January 31, 2005 - Dolphin Student Group Web Accounts

The Undergraduate Magazine
Vol. V, No. 11 | January 31, 2005
Hello, Oscar!
Rob previews this year’s Entertainment
SuperBowl.
Page 6
Sexy Pronouns
Roz explores the possibility of expunging gender from language.
Page 4
Wear Disease on your Wrist
Lauren argues against extensions of the
LiveStrong craze.
Page 8
TRAPPED
Christine dissects the latest fad of
punctuality.
Page 5
KRYSTAL GODINES
A CULTURE OF SILENCE
Sexual Violence
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
NEXT TIME you go
down Locust Walk,
take a look at the
people you pass and
consider something:
who are these fellow
students, faculty and
employees whom you
pass everyday? For the
most part, the crowds
I walk by seem like so many ghosts, allowing me
to glimpse only at part of the individual, leaving
so much invisible to the naked eye. In these hidden
realms lies a great deal people feel unable to discuss,
with much permitted to happen out of sight of those
of us in the ‘real’ world.
Unfortunately, there are too many things that
people avoid discussing. These topics bring discomfort to many and are therefore thought best unmentioned. Rape, which represents one of the least
understood and all too common problems in our
society, is one such example. Over the few years, few
individuals at Penn with a public voice have written
much on the topic. Those who do mention it barely
skim the surface.
Given the way in which society stigmatizes rape,
people have fallen victim to silence on the matter.
As a lack of public discourse continues, so do the
attacks on women and men on this campus and
elsewhere around the country. A case in point is the
sexual assault of a Penn student near Allegro’s pizza
on the morning of January 21st.
When I read the recent The Daily Pennsylvanian story regarding the attack, as well as the email
sent out by Maureen Rush, V.P. of public safety,
some elements of the scenario left me feeling a bit
Running Early?
disillusioned. The description of the attack came
across as something out of the norm, as if it were no
more common than a simple assault or robbery and
something therefore easily avoidable given certain
considerations. The unfortunate truth is that sexual
assault is far more common in American society
than many other crimes, and far less often reported,
particularly when concerning college students at
schools such as our own.
According to the Prevalence, Incidence and
Consequences of Violence Against Women Survey
of the National Institute of Justice, 15 percent of all
women have been the victim of rape, while another
3 percent have suffered an attempted rape. What
is so misleading about these numbers, however, is
that they only reflect women who choose to admit
being sexually assaulted. Other estimates that take
this into account are higher, placing the number of
women sexually assaulted closer to one in four. The
majority of the time, sexual assault against women
is committed by someone whom the victim knows.
Acquaintance rape, date rape, and other common
sexual assaults are anything but random acts of violence on a street or an alley, but often in the victim’s
own home or dorm room.
Why should these numbers be so high, and for
what reasons do people underreport this heinous
crime? I can certainly take a few guesses. Perhaps
one problem is that people treat the subject of rape
as taboo, something to keep quiet about rather than
openly discuss. Women become absolutely terrified
of making others around them feel uncomfortable,
and would rather deal with the experiences themselves than risk subjecting others to even a hint of
the discomfort the woman herself is already going
through.
Continued on PAGE 7
A MEANINFUL LIFE
OF MATERIALISM
MICKEY JOU | SITES AND SOUND
A FAMOUS FRENCH WRITER, Perec, once
listed everything he ate for a month and then
published it in a literary magazine. I don’t
fancy myself Perec, but I do wonder why
someone would feel compelled to list everything that went through his digestive track
for thirty days. In addition to his gastronomical account, Perec also wrote a novella
entitled Things, which started with a detailed
description of an apartment in terms of its
objects. Obviously, ‘lists’ were a big thing
with Perec. The description of the objects
were meant to describe their owner, not unlike the trick used by Bianca in 10
Things I Hate About You to do some personality analysis on her sister, Cat:
“Concert tickets, planner… class schedule, reading list, more tickets… aha!
Black panties… [this means] she wants to have sex someday.” Lingerie drawer aside, do our bookshelves, CD collections, and posters really reveal that
much about who we are? Is it really that easy to come to a conclusion about
ourselves by knowing which TV shows we watch regularly and whether or not
we subscribe to Cosmopolitan? (Those personality quizzes sure think so.)
