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The Undergraduate Magazine
Vol. V, No. 9 | December 6, 2004
A Swift Kick to the Head
Scott Robinson writes about meeting
the Oracle of Omaha.
Page 5
Balls to the Wall
Andrew analyzes masculine seducation in the media.
Page 8
We Swear We’re Not Paying
Mickey gives an insider opinion of the
Undergraduate Magazine.
Page 3
SURREAL ELEVATORS
Marian’s adventure in L.A.C.M.A.
continues.
Page 4
MARIAN LEE
GIVING SOCIAL SECURITY
THE PINK SLIP
BY TAYLOR W. BULEY
SOCIAL SECURITY IS GOING TO COLLAPSE. In less
than 15 years the program will begin running a deficit, by spending more on benefits than it will take in
through taxes. Overall, Social Security stands to face
unfunded liabilities of more than $26 trillion in 2004
dollars. Despite this dismal forecast, we are fortunate
enough to remain able to control, albeit somewhat sluggishly, the destiny of the floundering Titanic of American social welfare. The waves of debt are beginning to
beat against Social Security’s antiquated hull, and time
continuously erodes our last chances for stability, but
we still have the luxury of having a set of options to improve our situation. In these turbid times, inaction has
become gravely imprudent.
We have four real options to save the social welfare
system: cut benefits, raise taxes, reduce spending, or
make the current payroll taxes work harder by investing them through some form of personal retirement
account (PRA). Cutting benefits for current recipients
is unquestionably unviable because politicos know
that cutting your ninety-four year-old grandmother’s
monthly stipend would undoubtedly mean political
suicide. Our second option has been eliminated: Bush
cut taxes in his first four years, and it is unlikely that
we will see him act differently in his second. Defense
spending on Iraq and elsewhere has caused total government expenditure to skyrocket, eliminating the
third option. Thus, realistically, we have really only
one viable option to buttress American social welfare:
Private Retirement Accounts.
Personal Retirement Accounts allow individual
control over how the government invests personal
Social Security taxes. PRAs give us more control over
how we structure our income over our lifetime and
allow us to build a nest egg that could be used for
emergencies during retirement, start a business, or
leave to our families. Experience from other countries
shows that establishing PRAs will be a complex process
L.A. Confidential
requiring careful planning; nevertheless, the Personal
Retirement Account is the Jesus of Social Security. The
PRA alone holds the power to forgive our failures and
redeem American social welfare.
Using data from the Social Security Administration’s 2004 Trustees Report and Ibbotson Associates’
Stocks, Bonds, Bills, and Inflation 2002 Yearbook ,
I will offer you an example of the clear superiority of
PRAs over the financial arbitrage used by our current
system. I will use my personal information and salary
based on information obtained from the 2000 VPUL
senior survey data: on average, as a 22 year-old male, I
will earn $40,000 in my first year out of college.
Based on this information, I will pay $629,998
in taxes to social security over my lifetime under our
current Social Security system. When I turn 67, my
Statutory Retirement Age, I will retire. The Statutory
Retirement Age is the age under current law at which
I would be eligible to collect full Social Security retirement benefits. So at 67, I will retire and start receiving
$3,216 in monthly benefits (income). I will continue to
receive these benefits until I die at an expected 73.95
years of age. The average rate of return of monthly benefits to my social security taxes, then, would be -4.32%.
That means that during my lifetime, I would lose some
$350,000 to social security.
Through the contrasting lens of a Private Retirement Account system, our current failures are put in
sharp relief. A reformed system would be far more lucrative and would significantly add to personal wealth.
If I were able to invest my funds on an individual level
like under this system, on average I would increase my
monthly benefits from $3,216 up to $15,315. Imagine
the lifestyle changes under a $12,000 per month increase in income. The average total value of my PRA
at retirement would be $1,880,080. That number is
significantly larger than what the government return
Continued on PAGE 3
THE IRVINE
HOSTAGE CRISIS
BRIAN HERTLER | SLEIGHT OF HAND
THE YOUNG MICKEY JOU, a mildmannered reporter whose column, “Sites
and Sounds,” appears every week in First
Call, stepped into Irvine Auditorium.
She was preparing to write an article
on the afternoon’s event: the Minority
Performing Arts Festival, which would
feature such groups as African Traditional Rhythms, Aboriginal Voices of
Engineering, the Lithuanian Muslim
Ukelele Group, and a number of others in a friendly contest for
multicultural supremacy.
By her side stood young Brian Hertler, another First Call
writer. He was also planning an article, but on a completely different topic.
The old auditorium quickly filled to capacity, and the first
group, the Pan-Arab Trombone Association, took the stage and
began their performance. Mickey pulled out her notepad and
started writing. The Pan-Arabs, she wrote, have a pleasing sense
of unity-through-disunity. I really got a feeling for their intense
Pan-Arabian pride. Their rhythms reminded me of suckling sweet
strawberries, with a delicious glass of milk on the side...
Suddenly the music ended, and the jarring crash of instruments filled the auditorium. Something was wrong—all the
doors flew open, and mysterious figures in black ski-masks rushed
inside. Terrorists had invaded Irvine Auditorium! All of them
wielded deadly-looking plastic air rifles.
“Oh my goodness!” cried Brian. “Those are Red Ryder, carbine
action two-hundred models! They’ll shoot our eyes out!”
“Stay calm,” Mickey said. She put away her notebook, and
began looking around. “I need to change clothes. Where are the
bathrooms?”
“It’s okay. I’m scared, too.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’ve never told you this before,
but—” She checked that nobody was listening. “—I’m a superhero.”
Brian’s eyes widened. “Wow! Really? What powers do you
have?”
“No time to explain! Stay here, and keep quiet.”
Mickey slipped away unnoticed before the terrorists could
organize themselves. She crept out of the main hall, and into the
ladies’ restroom.
There, she wasted no time in changing identities. Quickly
Continued on PAGE 7
D ECEMBER 6, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 9
P AGE 2
FirstCall
Vol. V, No. 9 | December 6, 2004
The Undergraduate Magazine
Editor-in-Chief
Robert Forman
Editors
Andrew Pederson
Lauren Saul
Assistant Editor
Shira Bender
Columnists
Robert Forman
Adam Goldstein
Julie Gremillion
Brian Hertler
James Houston
Mickey Jou
Michael Patterson
Andrew Pederson
Lauren Saul
Anna Strongin
Writers
Thuy Tran
Taylor W. Buley
Christine Chen
Scott Robinson
Artists
Stephanie Craven
Shira Bender
Marian Lee
Layout Editors
Krystal Godines
Anna Stetsovskaya
Business Managers
Jordan Barav
Alex Chacon
Greg Lysko
Marketing Manager
Leah Karasik
Marketing Staff
Lauren Saul
Anna Strongin
Webmaster
Rachit Shukla
Editorial
HAVE A HEART GIVE A TOKE
Presently, the Supreme Court is hearing Ashcroft v. Raich, the outcome of which will determine the
legitimacy of personal marijuana possession and cultivation among terminally ill patients in states
with laws allowing medical marijuana use. The main thrust of the legal argument, however, focuses
not on the viability of marijuana as a medicine. Rather, the Court is currently debating whether
individual possession and cultivation can be federally regulated under the Controlled Substances Act
to prevent the diffusion of “controlled substances under Schedule I into the national market.”
According to Paul Clement, the acting Solicitor General, “Any little island of lawful possession of
noncontraband marijuana, for example, poses a real challenge to the statutory regime. It would also,
I think, frustrate Congress’ goal in promoting health.” Clement further asserts that of 400 component
chemicals, only one, THC, is beneficial and so although THC may have redemptive medical value,
smoked marijuana does not.
Randy Barnett, who represents the Plaintiffs, contests that, “[Ill marijuana users] have a very
strong incentive not to get it on the street, because getting it on the street is going to subject them to
criminal prosecution, under both California and federal law. ... We are talking about a class of people
here who are sick people, who don’t necessarily want to violate the law.” He also argues that “this class
of activities… [has] been isolated by the state of California and is policed by the state of California, so
that it’s entirely separated from the market.”
The reactions of the Justices were mixed, with various references to previous cases which allowed
Congress to regulate personally-grown, non-commercial wheat in addition to its regulation of personal
possession of products derived from endangered species, whether they were acquired legally or not.
If anyone ever had a concern that the legal apparatus of this country was out of touch with reality,
let him be vindicated. This case is an egregious example of both the executive branch stepping outside
of its constitutionally delegated role as well as the inability of the Supreme Court to address the issue
squarely or relevantly. Whatever legal precedents apply, a direct comparison of medical marijuana use
to wheat cultivation and the illegal possession of ivory is ridiculous.
For both female plaintiffs, there is ample medical evidence that marijuana is the only effective
substance for treating an unimaginable combination of ailments, for which over thirty other drugs
have been useless. In what way can a person barely able to function on a day-to-day basis contribute
to national marijuana trafficking? In addition, the dangers of marijuana smoking are certainly no
more than those associated with the country’s two most prominent, and legal, intoxicants: alcohol
and tobacco. Therefore, any argument that marijuana must be curtailed to improve the health of the
nation is blatantly hypocritical.
