriously ill and
while the Yankees seem certain to self-de- remained sick for much of the year. Consestruct. Eerily enough, I would argue this quently, his season-ending numbers were
flip-flop in fortunes between the two teams pathetic (.220, 12, 40) and he was left off
began during an off-season blockbuster the team’s active post-season roster. Highly
trade, one which drew comparisons to the regarded pitcher Javier Vasquez struggled all
aforementioned deal involving Mr. Ruth. season for his new team, and his ERA balLast winter, the Texas Rangers announced looned to nearly five. Another hurler, Jose
they were placing Alex Rodriguez, perhaps Contreras, played so miserably that he was
baseball’s best all-around player, on the traded to the White Sox for Esteban Loaiza.
trading block. The Red Sox, eager to secure Loaiza then proceeded to pitch even worse
the stud shortstop, offered some of its best than Contreras and was promptly benched.
players and gobs of cash to the Rangers to Despite all this, no one would argue that the
acquire Rodriguez, only to see the hated Yan- crowning moment of the Yankees season
kees secure the All-Star instead. Boston fans wasn’t in August when pitcher Kevin Brown
went into immediate mourning, dubbing the broke his hand after punching a wall in a fit
of rage, forcing him to go onto the disabled
list for an extended period of time.
Meanwhile, the Red Sox, led by off-season signee Curt Shilling, more than held their
own in the AL East, routinely outplaying the
Yankees during the spring. When the team
hit a skid during the summer, GM Theo Epstein made the unthinkable move of trading
long time Boston star Nomar Garciaparra for
Orlando Cabrera and Doug Mientkiewicz.
The trade sent Sox fans into a frenzy, furious their beloved “Nomah” had been dealt
for two players who were each struggling to
hit much above 200. The season, Boston
supporters declared, was officially over. The
curse, they said, had appeared once again.
The Red Sox would prove, though, that this
assessment could not be further from the
truth. The trade galvanized the club with
the Sox promptly winning 10 games in a row.
While Nomar failed to produce in Chicago
and the Cubs came up short in their bid for
a playoff berth, the Red Sox simply rolled,
easily grabbing the AL wild card spot and
entering the post season as one of the hottest
teams in baseball.
So, could it be that the Curse of the Bambino has been lifted while the Curse of the ARod has descended upon the Yankees organization? Well, despite their inconsistent play,
the Yankees did find a way to win 101 games
and the division. And, as I write this article,
the Yankees have just evened their series with
the Twins after a 12th inning RBI double by,
who else, Alex Rodriguez. Is it possible that
the Yankees and Red Sox could meet again in
the League Championship, once more challenging the laws of fate which bind the game
of baseball? Who knows, but you can bet
that if these two storied teams do face each
other in a series, the Babe and I will both be
watching every minute.
Adam Goldstein is a junior in the College. You can
write to him at adamsg@sas.