The answer is resounding: Duh. After taking care of the essentials in
life (food, shelter, water, and clothes, to a certain extent), the excess is for
us to enjoy. This is how consumer market works: we are told, rightly or
wrongly, that how we prioritize the non-essential aspects of life, i.e., how we
spend our leftover scraps of time and energy and money, is what defines us:
sports, music, art, poetry, rock and roll, school, parties, movies, TV, shopping… which DVDs we own, which singer we love, or, in the case of the Narrator (Edward Norton) from Fight Club, which catalogue we order from.
In another movie about object fetishes, High Fidelity, Rob (John Cusack)
suggested that we are what we own. I agree completely and I don’t think
it’s shallow at all. Material belongings and the things we love in pop culture
can become a fossilized record of who we were. There’s a reason why I turn
again and again to the WB teen soaps, and it’s not because of quality: the
plots of One Tree Hill and Smallville, for examples, make no sense to me at
all. But when I watch these sexed-up post-Dawson’s Creek and 90210 dramas, Iremember that this was exactly what high school felt like, this was
Continued on PAGE 4
J ANUAR Y 31, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 11
P AGE 2
FirstCall
Vol. V, No. 11 | January 31, 2005
The Undergraduate Magazine
Editor-in-Chief
Robert Forman
Editors
Andrew Pederson
Lauren Saul
Assistant Editor
Anna Stetsovskaya
Columnists
Robert Forman
Adam Goldstein
Julie Gremillion
James Houston
Mickey Jou
Michael Patterson
Andrew Pederson
Roz Plotzker
Lauren Saul
Anna Strongin
Writers
Shira Bender
Alexandra Chalat
Christine Chen
Thuy Tran
Artists
Stephanie Craven
Shira Bender
Marian Lee
Layout Editors
Krystal Godines
Julie Gremillion
Business Managers
Alex Chacon
Greg Lysko
Marketing Manager
Leah Karasik
Marketing Staff
Lauren Saul
Anna Strongin
Webmaster
Rachit Shukla
Editorial
THE CENTER OF NO RETURNS
What do you do as a business owner when you sell an inferior product for an exorbitant fee?
If you are brave, you can try to improve your business or simply get rid of it. If you aren’t, you
can depend on the hordes of Penn students who are too lazy to buy anything else and hope that
they continue to tolerate being treated rudely while in the store, either purchasing or returning
books.
While there are many sub par businesses on campus (read: Smith Brothers), the target of our
animosity this week is the Penn Book Center. When customers excited to start a new semester
enter the store, the owners stare them down, often with intense hostile glances if they are not
using the master board to find the location of their specific course books. Browsing, apparently,
is an unacceptable activity. Penn students who may consider courses by seeing which books the
professor has ordered are made to feel like they are disrupting a supposedly efficient system, despite the fact that the PBC has no real cash registers, and the line is a chaotic mess anyhow.
The books are also exorbitantly expensive, and ever since the internet has made used books
a competitive, large market, many students have decided to opt out of paying twice as much
and having to lug the stack of books home. However, the few suckers that remain should not
be made to feel as though they are unwanted in the store. If the owners have any sensibilities,
they should realize by now that fiscally indifferent students are the only thing keeping them in
business.
Since the amount of reading assigned in college classes is often too much for a student to
complete (especially when, in many cases, it is possible to do reasonably well even with skipping
a book here and there), PBC has devised a policy to prevent students from returning books that
have turned out to be useless: course books can only be returned during the drop period, provided the student brings his/her schedule as evidence that the course has been dropped. First of
all, this is just another hostile gesture, revealing that the store depends on indifferent customers.
While giving students a time limit to return their books, such as the drop deadline, is a valid
measure, making them show their schedule takes matters a step too far. Most books are not
used until later in the semester, anyhow, and if a student is able to decide within the first month
that the book is not worth keeping, he/she should have the right to return it if it is in good shape.
Additionally, being spiteful does not promote a good future exploitative relationship.
When one of us went there to return books and forgot a schedule, PBC happened to be empty.
It was as quiet as the gym prior to every Penn kid’s New Years Resolution. Yet, the PBC employees refused to let their previously indifferent customer use their computer for an instant to show
them the legitimacy of the course drop.
How annoying. Penn students, unite! When it comes time for book buying again in September, go to PBC, write down the ISBN of every required book while the owners are watching,
and then proceed to buy the books on half.com or amazon.com for half the price and twice the
convenience.