The fact is that the Bush administration’s tireless pursuit of these pitiable victims of multiple
debilitating diseases is inexcusable. In the first place, if anybody in this country wants marijuana, it
is thoroughly doubtful that they will begin to knock on the doors of cancer patients to buy an eighth.
Should the administration want to curtail the use of marijuana among the general public, then they
are perfectly welcome, but any justification for raiding a suffering person’s home of the only thing
that allows them to cope with the pain of everyday life is merely a pompous, quibbling display of
authority.
Contact Information
330 Jon M. Huntsman Hall
3730 Walnut Street
Philadelphia, PA 19104
(215) 898-3200
fcpaper@wharton.upenn.edu
JULIE GREMILLION | SOUND ADVICE
Julie presents the old, the new
and the diehard favorites
Holiday Edition
Web Site
clubs.wharton.upenn.edu/fcpaper
Submissions
Email letters to the editors and
guest submissions to
fcpaper@wharton.upenn.edu.
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.
RETRO REWIND
“So This is Christmas”
John Lennon
IN STEREO
“All I Want for Christmas is You”
Mariah Carey
EDITORIAL ADVICE
“Louisiana Christmas Day”
Aaron Neville
When it comes to the Beatles and Christmas
music, two songs instantly come to mind
although neither were done by the Beatles.
“Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas
Time” is Paul McCartney’s and “So This is
Christmas” is John Lennon’s infamous contribution to Christmas classics. Lennon’s
track, no surprisingly, is far better than McCartney’s. “Simply Having…” is just a little
too pop and repetitive to be a great song;
so instead it’s a December staple. “So This
is Christmas” on the other hand is a much
better song with a weightier message built
into it. As usual, Lennon, through the voice
of the children’s choir in the background,
pleads for the end of war and for people
just to get along with each other. The song
was featured on his greatest hits album Lennon Legend: The Very Best of John Lennon
released in 1998 and featured digitally remastered versions of his classics. Consider
it a staple John Lennon album if you want
to save yourself some money. You’ll undoubtedly hear this song a bit during the
holiday season, but that’s okay because it’s
the “Imagine” of Christmas songs.
This song is the only Mariah Carey song you
will ever hear me endorse—except for maybe
a few tunes off her Musicbox album. I was
fighting between this and “Last Christmas”
by Wham, but radio stations have a tendency to play Wham once every hour throughout December. Mariah Carey released her
Christmas album Merry Christmas in 1994
back when she was still a relatively semidecent musician. “All I Want for Christmas
is You” definitely tops the list as a popular
favorite, but her renditions of “Christmas
(Baby Please Come Home)” and “O, Holy
Night” are also quite good. Mariah is lucky
in that her incredible vocal range works to
her advantage when it comes to Christmas
carols and favorites—not so true in her pop
records. Almost anyone who hears this song
likes it pretty quickly. It’s fun, it puts you
in the mood, and she performs it very well.
This album is not one of the staple Christmas albums pop stars release, so don’t be
worried about disappointment. A word of
warning: avoid at all costs the So So Def
remix of this song that she performs with
Lil’ Bow Wow.
Can’t write a Christmas music column
without including a little heart and soul
from my hometown.
Aaron Neville
comes from New Orleans and originally
started in a band with his brothers called
The Neville Brothers. Aaron ended up
being the only one who pulled off a successful solo career, and trust me, Louisiana would much rather be known for
him than for Britney Spears. Aaron’s
Christmas album, Aaron Neville’s Soulful Christmas, is simply fantastic, particularly his rendition of “O Holy Night”
and “The Christmas Song”, a challenge
considering Nat Cole’s version is what
inspired him to create a Christmas album in the first place. Aaron is great at
capturing a variety of musical influences
including R&B and doo-wop, and his
soulful voice is simply inspiring. “Louisiana Saturday Night” is a playful, frisky
song with plenty of Cajun influence and
a great zydeco band behind him. It’s one
of those songs that makes you want to get
up and dance… or two-step if you’re in
Louisiana.
D ECEMBER 6, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 9
P AGE 3
STOP, WE’RE BLUSHING
Mickey reviews First Call
MICKEY JOU | SITES AND SOUND
I REMEMBER THE FIRST
TIME someone told me about
First Call. It was freshman
year, over lunch. My friend
Anne had just published some
of her poetry in the paper and
was trying to get me to read
it. I didn’t realize at the time
that First Call was more a
magazine/commentary publication than the hard news
that was being published in the Daily Pennsylvanian. At
the time, I did not want to have much to do with the outside
world—whenever I tried to read the newspaper, I always felt
like a little kid playing grown up, trying to understand the
Real World by reading about it. Somehow, I usually ended
up feeling less connected to the world after reading the news.
It just didn’t feel real to me.
The spring of my sophomore year, I decided to submit a
review of a movie I had seen. That was towards the tail end of
my movie-mania: after a year of watching almost 80 films in
three semesters, I felt like I had something to say. I had seen
enough films to know a thing or two about the subject and
fancied myself a connoisseur. More importantly: why the
hell were there no reviews of student performance groups on
campus? 34th Street, so far as I had seen, was more interested
in the nightlife downtown than the student life on campus.
Armed with an opinionated passion, I gave birth to a column
with a bad title: Sites and Sound. To be honest, I was hoping
that the editors would name it for me since they seemed to be
better at giving my articles headlines than I was. Alas, it was
not to be. (Editorial Note: We like Sites and Sounds)
I have to say, I developed a certain sense of community
and place after I started to regularly contribute articles in the
paper. Suddenly, I could tell people, “I am writing a review
for a weekly column.” For people who did not write a column,
it sounded pretentious. For people who did write columns,
there was a specific connotation that went with being able to
say that about myself. You might think I am being crazy, but
when I was writing reviews of performances, it was not only
helpful, but almost essential to have some sort of verbal badge
to explain what I was doing. After I told my friends that I
was reviewing the a cappella performance for the paper, they
stopped looking at me funny when I started to scribble madly
on my notepad during the performance. My date—were I to
have had one—became more accepting of my paying more
attention to the film—and my notebook—than to his witty
Mystery Science Theatre analyses of the characters. Plus I got
perks like free tickets as I started to “establish” myself, when
student groups discovered that they were being taken seriously and written up. The free tickets were a double-edged
sword, though: I didn’t want to offend anyone, but I didn’t
want to lie, either.
The bonding of columnists went even deeper. Before I
started writing for First Call, I never really read the works
of other student writers. After I received my column, I got
into the habit of reading it weekly to check for copy changes.
Occasionally, I would glance over the rest of the paper to see
if there’s anything interesting. This was how I found the
remarkably funny and insightful column, Sleight of Hand,
by Brian Hertler. Hertler has a knack for weaving satire,
realism, and absurdist humor—all neatly packed into about
1,000 words every week. You might remember his fabulous
tour of the real Penn Preview, pointing out important aspects
of college life, like the hot roast beef sandwich at the Greek
Lady food-truck and the ever-present tradition of toast, the
symbol of Penn’s mostly-optional school spirit. Or maybe
you remember the epic Nerdenbaum battles, when Professor
Andre Chateau attempted to reduce grade inflation and met
with the rebellion of the enraged student body who held him
hostage instead. E.B. White once said that humor needed
only to speak the truth. If that was the case, then I would say
that Hertler was funny precisely because he managed to find
absurdity in our everyday campus here at Penn, dragging it
out into the open, disguised as fiction—so as to avoid libel
suits—but portrayed truthfully enough that we could recognize the places and the people and find it funny.
Hertler’s satire felt much more realistic and grounded for
me than the news in the DP, mostly because he wrote about
the familiar sights and sounds (haha) on campus, things I
saw and dealt with everyday. Just a few weeks ago, he did a
lovely piece describing the frustrations of pedestrian traffic on
Locust Walk. I could relate to that much more directly than
the AP World News digest. This was the case with all of the
ABSTINENCE, LIES, AND
AMERICAN EDUCATION
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
DID YOU KNOW that 31% of
the time condoms fail to prevent
HIV transmission, the disease
can be spread by sweat and tears
and that this is probably how
50% of gay male teenagers got
infected?
According to the abstinence
programs taught around the
country, this is the established truth. “Facts” such as these
are not even that uncommon—a Congressional study has
found that 11 out of the 13 curricula available on the subject,
which are used by 69 organizations in 25 states, incorporated
some sort of inaccuracies or blatant falsehoods on sex-related
matters.
Since Bush plans to spend approximately $900 million
on abstinence projects over the next five years, things look
pretty disturbing. In fact, it basically means the government
will fund programs to mislead people.
While I don’t agree with putting money toward abstinence programs, I can definitely understand why Bush needs
to do it. After all, his placement in the Oval Office, both four
years ago and this time around, had much to do with the support of the religious, conservative Southern and mid-Western
segment of the population, which he now must gratify.
However, what I cannot understand or excuse is the manipulation of medical facts to scare kids into not having sex.
The risk of transmitting HIV with a condom is less than 3%,
the virus cannot be spread through sweat or tears and the
only thing known about gay teens is that 59% of HIV-infected males contracted the virus through homosexual relations.