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
Web Site
clubs.wharton.upenn.edu/fcpaper
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Email letters to the editors and
guest submissions to
fcpaper@wharton.upenn.edu.
Students, please include your
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Editorial Policy
First Call is the undergraduate magazine
of The University of Pennsylvania. First
Call is published every Monday. Our
mission is to provide members of the
community an open forum for expressing ideas and opinions. To this end, we,
the editors of First Call, are committed
to a policy of not censoring opinions.
Articles are provided by regular columnists and writers. They are chosen for
publication based on the quality of writing and, in the case of commentaries, the
quality of argumentation. Outside of the
weekly editorial and other editorial content, no article represents the opinion of
First Call, its editorial board, or individual members of First Call other than the
author. No content in First Call unless
otherwise stated represents the official
position of the administration, faculty,
or student body at large of the Wharton
School or the University of Pennsylvania.
Next issue: February 14, 2005
RETRO REWIND
The Archies
“Sugar Sugar”
IN STEREO
Ludacris
“The Potion”
EDITORIAL ADVICE
Gwen Stefani featuring Eve
“Rich Girl”
The biggest selling pop song of 1969 was
brought to us by a group of animated characters who personified bubblegum pop. The
people behind the TV show Archie decided à
la The Monkees that the stars would make
a fantastic music group. Ironically enough,
Producer Don Kirschner created the group
after he was fired from The Monkees. You
should be having déjà vu about Lou Pearlman, creator of the Backstreet Boys, then
‘N Sync, then O-Town. History really does
repeat itself. The voices of The Archies were
all seasoned session vocalists including Andy
Kim, who co-wrote “Sugar Sugar” with songwriter Jeff Barry. They had another hit song,
“Jingle Jangle” , but the group’s success faded
when Kirschner left the group. All together,
“Sugar Sugar” sold 6 million copies, spent 4
week at the top of the charts and became the
first time a cartoon group ever hit #1. It’s
been featured on more soundtracks than I
care to remember and is a staple of 60s pop
music.
This single is Ludacris’s first release off
his December 2004 album The Red Light
District. It features Timbaland as the
producer who constructs radical backdrop
sounds including a crazy wooing and a little
scream over and over again. I first heard
it at The Reef in December and liked the
song, thought it was interesting. After all,
Luda does manage to come up with pretty
interesting lyrics. The second time I heard
it I liked it even less, and after the third time
I never wanted to hear the song again. I’m
not a huge fan of Ludacris in the first place,
but this song was driving me crazy. Just
listening to it while writing this column was
making me insane. The constant wooing in
the background is not only a little creepy
but annoying after a while. The only part
of the song I like is the bridge in the middle
that is a total departure from the rest of the
song and resembles a Negro work anthem of
some kind. Critics claim it’s a decent album
but that multi-platinum Ludacris is slowing
down and getting comfortable like all the
other multi-platinum rappers. My advice
is listen to it once and then stop before you
hate it.
For anyone who is a fan of musicals or
dancehall, this track is utterly offensive.
Gwen has decided to branch out on her own,
which really means covering other peoples’
songs in some instances. I used to be a big
fan of Gwen when she was a member of No
Doubt. Then, she got too famous and too
Hollywood, leading her to get noticeable
(although well-done) breast implants and
a Madonna-esque white-blond dyed hair
fascination. The underlying tune for this
song is from the song “If I Were a Rich
Man” of the famous musical Fiddler on
the Roof. Shame on those who think Lady
Saw originated the song; her claim to fame
is taking the tune and creating “Rich Girl”
from it. Despite the disdain from Broadway
purists, Lady Saw’s original version is highly
entertaining. It also makes sense coming
from a woman who was trying to make it
big. Gwen doesn’t have that advantage since
she’s already ridiculously rich. Worst of all
is the video concept; she’s on the deck of the
ship from the film Pirates of the Caribbean,
and she’s dancing around in burlesque style
underwear. Steer clear of this disaster.
P AGE 3
J ANUAR Y 31, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 11
EYES WIDE SHUT
BY SHIRA BENDER
“CONCENTRATE. CONCENTRATE on what I’m saying,
saying, people are dying, babies are crying, concentrate.” My
sister used to chant that as she studied for major exams; she
learned it at Harvard. There are several variations I’m told,
but they all have the basic theme. Apparently these kinds of
techniques and mantras help students get in the mindset for
rigorous studying and…concentration. So for the next few
minutes or so, I ask of you, concentrate.
Let’s say there was a country in which hundreds of thousands of innocent people were being kept in prison camps.
Let’s say that within those camps, women and children were
beaten and shot for no reason at all, and women were raped
and then punished for their resulting pregnancies with a fatal “abortion” carried out with a large, rusty shovel. Let’s say
the guards were to release vicious dogs on the
children, allowing them to be torn to shreds,
or that they were to force the children to stone
each other to death. Let’s say there was evidence
of gas chambers and mass graves. Let’s say that
outside of these camps, in the towns and communities, thousands were starving, children
were eating mud, insects…each other, and that
any food sent by foreign aid agencies were kept
out of the hands of these people. Let’s say that
were anyone to be caught trying to escape this
country, they, along with their extended families
would be taken to these camps, tortured, or executed. Let’s just say all of this were true, and
that you knew it was going on. What would your
reaction be?
Enough with the hypothetical. This IS
going on, right now, as we speak, in North
Korea. In my articles, I usually try to throw
some humor into the mix of an issue that I feel
strongly about, but this time, there is no room
for laughter. This is a situation which somehow,
hardly anybody knows about. Did you know
about this? I certainly didn’t. I didn’t know that
almost all food sent by the Red Cross and other aid agencies
is kept from the starving people, and given to the army or sold
on the black market instead. I didn’t know that the Chinese
government arrests all North Korean refugees, and immediately sends them back to be forcibly interrogated, and often
to the prison camps where most will end up dead. I didn’t
know that repatriated pregnant women’s unborn children are
forcibly aborted specifically to prevent the possible birth of
“impure” half-Korean half-Chinese babies. I didn’t know that
Kim Jung Il, the North Korean dictator, has starved to death
four to seven million of his people. I didn’t know that there
has been a famine for the past ten years, and that there have
been concentration and hard labor camps for thirty years. I
didn’t know that this kind of thing could possibly go on for so
long, with hardly anyone knowing about it, much less lifting
a finger to help. Call me naïve, but I guess I just figured these
kinds of things would be reported on, or at least mentioned in
the news every now and then.
Toward the end of last semester, I attended a screening
of a documentary called Seoul Train, which speaks about
the North Korean crisis, focusing mainly on the refugees,
and China’s involvement. The event was sponsored by the
student-run Penn chapter of a national organization called
Liberation in North Korea, or LiNK. After watching the horrifying images of starving children eating mud, and of entire
families being wiped out after trying in vain to reach freedom,
I knew I had to do something.
What do you think of when you hear “North Korea?”
Nuclear weapons. Yes, they’re a problem. And apparently
our government is too involved with getting rid of fictitious
weapons than going after the real threats. But even so, somehow the fear of nuclear weapon capability in North Korea has
overshadowed and blinded the entire world to the situation
occurring within the borders of the country itself. The crisis
of starvation, murder, and torture of the people of North Korea is not a mere threat; it is an ongoing reality. “I cannot describe the situation properly. Can you imagine expecting the
person next to you to die, and when the person dies, taking
the corpse’s clothing off and wearing it?” That’s how a former
prisoner described a prison camp. Methods of infanticide in
the camps include live burial, suffocation, and starvation.
There are mass graves in the camps, and absolutely no health
care or hospitals. The army tests chemical and biological
weapons on prisoners. Prisoners are forced to work hard labor, and are beaten or killed if they slow in their work or drop
from exhaustion. The list of atrocities goes on and on.
There is another documentary called Children of the Secret
State, in which a British journalist goes to North Korea, posing as a tourist. Of course, he was only shown the happy smiling families of government officials, their children plump and
healthy, and their tables replete with seven course meals. And
then there are the other images, the ones the North Korean
government does not allow tourists and journalists to see,
which were filmed by a North Korean man who managed to
take secret videotape of the lives of the people in the starving
communities which are kept secret by the government. One
shot cuts from rosy-cheeked, pampered children of the elite
to a ten year old boy who looks no older than five, picking at
the dirt at his feet, too weak from hunger to speak at all. He is
one of the hundreds of orphans who are left to fend for themselves in towns entirely closed off to the outside world, where
the streets are made of mud and the food is virtually nonexistent. Images of bags of food bearing the Red Cross symbol,
and the words “a gift from America” written in Korean on the
side, being sold on the black market and never arriving in the
hands of the starving people make me grit my teeth in anger.