While I’m not going to discount the possibility that abstinence educators are just plain stupid, I think the far more
reasonable explanation for their comments is to take the easy
way out by choosing to make things up rather than conducting quality research to build their case.
Not only are these fabrications insulting to everyone
else, but misinforming students also undermines the value
of what these teachers are trying to accomplish. If the whole
idea behind not having an abortion or sex before marriage is
rooted in the Bible and strong moral values, then the truth,
complemented by actual facts, should be sufficiently convincing.
On the other hand, choosing to incorporate exaggerations when teaching abstinence does nothing but devalue the
ideas that are being promoted. Having to resort to such strategies to be convincing implies that neither the kids nor their
teachers genuinely believe that the Bible creates a strong
enough case for these ideas, and that belief and morality are
not strong enough reasons to overcome temptation. Plus, the
last time I checked, the Bible does not look that favorably
upon lying either.
All around, a non-fact-based approach to the situation
makes everyone involved look bad, and it fails to lower rates
of premarital sex, abortion, etc.
The defenders of this policy only say pre-marital sex is
bad and abstinence is the best way to prevent unwanted
pregnancies and the contraction of STDs. All are true, but all
are beside the point.
If you want to teach abstinence, fine, but do it the right
way. If you truly believe in something, you must be able to
support your stance with real proof. If the argument is well
thought out and well-organized, people are more likely to
listen and believe.
Kids today are not stupid, and they have access to a
plethora of information, whether it’s through the library or
the Internet. Therefore, while some may believe wild ideas,
including “facts” such as the “failure” of condoms to prevent
HIV transmission one-third of the time, many may grow curious and look into the issue. If they find contrary evidence,
they likely will become skeptical of everything else they are
taught, even the things that are true.
This inconsistency will remove any qualms children
might have previously had about engaging in pre-marital
sex, making abstinence programs a completely worthless
and money-wasting effort.
There are plenty of things about sex that can be viewed
as negative, and with the right research, these facts can be
compiled into an effective argument against such behavior.
However, if these people take the easy way out and just make
things up, then they only destroy the strength of their own
religious and moral foundations.
Anna Strongin is a junior in the College. You can write to her at
astrongi@sas.
columns in First Call. More often than not, Rob Forman’s
weekly discussion of his 13-Inch Box accurately reflected
the sentiments and perspectives of the heated discussions of
TV-watchers I overhear at the dining halls. I could always
count on Michael Patterson’s earnest but comprehensive
political commentary, Out of the Fold, to give me an idea of
what was going on in the Real World that I should probably
know or care about. Instead of Joan Rivers, I’ve got Lauren
Saul to keep me in the know on the latest fashion trends in
her Weekly Saulutations. And who needed reports from the
FDA or the CDC when Anna Strongin was giving me A Taste
of Medicine every week?
You might turn up your nose and respond that these
highly biased pieces do not give me the basic facts and data
for a more objective view of the world. To that, I shrug and
say that the more important news I ought to care about
are the topics being discussed. Isn’t the point of acquiring
knowledge really gaining the ability to participate in intelligent dialogues with the community I live in? The columns
in First Call feel much more real to me precisely because they
reflect the dialogues in the Penn community. In another year,
I won’t be at Penn and I’ll start to read the New York Times
with more interest. But until then, why not embrace the cocoon of college days for all its worth?
To conclude: read the DP, but read First Call, too. If
nothing else, read First Call since it seems that Andrew
Pederson has been waging some kind of ongoing war with
the editorial board of the DP for the past semester in his Brüt
Force. Where else, outside of the academic world, do you see
writers interact among themselves this way, dividing into
camps according to their beliefs of what is the truth? Here
at First Call, we have political and sports commentators, science and health writers, fashion critics, and entertainment
reviewers all complementing the world of serious journalism.
These columns are an ongoing report of student voices and
activities here at Penn, one that many people take for granted
and even fewer people appreciate. This world is just as real as
the Real World, I promise.
Mickey Jou is a junior in the College. You can write to her at
myjou@sas.
SOCIAL SECURITY
Continued from PAGE 1
would be, assuming even the most modest of investment strategies (half in the capital market and half in
government bonds). I would have the option and the
opportunity to create wealth for my heirs, or spend it
all on myself.
Opportunity is a wonderful word. The PRA system
creates opportunities and options of where and how
to invest. Options secure agency and liberty. Although
perfect liberty might always remain a Platonic ideal
for us libertarians, I feel that a PRA system will hail
the further expansion of free choice. I don’t want
the government to tell me where to invest because
it underlines the same principle which would allow
the government to tell me what to do. I don’t want
the government to dictate where I save and spend as
much as I don’t want the government to tell me how
to think or write. I appreciate a government that gives
me options, but currently I can only witness them
quietly eroding away.
As American options for Social Security reform
are quickly vanishing, action is quite imperative. On
Thursday, November 4, President Bush vowed to
“start on Social Security now,” padding his resolution
with rhetoric about bringing Congress together to
achieve reform. Social Security, Bush said, would be a
“top priority” going into his second term.
Within 15 years Social Security will collapse. Like
a college freshmen maxing out his Visa, wasteful
spending will soon catch up with a wasteful spender.
Eventually government will be forced to accept a system similar to the PRAs or suffer a complete loss of
social welfare. Any attempts at government regulation are but weak attempts to tweak the numbers and
loosen the suffocating grip of debt. We should act now
to reform our moribund system while we still have
room to breathe. When President Bush says, “we are
going to start on Social Security now,” it is important
that we help him understand the meaning of now and
the dangers of inaction.
Taylor W. Buley is a junior in the College. You can write to him at
tbuley@sas.
D ECEMBER 6, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 9
P AGE 4
MUSEUM PLAY SPACE
BY MARIAN LEE
A Photo Essay on the L.A. County Museum of Art
BATTLE OF THE BANDS: FACEBOOK STYLE
BY CHRISTINE CHEN
The fine line between elitism and a healthy ego
PERHAPS ALL ONE NEEDS to be taken seriously in life
is a frown, a smart blazer, Buddy Holly-esque frames, and
maybe a quote from Eliot or Camus every so often. Add Ivy
League to the equation, and you potentially have a recipe for a
head blown up to massive proportions. Facebook groups are
emerging as self-proclaimed elitists, hence the name “Belle
& Sebastian Elitists,” while others have come up with clever
names for themselves, for example the cannily passive-aggressive “I’m Emo, Don’t Front.” There appears to be a one-sided
rivalry against the “Belle & Sebastian Elitists” posed by “I’m
Emo, Don’t Front” which posted an announcement requesting
outright that members of “Belle & Sebastian Elitists” withdraw
their membership because “Emo supersedes the lisp laden/
chamber-pop rambling/suck bullshit music B&S puts out,”
among other things. The founder of “I’m Emo, Don’t Front”
declined to comment. Forget politics. Bush versus Kerry is old
news. This is the war of the Facebook groups, and it can get
prickly out there.
Don’t think that getting in is as easy as a mouse click. The
screening process can be rigorous. Absurdity runs amuck
when one wields the power to accept and reject on a whim.
The wrong band on your musical interests could be the
clincher in your rejection. While some keep their groups as
carefully trimmed as a So Cal ornamental shrub, for the most
part Facebook groups are all in good fun, taking advantage of
the accessibility of the Facebook site and providing an open
forum for concert updates and ticket trading with those who
share the same musical interests. At a campus such as Penn,
which boasts a large undergraduate population, Facebook effectively connects students with mutual interests. “0x Penn
Punk Rock 0x” seems to be the free loving liberal party, welcoming all from Indie rockers to thrashers. There’s something
for everyone: “Meeting Radiohead Fans at Penn is Easy,” “Indie Rock Madness,” “Dave Matthews Band Fan Club,” “0x Penn
Punk Rock x0,” which by the looks of things on Locust must be
a pretty damned small crowd. Jen Liepin, otherwise known as
Nancy Vicious, an officer of the group, concurs that the punk
scene at Penn is lacking, adding “When I go to see even a well
known punk band, such as Rancid or the Offspring, I can’t say
I see more than a handful of people from Penn there. At local
shows, the showing of Penn students is even less because not
many students venture out of Center City to get into the local
scene. I feel that not many Penn students know of the more
obscure bands and what punk bands they do listen to are those
that have had radio play.” Still, its membership of sixty members is not too shabby and it does well to provide a viable option
for finding someone else who wants to see the same show.
It is not a new notion that the airwaves can stir a crowd, but
this is something else. Perhaps the best example of differing
takes on music as a whole comes from an interview that ran in
the April 17, 2000 edition of The New York Observer. The Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs was hailed by many as the best pop
album of 1999. However, during the interview, Stephin Merritt
of The Magnetic Fields dismissed each song on the album as a
superficial skeleton, allotting much of the album’s success to a
“Pavlovian conditioned response…because the clichés of popular music are about what most people care about and like. If I
write a song that goes ‘I love you, I’m sorry I hurt you, please
stay,’ there you go. It’s a great, meaningful song. In fact, what
a good title! It’s got a little personality, and it’s got that blankness that makes you wonder what it means...not so much irony,
but the suggestion of irony.” Disappointment abounds when
something once meaningful is so artfully deconstructed at the
source. It is a pity that Merritt is retrospectively jaded about an
album that means so much to so many, but if in fact each song
is a mere skeleton to begin with, as Britney may sound to the
conditioned Indie ear, or metal to the stoners, well then I suppose each person adds their own flesh and ultimately infuses
their own personal meaning into each song. This logic applies
to specific songs, musical taste, and Facebook groups.
Christine Chen is a sophomore in Engineering. You can write to her
at cachen@seas.
D ECEMBER 6, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 9
BY SCOTT ROBINSON
P AGE 5
EXPLAINING WARREN BUFFET’S
EQUIVOCAL POLITICS
ABOUT A WEEK AGO, I had the pleasure of traveling to
Omaha, Nebraska with the Wharton Warren Buffet Club to
visit the “Oracle of Omaha” himself. It was a terrific experience. The people were exceedingly amicable—the stuck-up,
northeast stereotypes about people from the Midwest all
being a bunch of gun-toting, tractor-riding hicks and hayseeds aren’t true—and the drinks were very affordable, not
being subject to liberal COLA-inflationary pressures. While
visiting the largest furniture factory in the United States and
dining with Warren Buffet provided tastes of the city’s most
famous attractions, Buffet himself proved to be just as charismatic in person as in the news. I must say I am an even
bigger fan and admirer now than I was before.
Anyway, Buffet spoke with us on a whole range of
subjects, and as I often do, I found myself drifting off and
listening to what he had to say from a political perspective
during our hour-long Q&A, which was followed by lunch at
his favorite restaurant. Just about everything I heard from
him seemed to have a conservative bent: his outlook on life,
his work ethic, his values, his interest in wealth creation, his
focus on capital allocation, his America-first investment
strategy, his personal success story, his model of corporate
responsibility and philanthropy, his midwestern hospitality, his swipe at trial lawyers, his disdain for regulation, his
observation of the United States’ more-market-oriented and
systemic advantage in doing business, his nostalgia for the
past when doing business was easier and barriers to entry
were lower, and his slightly off-color/not-PC remarks about
Charlie Munger not being his gay “partner.” Yet, I remained
aware that Buffet had supported Kerry this past election, and
I continued having trouble reconciling that with all this.
In fact, Buffet contributed the maximum $2,000 contribution to the Kerry campaign. In the past, Buffet has also
made contributions to Democratic lightening rods Hillary
Clinton and Tom Daschle. To be fair, Buffet has also smattered a few Republicans with contributions and was a Senior
Economic Advisor to California’s ever-popular governor,
Arnold Schwarzenegger, during his gubernatorial bid. Still,
Buffet was also an unpaid economic advisor to the Kerry
campaign.
What I am saying is Buffet’s political leanings were
never blatantly obvious during our time with him. However,
knowing what I thought I knew about him, it was a little surprising to listen to him speak and answer questions when his
responses actually seemed counterintuitive to his apparently
democratic leanings and more characteristically “Republi-
can” or “conservative” in nature. In large part, this was probably because we weren’t there to talk politics; we were there
to learn about investing. I was still a little perplexed at my
perceived revelation.
I know the Iraq war did not sit particularly well with
Buffet, but that could not have borne the brunt of his party
preference, which was developed prior to the Bush Administration and the Iraq War. Despite my admiration for Buffet,
though not anywhere as odious as George Soros, I felt he was
an example of typical wealthiest-of-the-wealthy Democrats
who subconsciously feel guilty for their inordinate amount
of success. Hence, he could have been more susceptible to,
and attracted by, redistributive economic arguments, calls
for higher taxation—think criticizing Bush’s tax cuts—and
populist rhetoric—think Edwards’ “Two Americas” gobbledygook—bandied about by liberals and Democrats alike.
Personalizing the situation a little, I thought about how
I consider myself from a more-modest background, unlike
many of the students at Penn. I went to a public school in
a small Pennsylvanian town about 30 miles outside of Harrisburg. I’m on financial aid. To give you an idea, according to a cost of living calculator, I would need to earn 20%
more per year to maintain the same cost of living capacity in
Philadelphia as back home. This is probably a conservative
estimate, because I would like my quality of living to be above
the mean.
Most of the people at Penn, many of them my friends,
come from the wealthiest, most privileged parts of the country. They come from well-connected families, from parents
with top jobs at top firms, from the nation’s best private prep
schools, and from wealthy neighborhoods, yet they tend to
be more liberal in supporting candidates who hold more redistributive, more anti-business, and more anti-free market
views. I, for one, have always wrestled with how people like
them can harbor those views while living the way that they
do.
John Berlau, whom I had the good fortune to meet personally, offers an intriguing hypothesis for Buffet’s preference
for Democrats. More so than Republicans, Democrats oppose abolishing the death tax. The death tax, or estate tax,
provides that when a family member inherits a family business, they must pay the government over half of the value of
all of the deceased’s assets in cash. Berlau claims that Buffet
benefits substantially from politicians maintaining the death
tax, a theory that contradicts Buffet’s purported selflessness
in his opposition toward President Bush’s tax cuts.
Warren Buffett is known for his philosophy of “value
investing,” buying stocks or businesses at prices below their
intrinsic value. Through Buffet’s holding company, Berkshire Hathaway, Buffet acquires profitable family businesses,
sold to him in large part because the businesses cannot meet
the estate tax burden, while at the same time selling estate
tax insurance products to help other families retain their
businesses.
In short, he hunts for bargains. The estate tax effectively
creates bargains out of well-run family businesses, which are
then sold to avoid estate tax problems and are gobbled up by
Buffet. Since the estate tax effectively attacks all assets and
many of these families have most of their net worth in their
owned and operated businesses, the families must quickly sell
their business to satisfy the tax. Eureka for Buffet. Many of
these businesses, ironically the very “Main Street” businesses
liberals invoke when inveighing against “giant corporations”
such as Starbucks and Wal-Mart, are often sold substantially
below their market value.
This is at least one possible explanation of the unintended financial advantage that Buffet stands to gain through his
Democratic preference. Speaking in general, understanding
“limousine liberals,” as some of the more liberal aristocrats
are called—even though I do admire Buffet’s demonstrated
or professed frugality—is something I expect I will continue
to endeavor for a long time to come.
Scott Robinson is a junior in Wharton. You can write to him at
scotter@wharton.
HEY JUDE: IT’S MOVIE REVIEW TIME
BY THUY TRAN
Sex with Alfie
CHARISMATIC, BOLD, sexy, handsome—Alfie Elkin is a character built solely on looks
and charisma. Alfie is a deity to men whose reveries are of having sex with beautiful women
and subsequently flinging them out like leftovers from 1920s Commons. His deep blue eyes
and irresistible smile inspire all sorts of indecent thoughts.
For a film with very little new to say about the vagaries of sex, love and human relationships, Alfie manages to stuff so much drama,
comedy and sorrow into its two hours. In fact, this
entire movie is one huge cliché. Alfie is a bachelor
who judges his dates solely on FBB— face, boobs
and bum. Throughout the film, Alfie speaks to the
camera directly, offering advice on all issues of dating. His rule for cologne: nothing above the neck
and a splash on Big Ben (or whatever you call your
penis. A few suggestions: Big General, Angry Inch,
Lil Bowwow. It’s your call). Insights on life’s fragility and doubts counter his veneer of confidence.
He mentions, “It’s always the least expected fears
that materialize.” Luckily, Law's constant chatter
is more likable than annoying.
Alfie is a constant flirt, which suits Jude Law's
likable personality. But Alfie also acts reprehensibly—tossing women when things start to get serious, breaking the heart of the woman he loves and
impregnating his best friend’s girlfriend. But if
someone has to be reprehensible, let it be someone
who can mitigate his faults and win sympathy with
a wink of an eye and a perfect smile. In fact, Law's
effeminate charisma is the glue that holds this bouncy film together.
Although Alfie looks like a million bucks, he has little stability beneath his feet. He lives in
a small flat with an empty refrigerator. All of his relationships rupture. Alfie falls from high to
low and is unable to get out of the low. His journey leads to his realization that money in his
pocket, nice threads and being single—free as the wind—are not everything.
I’m definitely stretching the meaning of this film by attempting to universalize Alfie’s experiences and emotions. Like Alfie, our actions reflect our search for an intangible unknown to
fill a void. Like Alfie, we create versions of ourselves that seem fitting and ideal. Like Alfie, we
try to return to a past before our perfect world shattered. Like Alfie, we construct our lifestyles
according to flawed standards and execute meaningless gestures. Like Alfie, we have suffered
through the torments of loss and past disappointment, but we still force a smile to fool everyone into believing that everything’s perfect.
Despite his repugnant behavior toward the gorgeous women in his life, Law achieves provoking sympathy for the Alfie, who is cursed with his greatest fear: loneliness. Alfie’s fallibilities make you love him more, as he’s more human than you and I will ever be. B+.
The infinite nature of Huckabees
IT’S DIFFICULT TO IMAGINE any director making an existential comedy, unless you’re
David Russell and have balls larger than Steven Spielberg’s. How do you combine poems about a
stupid rock with a gloomy philosophy predicated on the belief that there is no God or eternity and
that life has no meaning? This is where Russell succeeds in I Heart Huckabees.