The film also includes testimonies from former prison guards,
who tell of and draw detailed pictures of guards murdering
prisoners, escaped refugees who tell of horrors such as human
flesh being sold in the streets to starving citizens, and escaped
children who try their best to speak about the harsh, fatal
conditions they had been subjected to. It’s hard for anyone to
swallow all of this information, and I’m sure there are those
whose first reaction would be to deny that any of this exists.
But the videos and the hundreds of testimonies don’t lie.
There is so much more I could say in terms of factual
information, numbers of deaths, and numbers of dying. But
honestly, the plethora of websites, the documentaries, and the
organizations like LiNK do a much better job than I could
with that, so I encourage you to take a look at all of them.
What I really hope to accomplish with this article is nothing
more than to be able to tell a few more people about this situation. I know many of the cynics out there might
want to respond with comments on how much
genocide and how many human rights violations there are in the world, and how it would be
impossible to actually make any real difference.
Fine. I’m not going to sit here and say that we
can change the world; I honestly even doubt we
could save that many people in North Korea at
this point. It’s not as if the government is rolling
out the welcome wagons. But are we honestly so
desensitized that any one of us could hear or see
this information, and not at least want to help?
I admit, I feel somewhat helpless in the face of
a situation which feels impossible to remedy or
improve. But I know that the more people who
know about this, the closer we come to making a
difference. Tell someone. Come to a LiNK event.
Read a website. Stop for a moment on Locust
Walk at one of the booths, take a flyer, take two.
Do something.
About sixty years ago, there was another
country, another group of people begging
America for help, begging someone, anyone to
listen and to act. But no one did, until it was
far too late. Have we really learned nothing from our mistakes? Can we really just ignore this? Last week, I wrote in
my article concerning Prince Harry’s wardrobe malfunction
that anyone who compares a current crisis to the Holocaust
shames the memories of the victims. I now revise that statement, and say that while equating a current situation to the
Holocaust is wrong, ignoring a current situation, after having
hopefully learned something from our history, is a thousand
times worse. Anyone who stands idly-by while knowing that
atrocities are occurring in the world shames those victims just
as much, if not more. We have a responsibility, as Americans,
as students, as privileged members of the world, as human beings, to be aware of these things, and to try and stop them in
any way possible. Think about how much was accomplished
in such a short span of time after the terrible tsunami disaster,
and how the entire world came together to send aid and save
lives. Think about all that we are capable of, if only more of us
knew about what was happening. I am not trying to make any
huge political statement, other than be aware. This is going
on, and it has been going on for decades. Concentrate. Concentrate on what I’m saying, saying, people are dying, babies
are crying, Concentrate.
Shira Bender is a freshman in the College. You can write to her at
shiratb@sas.
Critically Inform.
Signed up for too many activities and wound up doing nothing?
Wanted to get involved in a campus publication, but didn’t know how?
It’s never too late.
First Call, the Undergraduate Magazine, is always looking for new members:
• Writers
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Meetings Mondays 9pm JMHH G86
Submissions due Wednesdays at midnight.
No application or experience necessary.
fcpaper@wharton.upenn.edu
P AGE 4
J ANUAR Y 31, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 11
WHAT THE SQUEE?
Roz explains non-gendered pronouns
ROZ PLOTZKER | SEX AND THE UNIVERSITY
YONAH, LYNN AND I went to an
art show at Q’s house. Q is one of
Yonah’s friends, but I’ve met hir a
couple times. Zee and I first met
each other at a march last summer, and I’ve seen hir a bunch of
times since then. Not enough to
hang out with hir on my own or
anything, but you know, zee and I
can have a conversation. I would
trust hir to drive me home and
I’m more than welcome to show up to an art show
that zee’s throwing.
Anyway, the night that Lynn and I went to the
art show, neither of us really knew anyone other
than each other. I was sort on my own at the bar
since she was driving, but after a little small talk
with Q, I sat with Lynn on the stairs. She and I did
the normal thing people do when they are at a party
and don’t know anyone: people watch, eavesdrop,
put up an invisible not-interested-in anyoneother-than-my-friend-over-here force field, and I
gave the no-teeth smile to strangers who made eye
contact. Meanwhile, Yonah socialized with squeer
friends, and eventually ended up in a game of spin
the bottle. It looked like squee was having a good
time, and I hated to break up the fun, but Lynn and
I had to get going. So I threw a pretzel at Yonah and
whoever was sucking squeer face, and the three of
us left.
“Okay okay, enough,” you’re thinking. “What the
hell is a Squee? Does Yonah have queer friend, and
Roz just can’t typ to sve her liffe? Is her spell check
broken? She kept making the same mistakes over and over.
HER not HIR! Where are the goddamned editors???”
Chill out, First Call readers.
Simply jumping in and using non-gender pronouns is
probably not the best way to introduce the concept of ambiguous gender identity. Is Q a boy or a girl? Is Yonah from Mars or
Venus? If they spooned, who would be on the outside?
In order to deconstruct ideas about gender, I guess you
need a good vocabulary. If not, even Eddy Izard is a pain in the
ass to talk about. So, to clarify a few terms:
“Transvestite” is a person who dresses (even acts) in ways
associated with the opposite sex. A wolf in sheep’s clothing,
but still a wolf.
“Transgender” is an umbrella term for deviation from
gender norms. It’s a person who feels they identify more with
roles of the gender opposite to what was assigned to them at
birth based on their body parts. Actually a sheep, but born into
a wolf ’s body.
“Transsexual” is usually preceded by transgender and/or
transvestite. With the miracle of modern surgery, you can alter
more than your wardrobe to show your identification with the
opposite sex. Sex change is costly (and typically not covered by
health insurance). It involves plastic surgery on external reproductive organs, and also hormone treatments. A sheep in a
wolf ’s body who decides that it would feel more comfortable in
a sheep’s body, so gets snout and tail reductions, hoof replacements, dental work, ear enhancement, and takes monthly
shots so he grows wool instead of fur.
To sum it up, Trans, Trannies, etc. include all these (and
more!), and basically operate on the idea that a person’s
gender-psychological ID doesn’t always match up with their
biological one. But this is old news— people have been cross
dressing since Adam and Eve decided to get out of the Garden
and wear leaves.
The cutting edge of critical gender analysis is the idea that
maybe, MAYBE, a two gender (i.e. gender binary) system is
limited; that there doesn’t need to be the big social distinctions between XX and XY. You have to admit, there would
be a war of the sexes if there were no distinction between the
two—besides having the reproductive roles. So, we have the
Gender-Queer terms, a.k.a. gender transcenders—“anything
that doesn’t mesh with the Male-Female dichotomy” according to website www.translife.net, and Non-Gender for people
who just don’t want a gender identity.
Yonah, the friend formerly known as Shix formerly known
as Shira, is confusing. Like this article. “Shira is a female name,
and Shir is the male version, so since there is no actual neutral
form, Shix invented “Shix”. But Shix sounds like a Shiksa,
which is derogatory. Yonah is a more gender-neutral name
that has a lot of personal meaning, and so that’s why Shix
decided on to be called Yonah.
So, my friend Yonah is Gender-Queer. Not that everyone
should be this way. For some people, whether they consciously
choose their gender or not, it’s a big part of who they are, and
what they’re about. Fighting for women’s rights is difficult if you deny the existence of women. Trannies
make a big change in their life because of their feelings
of identity. Yonah’s decision was a personal lifestyle
choice, because squee didn’t want a gender based on
sexual parts. It was not setting an example.
There are million issues here, for Gender-Queer
and Non-Gender. They can’t be heterosexual or homosexual because they don’t want to be male or female.
People who are attracted to them need to figure out
that they can’t identify as hetro or homo either. And a
completely new set of Pronouns need to be used. A few
floating around, Squee or Zee for He/She and Squeer
or Hir (pronounced like Here) for His/Her and Him/
Her. It’s going to take a long time for this to get off the
ground. It’s complicated—just look at the awkwardness of this explanation. But last summer, I worked
with a family who demonstrated that gender doesn’t
have to be so hard to explain. Even a three year old can
get it. Her mother recently explained the difference between boys and girls: “Most girls have vulvas, like you
have; and most boys have penises like your brother.
But sometimes girls have penises and sometimes boys have
vulvas.” Sex organ does not necessarily equal gender. She was
potty training, and insisted that since I came into the bathroom with her, she should come in with me. Suddenly in the
bathroom she screams out “You have a Vulva!!! My mom has
a vulva , and I have one too!!!,” after which she ran around the
apartment looking like demented clown with marker all over
her face yelling “I’m a woman I’m a woman I’m a woman…”
You go Girl.