Albert Markovski is an idealistic young environmentalist plagued by the questions of a towering, gaunt Sudanese who keeps popping up randomly
in his life. Coincidence or not? To find the meaning of
this coincidence, he approaches a team of “existential
detectives,” Bernard and Vivien Jaffe, played by Dustin
Hoffman and Lily Tomlin. They take the case and begin
constant surveillance of Albert, even at his most private
moments. Vivien explains, “There’s nothing too small.
You know when police find the slightest bit of DNA
and build a case on it? If we might see you floss or masturbate, that could be the key to your entire reality.” (I
guessed such private moments include masturbation to
terrible Polish pornography). These eccentric detectives
fill the first half of the film with wonderful comedic dialogue and ridiculous situations.
Cast out of his tree hugging organization by Brad
Stand, a rapacious executive played by Jude Law, Albert
begins to explore a darker, nihilistic philosophy of the
Jaffes’ arch nemesis, Caterine Vauba (whom I call CFScrazy French slut). Caterine’s dominance in the second
half of the film changes the mood of the light-hearted
film and makes you wonder how Albert and Tommy
could escape the darkness in believing that everything
is “meaningless cruelty and suffering.” The lack of the Jaffes in most of the second half of the
film is sorely missed.
Although the cast members give an excellent and unparalleled performance, Wahlberg’s act
is finest. Tommy is a nonsensical man so caught up in the seeming lack of meaning in his existence and worth that he can’t function. Wahlberg gives this edgy character such a rare intensity
that your only reaction to Tommy’s nonsensical attitudes and edginess is to laugh uproariously
and love his absurd logic. It’s Wahlberg’s finest performance of his career thus far.
The film has a beautiful ending, as the intricacies of the opposing philosophies of the Jaffes
and of crazy French slut come together to bring about an absolutely satisfying conclusion to
this existential comedy. Like I said in the beginning, Russell has balls for making this brilliant
film. Placing all silliness aside, I triple dare you to jettison your responsibilities, drop those accounting and history books and go see this entertainingly intellectual film, a Hollywood rarity.
A+++
Thuy Tran is a junior in the College. You can write to her at thuytran@sas.
D ECEMBER 6, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 9
P AGE 6
IT’S THE TEAM, STUPID!
ADAM GOLDSTEIN
Why coaches aren’t responsible
| BEST DAMN SPORTS COLUMN EVER
I WOULD estimate that since
the age of seven, I have played
on no fewer than fifty different
youth sports teams, including a
travel soccer club, a high school
a baseball team, and a neighborhood roller hockey squad. I
even spent one miserable summer on the local swim team,
during which I concluded that
paddling through freezing water at seven a.m. on a Saturday is
not a sport, but rather cruel and unusual punishment. Each of
the teams for which I competed, no matter how accomplished
or selective, was run by at least one coach. Consequently, I can
safely claim that whether it was a friend’s father or a nationally
recognized individual, I have been under the tutelage of at least
50 different coaches during my life.
That being said, let me tell you the most poignant memory
I have concerning my multiple relationships with these various
instructors. It would undoubtedly be when I was sixteen, and
my soccer coach was nearly arrested for trying to fight another
team’s coach after our game. As I looked on in disbelief, two
thoughts raced through my mind: one, this guy has lost his
mind, and two, what in God’s name is he doing mentoring
a group of 16 year old boys? I wish I could say this was an
aberration, that this man did not reflect the bulk of my experiences with various coaches, and that I learned many valuable
lessons from the men and women who instructed me in sport.
Unfortunately, this is not the case. The truth is that I learned
nearly everything I know about sports and life from my family and friends and remarkably little about those subjects from
my coaches. It always seemed to me that whether one of my
coaches was castigating a player for underperforming or lecturing the team about a new complex game plan, he would always
elicit the same response from his players: a sigh, a rolling of the
eyes, and a desire that the old man shut up so everyone could
keep on playing.
Thus, it should come as little surprise that I am flabbergasted by the amount of attention professional and college
coaches have garnered from the media during the last week.
Perhaps the most cataclysmic event in the last fifty years of
sport occurred not a fortnight ago, yet today the lead story on
ESPN.com is that the coach of the moribund Cleveland Browns
resigned. I’m sorry, but who in the world, besides possibly Mrs.
Butch Davis, cares? Last night I flipped on Sports Center to
find Philadelphia Inquirer writer Steven A. Smith nearly hav-
ing a coronary as he lamented the fact that Dallas Mavericks
coach Don Nelson had abdicated power for one game to recently retired point guard Avery Johnson. Nelson commented
that Johnson gave the Mavericks just as much chance to win
the game as he himself would have, but Smith regarded this
statement as one of pure lunacy and disrespect for the game. I
was confounded by Smith’s take on the sanctity and importance
of the coaching position in the NBA. If 33 year old Lawrence
Frank, whose college coaching experience consisted of being
Indiana’s student manager, can lead the New Jersey Nets to
the playoffs, then I think, as Larry Brown once said of Frank,
anyone can be a coach in this league.
Throughout all professional and college sports, coaches are
given entirely too much credit for their team’s successes and
failures. I don’t care if you’re a starting NFL quarterback or a
high school backup, any athlete will attest to the fact that the
guys on the field, not the ones on the sideline, decide a team’s
fate. The achievements of all teams are cyclical in nature due
to the constant arrival and departure of talent. Further, some
teams occasionally perform at levels greater or less than their
expectations due to nothing more than chance. Do you really
think that Red Sox skipper Terry Francona and his bumbling
third base coach Dale Sveum were so savvy this fall that they
single-handedly orchestrated their team’s comeback against
the Yankees and the sweep over a supremely talented Cardinals
squad? Well, think again. I guarantee that if each of those series were played out ten times, there would be ten very different
results.
When coaches do achieve great success, they are considered exceptionally competent and are expected to replicate
their accomplishments year after year. After a winning college
coach like Steve Spurrier fails miserably for the Washington
Redskins, the sports world declares that collegiate coaches
can not win at the pro game. Conversely, after a coach such
as Bill Callahan leads an aging Raiders team to the Superbowl
and then two years later leads the Nebraska Cornhuskers to
disaster, those same critics decree that NFL coaches simply do
not understand the college game. Correct me if I’m wrong, but
last time I checked, the guys in the SEC play by the same rules
as those in the NFC. Could it not be possible that the respective talent level of Spurrier’s old Florida teams and Callahan’s
Oakland squad were the primary contributing factors to those
teams’ successes? At the same time, is it not safe to assume
that the athletic ability, or lack thereof, of Spurrier’s Redskins
or Callahan’s Cornhuskers led to their failures, rather than
the coaches’ inability to understand their respective playing
LET THEM EAT FLING
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
THE END OF THE SEMESTER has arrived. After the tease that was Thanksgiving
Break, we are all starting to prepare for the last bang Penn provides for our parents’
buck: finals. Consequently, December is perhaps the weirdest month of the year for college students. We trek back to campus after about five days of family togetherness only
to be greeted with the prospect of the three most draining weeks of the term. After the
mind-frying blur ends, it’s time to go home, where the excess of relaxation time often
leads to extreme levels of apathy and boredom.
My suggestion to the UA: start classes a week earlier in August so that finals would
end a week earlier, and create some kind of week—or at least weekend—long “Winter
Fling” that could take place after finals, giving people a chance to enjoy the college life we
saw in movies before coming to college: no work and endless socialization. Events could be planned, such as concerts
in the freezing Franklin Field where inebriated students could throw frozen toast at the artists, an ice skating debacle,
parties galore, and other fun activities. It would be like an NSO for everyone: not a class in the world to worry about,
and those who don’t like such activities could go home and enjoy a break longer than the measly 2.5 weeks afforded
to us this year.
When I got an email about a workshop to “make the most productive use out of Winter Break,” I fully realized that
something is wrong with our perspective as college students. Time must be allotted to do nothing, to forget about
summer internships, ways to pad the resume, graduate school prospects, and the general achievement frenzy. We will
have plenty of time to work compulsively. This is supposed to be the best years of our lives, not the years to sprout
gray hairs.
This semester went by in the blink of an eye. In fact, I still can’t believe it’s December. It seems like I was marveling
over the newness of Greek Lady and Marbar just yesterday. It is saddening to think that college is three-eighths of the
way gone for those of us afflicted by the “sophomore slump.” For those of us with finals on the last day of the exam period, there is virtually no time to celebrate the end of exams, as the dorms throw us out immediately. This is a travesty.
The school community needs to come together more—we need to step back every once in awhile and embrace the
types of experiences students have at state schools. The after-exam period is the perfect time. After all of the mental
gymnastics, double espresso shots, and utter exhaustion everybody is just a little bit crazier.
A Greeting to My Readers
I have had such fun greeting you with my Saulutations, each Monday. I often find myself typing whatever flows
from my head to the keyboard right before, or after, my deadline, in the hopes of adding a little spark to Monday’s
boredom. The randomness of my column has confused many a reader, but the reactions I receive always make the
writing worthwhile, even when it is provocative. Having a column has connected me to Penn life in an unexpected
way, as it provides a medium for commenting on anything I want, including the sewage problems in Philadelphia.
Being able to write with complete freedom, in terms of format, genre, expression, topic, and opinion is invaluable. No
other campus publication provides such an opportunity, especially on a weekly basis.
Each writer adds richness to First Call. The free forum concept allows people with nothing in common besides
the love of self-expression to put a piece of themselves into a paper. I urge each of you to look through this week’s issue
more carefully. Each column is a slice of the writer’s personality. If you are interested in being a part of something so
dynamic, consider coming to one of our meetings after Break. We welcome conservatives and liberals, nerds and the
too cool for school, idealists and cynics alike. This paper thrives on diversity, and its broad mission is an asset, contrary
to the absurd notions of this campus’s isolated pockets of organizational corruption. Have a Sweet And Calm Break!
Lauren Saul is a sophomore dualing in the WHollege. You can write to her at lcsaul@wharton.
environments? I don’t know, maybe we should ask Spurrier’s
successor, Joe Gibbs.
It would be unfair and shortsighted of me to neglect to
mention Vince Lombardi, Mike Kryzewski, Joe Torre, Phil
Jackson, and others who rightfully warrant reverence and admiration for winning over a long period of time and doing so
with class and grace. Regretfully, the list of such men is short.
Teams who are currently experiencing a drought of victories,
especially those who have known great success at one time or
another, are constantly searching for a messiah-like figure to
drag their team from the doldrums and deliver them to the
promised land of World Series titles and BCS bids. In the “win
now” environment of sports in which we live, athletic directors
and general managers would rather fire their coaches year after
year than acknowledge that their team’s time in the sun has
come and gone, and that they must find new ways of attracting
talented athletes in order to ride a new wave of success.
Over-reliance on the coach to bring victories to a club is not
only foolish, but it has a deleterious effect on sports as a whole.
One such example occurred last week, when Notre Dame, one
of the most prestigious names in college football, fired its coach
of two and a half years, Tyrone Willingham, after leading the
team to a 6-5 record. Tyrone Willingham is not responsible for
the recent failings of the Irish. Rather, the school can no longer
recruit the type of athletes it once could because its academic
requirements are stricter than many of its competitors. Unable
to resolve the hypocrisy of maintaining a tradition of fielding
true “student-athletes” while trying to compete against the best
college teams in the nation, the school simply took the easy
way out. The problem with Notre Dame’s decision to release
Willingham, besides the fact that the move will have little effect
on the Irish’s win total until they relax admission standards, is
that Willingham was one of only two black college coaches in
the nation. By firing Willingham for little fault on his part—it
is interesting to note that Willingham was the first coach in
Notre Dame history to be fired before the expiration of his
contract—the school has sent a message, whether intentionally
or not, that black coaches cannot succeed at the college level.
Until both pro and collegiate teams allow their coaches significant time to implement a successful system or admit that their
coaches have little to do with the number of wins or losses that
the team produces, this sickening cycle of nearly daily firings of
coaches will undoubtedly continue.
Adam Goldstein is a junior in the College. You can write to him at
adamsg@sas.
BEST BETS
Rob’s TV picks until we return
Since I can’t again guide your remote weekly until January 24th, here a
few things you ought to check out over the coming weeks—consider it
a chronological checklist.
Lost (ABC, Wednesday, December 8, 8 p.m.) “All the Best Cowboys
Have Daddy Issues”
South Park season finale (COM, Wednesday, December 15, 10 p.m.)
The Apprentice season finale (NBC, Thursday, December 16, 8 p.m.)
“Decision Time”
True Dads with Bruce Willis (SpikeTV, Friday, December 17, 9 p.m.)
Arrested Development (FOX, Sunday, December 19, 8:30 p.m.) “Afternoon Delight,” directed by star Jason Bateman
Veronica Mars (UPN, Tuesday, December 21, 9 p.m.) “An Echolls
Family Christmas”
Scrubs moves to a new timeslot (NBC, Tuesday, January 4, 9 p.m.)
Alias season premiere (ABC, Wednesday, January 5, 9 p.m.)
“Authorized Personnel Only, Parts 1 and 2”
Carnivale season premiere (HBO, Sunday, January 9, 9 p.m.) “Los
Moscos”
24 season premiere (FOX, Sunday, January 9, 8 p.m.) “7:00 a.m. to
8:00 a.m.” and “8:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m.”
24 (FOX, Monday, January 10, 9 p.m.) “9:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m.” Three
new hours in two days is like crack-cocaine. Take that, the beginning
of the new semester,
Desperate Housewives (ABC, Sunday, January 16, 9 p.m.) “Every Day
a Little Death”
American Idol season premiere (FOX, Tuesday, January 18, 8 p.m.)
Point Pleasant series premiere (FOX, Thursday, January 20, 9 p.m.)
“Pilot,” about a girl who washes ashore in a New Jersey beach town,
and brings a world of trouble with her.
m
s
i
l
our dose of
l
aweekly wisdom
c
t
s
fiArCAPPELLA: I CAN’T BELIEVE
IT’S NOT REAL MUSIC!
D ECEMBER 6, 2004 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 6
P AGE 7
ETERNALLY RETURNING
A bite-size, monotone rock opera
JAMES HOUSTON | THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS
THE EVAPORATION of the
band’s fan base wasn’t shocking—rock’s EKG blip was
beginning its final sprint anyway. Ages 12 to 20 and their
girlfriends were finding more
indulgent ways to simplify
themselves, and 21 to 29 year
olds were crafting more persuasive masks of youth. Rock, like
the Roman Empire and Friends,
would surprise only its purest and dumbest acolytes with the
accomplishment of its destiny. Christy was smart—she had no
Zeppelin delusions about 21st century bands when she began
following Atticus Atticus down the Northeast Corridor and
into the Corn Belt, or when she began sleeping with the aloof
guitarist who wrote their songs.
Their first album, Chester Cheetah Foils the Corn Puffer
Conspiracy, had been ignored by everyone except the FritoLay Corporation, whose lawyers savored dragging the fledgling
quartet through an unaffordable legal briar patch. Atticus
Atticus Hates You Too was better, returning them to solvency
and yielding a forgettable music video, but it was album three,
Exclusive TV Offer, that thrust them to the broad front of a
yet-undefined cultural groundswell. To the swarming press,
their prior albums never existed—they had spontaneously
descended from on high bearing The One That Mattered, and
were anointed as visionaries: “Adjectives cannot describe this
rude, sweaty, Dickensian force of erotic nature. A++”. “Rock is
back… again. ***1/2”. “A snarling glam-garage revival. 23/25”.
The last review was tacked waist-high to the wall across from
the tour bus’s toilet. Christy sometimes wondered if trying to
imagine a glamorous garage made anyone else laugh.
One album later, the castle was crumbling. The show in
Ames, Iowa was the worst in years. The band members were
silently beginning to blame each other for their reversal of
fortune, replacing the ersatz macho posturing and sexually
ambiguous embraces that once defined their stage act with icy,
unnerving stillness. Their individual parts were thoroughly
memorized from six months of constant gigging, and so each
took full advantage of his ability to play as though the others weren’t there. From her usual post offstage left, Christy
watched in agony as the drummer threw a stick into the sparse
audience at the end of “140352”, and instead of landing in an
eagerly outstretched hand, it hit the shoulder blade of an Iowa
State freshman trying to fake his age at the bar. The guitarist
winced. Some fucking symbolism, whispered Christy under her
breath as the stick clattered on the floor. The band hurried
through the rest of the set and filed off, looking more like laidoff factory workers than rock stars.
Backstage, he wouldn’t look her in the eye.
“I thought you sounded fine,” she tried.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can handle. I’ve put
everything I have into making these songs good and it seems
like they’re going out of their way to play them badly.” The other
four had left for the hotel. “At every show this tour, I’ve been the
only person in the room who gives a shit how we sound.”
As she locked her fingers behind her head in frustration, her
bracelets jangled down her forearms. God, I’m wearing a lot of
bracelets, she suddenly thought.
Later, in an all-night diner stupidly named Smokey Joe’s
Café, she assembled her story between sticky slurps of oversugared coffee.
“I love this band, and nothing would satisfy me more than
to know I helped him play and write better. I’m just running
out of ideas.”
“There’s nothing you or anyone can do to save the band,”
said a high voice from across the booth. Priya, at most ten years
older than Christy, was the band’s traveling publicist. They
had become friends during the tour, though neither knew why.
“They got the wrong kind of good press which stuck them the
wrong kind of fans. They’re terminal, and I think by now they
know it.” She paused. “And because of that, there’s nothing you
can do to improve his playing or his writing or his anything.
Personally, I think you’re nuts for ever boarding this flimsy
ship—I followed the money, which I’m about to follow elsewhere—but you, why?”
Christy swallowed. “It made sense. He made sense. Going down with the ship is OK as long as a better song than ‘My
Heart Will Go On’ is playing in the background, and I’ll get
that here.”
Priya smiled. “Well if you’re set on staying, you might try
dropping the Joan Jett impression. Be domestic. Make him
breakfast.”
“Pfff. To him, cereal is percocets floating in a bowl of red
wine. God, even his drugs are part of this retro shit.”
“Pancakes?”
“Shut up. I’m suffering here—I don’t need you jerking me
around. I’ve been more charitable with my time and energy
than I ever thought a human being could be, and my only instinct is to keep giving whether he takes it or not.”
The spoons rattled as Priya hammered the table with her
cup. “That’s not what it is. You ditched college and chased this
band for yourself. You thought once you laid a genius you’d
bleed rubies and cry diamonds, but all it’s done is made you
boring and you’re just realizing that now.”
“Wait—”
“—I’ve been on more tours than I’ve had birthdays. You
think I haven’t seen this a hundred times before?” Her big eyes
widened. “I like you, but if you think you’re the first cute rebel
to be sucked dry by a rock vampire, it’s past time you grew up.”
They paid and left, nervously scampering across the interstate to the hotel on the other side. Christy guessed the temperature at around ten degrees. It was 6:25 in the morning of
the year’s shortest day.
In the parking lot, Priya stopped and turned. “Sorry for
snapping at you. It’s true that I’ve met you a few times a year
since I got into this circus of a business, but… I honestly think
you’ll end up better than the rest of them.”
“It’s OK. You were right. Thanks.”
“Isn’t it funny how the people we call self-absorbed have
such a talent for absorbing us?”
“Heh heh.”
Two opaque clouds billowed from Christy’s mouth. “It’s certainly something. I’m going to stay out here for a little while.”
“See you on the bus.” She started towards the hotel.
Christy warmed her ungloved hands in her pockets as she
paced across the mostly empty lot, mentally humming lines
from songs she used to like.
See that girl, watch that scene.
Leaving synthetic popularity and straight C’s behind for the
ride that was now ending had felt like a resurrection, but Priya
had been right about everything. The choice now was between
reconstructing herself and succumbing to natural selection.
I went to the doctor and guess what he told me? Guess what
he told me?
Rock’s last gasp would be a frantic series of attempts to
imitate the times it was effortlessly brilliant. Or would it?
How, Christy wondered, is a groupie qualified to diagnose the
diseases of culture? It was suddenly clear to her that the wise
insider she had fancied herself was actually a petulant upstart
incapable of neutrality.
Like the deserts miss the rain.
Late one night, she guest-hosted a show at the campus
radio station and snuck an obscure vinyl LP called The Eternal
Return under her coat as she left. She always felt guilty for having never listened to it, and resolved to dig it out when she got
home. Across the stirring highway, the crust of the new sun
was visible through the oak branches. She stood facing it until
it was too bright to watch.
James Houston is a senior in the College. You can write to him at
jhouston@sas.
PENN GIRL!!!
Continued from PAGE 1
she donned a red-and-blue cape with the
University of Pennsylvania crest. She put on
a powdered wig, a heroic tri-corner hat, and
bulletproof spectacles. Her costume, in fact,
gave her an uncanny resemblance to a female,
Asian, very young Ben Franklin. Across her
tightly-spandexed chest were the letters PG—
this was PennGirl, defender of campus!
Meanwhile, in the ivory labyrinths of
College Hall, President Amy Gutmann was
watching the crisis on closed-circuit television. The events troubled her deeply. She
summoned her top advisor, Dr. Snidely
Sneerington.
“This is unacceptable!” barked President
Gutmann. “The University will look terrible—
and there are tour groups walking around!
We can’t allow a hostage situation to lower
our school ranking.”
“We must resolve the matter quietly,”
said Dr. Sneerington, “and silence everyone
involved.”
The President rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Hmm… most of the hostages are juniors and seniors—we’ve already gotten most
of their tuition…”
“Also,” added Dr. Sneerington, “many of
them are minority students. Therefore they
have less money, and won’t be as generous
after graduation.” He rubbed his hands together in an evil fashion. “Are you thinking
what I’m thinking?”
“I think,” President Gutmann said, “that
Irvine Auditorium will get some emergency
renovations this afternoon.”
A team of elite SpectaGuards soon descended on the building. They sealed the
exits shut in thick red tape, and they screwed
ominous signs into the sidewalk:
We’re beginning fumigation/ For
roach and rat extermination./ Stay away
from this location/ Or die of toxic inhalations.
The fully-costumed PennGirl emerged
from the bathroom and tip-toed to the main
auditorium. The terrorists, she saw, had
taken the stage. They were threatening the
audience with their pellet guns, and making
their demands.
“We’re sick of Penn!” the leader cried.
“We’re sick of your sports teams, your snotty
attitudes—”
A voice from the audience rang out: “But
who are you?”
The leader tore off his black jacket,
revealing a Brown University t-shirt. The
other terrorists followed suit, and other logos emerged: Columbia, Dartmouth, Johns
Hopkins—a smorgasbord of top-tier schools,
with only Yale, Harvard, and Princeton unrepresented.
“We’re from all the
schools that people
have actually heard of,”
the leader declared,
“and we’re straight-up
angry that an upstart
state school is making
us look bad! We’re angry that a state school
is beating us in the
rankings. We’re angry
that a state school is
playing against Ivy
League sports teams.
We’re angry that your
business students make
more money than ours.
So we went to Toys ‘R
Us and put these pellet guns on my credit
card—now Penn is going to pay!”
The terrorists leveled their air rifles at the
hostages, and fearful screams filled the room.
“Not so fast!”
PennGirl sprang onto a seat, and all eyes
turned to her. With school spirit coursing
through her veins, she replied heroically to
the terrorists. “Penn is not a state school!”
she cried. “One look at our ‘Not Penn State’
shirts will tell you that. We may not have
name recognition, but we do pay full-price
tuitions, and that’s got to mean something!
Penn is in the Ivy League, all right—and not
even its worst member. We’re second-worst,
right ahead of Cornell.”
The audience erupted into cheers, but the
terrorists grew angry. The Cornell terrorist,
with a cry of rage, aimed his rifle and fired a
hot aluminum pellet.
The shot went wide, but the other terrorists were only a moment behind. PennGirl,
with super-reflexes, ducked behind a seat as
low-accuracy BBs filled the air.
While the terrorists reloaded, PennGirl
went on the offensive. With super-speed,
she rushed to the front of the auditorium and
leaped onto the stage. She grabbed the leader
by the collar and prepared to super-clobber
him—
But suddenly she recognized a voice calling for help. Deep within the audience, a pair
of terrorists were holding Brian,
the young First Call writer, by
the arms, and threatening him
with a still-loaded air rifle.
“Don’t move, or we’ll pelt
this chump!”
Brian struggled against the
terrorists, but his efforts were
useless. “Help me, PennGirl! I
get welts really easily!”
She released the terrorist
leader. He straightened his collar and grinned at her. “Heh,”
he scoffed, “the mighty Penn
superhero, defeated by a wimpy
kid calling for help.”
It was then, when all looked
lost, that PennGirl’s super-eyesight saw a cloud of noxiouslooking fog coming from the
entrance. She pointed: “Look
at that!”
“What is it? Smoke?”
The toxic fog spread over the crowd,
and some of the hostages began coughing.
“They’re trying to suffocate us!” PennGirl
realized.
The terrorists looked confused. “But… it’s
your own University,” the leader said. “Don’t
they care about their students?”
“Of course not. Does yours?”
The terrorist leader hung his head, unable to answer.
“We need to work together,” PennGirl
said. “Somebody try the doors.”
One of the hostages checked: “They’re all
sealed!”
“That’s what I thought. Somebody give
me an air rifle. I’ve got a plan to save us all.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the terrorist
leader handed over his weapon. Immediately, PennGirl ran towards the source of the
fumes, holding her breath with super-lung-
capacity. She dashed to the staircase, to the
basement, and then the maintenance room.
There, she found the source of the pesticide—a mother-lode of smoking aerosol foggers, each with a warning: Contents Under
Extreme Pressure!
She scooped up an armful and returned
to the main entrance, still holding her breath.
She placed them in front of the door, took a
big step back—
“Everybody stand clear!”
—And fired a pellet at the cans. A toxic
explosion rocked the building, and the doors
to Irvine Auditorium burst open. Deep
within College Hall, Amy Gutmann cursed
bitterly as the hostages fled to safety.
The incident made the front page of local newspapers. Penn acquired a dangerous
reputation, and the next year fell ten places
in every major ranking system. Students at
other top-tier schools rejoiced.
Unfortunately, the Performing Arts event
had been cancelled, and Mickey Jou had to
write about another topic. The life of a superhero is never easy. Brian Hertler, as usual,
just made something up.
Thank you for reading this far. This
week’s story will be my last regular column
for First Call. I’ve enjoyed the writing tremendously, but my increasing time commitments have made it impossible to maintain
an acceptable level of quality. So I’m moving
on.
For anyone with an interest in imaginative writing, I cannot recommend this publication highly enough. For the last eighteen
months, I’ve had a free space to experiment,
with virtually no restrictions and a weekly
deadline to keep me active. I’ve used my column to develop new styles and voices—before last year, I’d never tried comedy, never
rhymed, and never written a sarcastic rant.
I’m extremely grateful that you’ve put up
with me. In fact, I’ve received nothing but
encouragement for my efforts.
I now retire with pride; after writing the
name “Dr. Snidely Sneerington,” I can die a
happy man. My best wishes to all my readers,
and to the First Call staff.
Brian Hertler is a senior in the College. You can
write to him at bhertler@sas.
THE UNDERGRADUATE MAGAZINE | D ECEMBER 6, 2004 VOL . V NO . 9
THE CHAUVINIST’S DILEMMA
ANDREW PEDERSON | BRUT FORCE
DESPITE WHAT any moderately-to-radically liberal and
progressive person might say,
being a white male is difficult.
Even if our forbearers have
spent centuries raping and
plundering the cultures of the
known world, we have yet to
secure our own identity and
we still suffer from an acute
lack of community; hence, a number of young white males
imitate the stylistic hallmarks of other cultures, such as rap
music, in an attempt to be indirectly chic. This identity
crisis pervades nearly all levels of our social functioning;
however, some of the most acute symptoms manifest
themselves in our symbols of pop-culture romance.
Movies are a fascinating window to the intricacies of
popular belief, yet never is anything made expressly clear
or solid. Rather, though we can be told what’s cool, the
messages are never consistent enough to provide a suitable
norm for every clumsy white boy to rally around. Romantically, there exist many role models which together encompass the full range from “Introverted Socially Repressed
Intellectual Fetishist” to “Libido Enslaved Sociopath with
Muscles.” In any case, the span is wide; however, the fundamental differences can be generalized and exemplified
in two contemporary, though antagonistic figures: Indiana
Jones and James Bond.
Both Indiana Jones and James Bond are depicted in a
veritable sea of open and willing female legs. After every
adventure, every artifact saved, every super villain thwarted, there is a requisite seduction to celebrate the victory.
Even throughout the various scenes of a given film, small
victories are rewarded liberally with pussy. E.g.: Mr. Bond
sits down on his hotel room bed, takes off one shoe and notices the strange hair on the sink. Enter the unassumingbut-flirtatious cleaning maid with a tray of martinis and
let the games begin. Since the first love toy is invariably a
double agent, Bond is forced into a polygamous role and
must seek out the more innocent of the sex bombs to rescue
from a dilemma of her own creation. After great personal
risk and a thoroughly masculine killing spree, Bond welcomes the ending credits with a coy smile from around his
shoulder as he’s plowing Humpy McBang or whoever for
the nth time.
Similarly, Indiana Jones rescues artifacts from the
clutches of greedy Nazis and women from the opportunities of meaningful self-expression outside the home. Jones
perhaps gets statistically less ass, but his is harder fought
and usually more desirable. Take for example Raiders of the
Lost Ark, where Jones is dragged for miles in a truck and
shot in the arm before he gets to do the nasty with Marian
on a steamship about to be hijacked by a U-boat. Besides
the obvious verisimilitude of the situation, the women
seem more accessible and less of a commodity. Rather,
Jones’ woman seem not to get around as much and don’t
suffer the indignity of names like “Dr. Goodhead,” “Pussy
Galore” or the unthinkably blatant “Plenty O’Toole.”
Despite these notable similarities in outcome, the
methodological differences between the two run deep.
James Bond is a suave, cultured elitist who, whether he is
in space or under the sea, is impeccably dressed in a suit
and tie and demands a certain level of acculturation before
he deigns to do battle. It would be inconceivable to see Mr.
Bond in the clutches of a villain who didn’t have knowledge
of fine wines and a penchant for rare art. When he lures
his unsuspecting quarry, these elements of charm are key.
He approaches mildly, self-assuredly in the midst of crowd
at a charity ball or casino. Clever banter ensues, over the
course of which Bond drops whatever names he has to in
order to raise an eyebrow. Once the woman’s interest is
piqued, Bond has already baited her in his lascivious vagina trap and draws the noose tighter with the element of
danger. Before the woman is even aware the conversation
has ended, she’s looking at the ceiling while Sean Connery’s
hirsute chest grates against her skin.
Indiana Jones, on the other hand, relies more on brute
strength to get his point across. The woman is less typecast
movie-to-movie, but is always more deeply entrenched in
the main conflict of the film and so is more directly threatened when the proper time comes for Jones to save her.
Usually, the film makes a point of setting Jones and the
woman in strict opposition at the very outset, so that the
conquest is based solely on his physical prowess, instead
of charm. This is not to say Bond lacks the catlike reflexes
and stamina which always manage to save him in the nick
of time, but Jones’ sheer physical presence is far superior.
From his filthy brown outfit which inevitably tears open to
reveal a chiseled physique drenched in sweat, to his choice
of antiquated, even brutal weapons such as the whip and
revolver. Lacking gadgets or refinement, Jones is all man.
Presented with these two approaches, which can be
employed more successfully in everyday life by more ordinary men? Are we to confuse our women with name
repetition and fine wine before we try to screw them, or
should we simply dispense with the pleasantries and whisk
them away from exam time into the jungle, whether they
like us or not? What are we to make of such mixed messages regarding the proper way to treat potential mates?
Instead of dwelling on the subtleties of successful silver
screen personas, I would argue that the number of woman
who would go for an already typecast personality is rather
small; therefore, one must modify slightly an existing
model to be a successful chauvinist. No woman will accept
the predictable cliché of either the pretentious secret agent
or the rugged archaeologist, but give James Bond a kinky
whip and a dusty fedora and see what happens. Women
love hats.
Andrew Pederson is a sophomore in the College. You can write to him
at awl@sas.
SENTIMENTALITY CAUSES CANCER
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
IN MY FAVORITE EPISODE of Family Guy, the main character,
Peter Griffin, rides an elephant into the yard for his son Stewie’s
birthday. As he rides in, he says to his wife, "Look Lois, the two
symbols of the Republican Party: an elephant, and a fat white
guy who is threatened by change." Oh, how Republicans — most
anyway — seem to hate change. They like their deficits perpetually
high, their marriage heterosexual, and their women in missionary
position. Of course, retaining such a simplistic view of this matter
would be an injustice. In fact, increasingly often I have learned
a rather important lesson – conservatives are not the only ones
afraid of change.
In the December 2nd edition of the Daily Pennsylvanian, the cover story detailed the
sad fact that the University will be unable to salvage the historic Convention Hall near HUP.
Instead, HUP plans to replace it with a world renowned cancer research center. This new extension of Penn’s medical center will help pave the way and further the fight for more effective
treatments and cures for cancer. Even if Penn were to insist on trying to pay for refurbishing
the building to the point needed to adequately support the new facilities, it would mean shelling out $80 million. You think the tuition is high now?
I feel strongly about protecting historic buildings. Personally, I consider many an edifice to
be a tribute to the historical ingenuity of human architecture. After all, I come from the south,
where there tends to be less visual history and more highway. Lliving in Philadelphia, I have
learned to appreciate things such as the City Hall, or the many places in Old City that serve
as links to the city's past. In its own right, I would agree that Convention Hall also has a great
deal of history itself, but in this case, I don't agree with those who would oppose demolishing
the building at the expense of a cancer center.
Several people have come down hard on both the city and the University, but more specifically, they have targeted Penn for deciding against spending the $80 million to salvage the
location. In the last month or so, I have seen posters around campus and the surrounding
neighborhoods saying "Stop Penn." This visceral response from many in the community is,
quite frankly, helpful to no one.
If Penn wanted to destroy the building, which is not even considered a historic site by any
commission, to build more classrooms or a sports field, I would have far more sympathy for
the critics. Instead, as I mentioned before, the thing that would take the place of this building
would be a cancer research center. That's right, instead of using the space for filming movies,
as is often the case now, there will now be a facility that will hopefully help save unknown
scores from death.
Even considering the importance of the new research center, it isn’t as though Penn did not
look into saving the building. Normally labeled as insensitive to the concerns of the surrounding community, our school surprised me by the amount of research put forth into exploring
possibilities for using the existing infrastructure. Penn hired an architecture firm to look into
the feasibility of saving the site and worked in consultation with existing preservation societies. In fact, Preservation Alliance for Greater Philadelphia even expressed support for the
efforts put forth by the University and for the decision to demolish the site. In the end, it was
widely agreed that the costs of keeping the building outweighed the benefits.
Yet there are actually those who seemingly prioritize an old building that currently serves
no purpose over one that would have a positive benefit to human life. Perhaps I am being
naïve, but I believe in looking at each situation individually and deciding which course of
action would reap more positive benefits for the community. In this case, no one lives in the
building. There are no funds to repair it. The people upset about its inevitable demise are not
opening up their own pocketbooks to save it. Therefore, what obligation does Penn have to
dish it out?
In this case, no such obligation exists. The remaining practicality of saving Convention
Hall lies only in sentimentality. In the end, the viability of developing this area, not for capitalist profit but for the advancement of medical science, outweighs leaving the building to sit
used for nothing more than the sound stage for the occasional Hollywood blockbuster.
The choice is easy. Convention Hall has got to go.
Michael Patterson is a senior in the College. You can write to him at mjp2@sas.