Roz Plotzker is a senior in the College. You can write to her at
rosalyn@sas.
MATERIALISM
Continued from PAGE 1
what it was like before I came to college, before I stopped taking those shows so seriously. It is both humbling and a relief to
realize that yes, once upon a time, I wholeheartedly cared about
whether or not Dawson and Joey were going to be together.
That was in season one, by the way. I lost interest when they
broke up in season two and suddenly realized that the series
(and all the series that followed the same formula) was an endless game of Musical Chairs. The lovely Jen Lindley (Michelle
Williams) didn’t even get play half the time because she was too
smart for the show. A retrospective look at the TV shows you
loved and the CDs you owned can make you realize how much
you’ve grown and how much time has passed. I still have a copy
of Jewel’s first album, Pieces of You, with me. Listening to it a
good six, seven years after I bought it made me realize that I’ve
always harbored a soft spot for coffee house music. Jewel, before
she became a Pop Star, was an acoustic-guitar-playing, thoughtful-poetry-writing coffeehouse artist. I still love “Mmmbop” by
the Hansons and the Spice Girls were seventh grade for me. I
just don’t listen to them on repeat anymore — it doesn’t mean
they’ve gone bad.
It’s one thing to have lived when Alanis Morisette dominated
the radio stations and Buffy the Vampire Slayer moved from
Monday to Tuesday; it’s another to look back and think about
what that means. The thing about the things we own is that
when we first buy into them, we think they say something about
who we are. (Of course, that doesn’t always work. For example:
Vanessa Carlton’s misguided attempt to call herself “edgier” after having discovered Wicca in her freshman year.) But what
defines each of us is that the song we loved or the TV show we
obsessed over are loved in a way only understood by our generation. We are defined by what we own, but more importantly, we
are better able to see who we have become when we can look back
at the things we’ve left behind, to be able to say that we watched
Alias regularly with our dorm mates during college or that we
loved Bright Eyes before emo was cool. Despite what Douglas
Coupland has to say, not everything in our materialist, popular
culture is worthless. Can’t you see? We measure our growth by
the things we used to love to own.
PARROT
MARIAN LEE
Mickey Jou is a junior in the College. You can write to her at myjou@seas.
P AGE 5
J ANUAR Y 31, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 11
TARDY PARTY
Surviving a world where
punctuality is the new late
BY CHRISTINE CHEN
GIVE IT A SPIN
A winning wintry
weather workout
ANDREW PEDERSON | BRUT FORCE
THE YEAR 2004 left me with two very important life lessons:
1) FedEx is an expensive shipment option meant for large packages, not manila envelopes
2) People do not appreciate tardiness
The subject of concern here deals with the latter; general lateness or what Merriam-Webster so succinctly describes as the act of being delayed beyond the expected or proper time.
We have all at one point been one or the other, either one who had been waiting around for
someone to show up when they say they will while surmounting feelings of sometimes intense
ill will, awkwardness, and downright annoyance build up, or the latecomer. The numbers don’t
lie. As the minutes past the appointed time increase, leniency on any and all matters pertinent
to you and the offended decrease exponentially. Professors deem tardiness as rude and disruptive to class. Being late to a job interview is a terrible way to make a first impression. In fact, if
I were late, I might not even bother showing up. I really can’t decide which is worse. Simply,
tardiness is a bad thing.
All are susceptible to the ill effects of tardiness on the all-important Reputation. Though
the entertaining aspects in the following anecdote should not detract from the seriousness of
the offense, nonetheless, enjoy. The location: Orlando, Florida. This past December, when
the time came to cut the ribbon on Paris Hilton’s first nightclub, which, surprise, surprise, was
anointed, Club Paris, the infamous hotel heiress was (gasp!) shamefully absent. Co-owner Fred
Khalilian had no choice but to implement the oldest tactic known to man and college fraternities alike in which to engage disappointed guests to enter the enclosed premises and more importantly, stay put: promise free booze. Six hours later Paris finally arrived unabashed, yet unfortunately so far behind that the majority of her partying guests had already called it a night.
You’d better believe that Khalilian was starting to regret investing over 3 million dollars on so
flighty a partner whose
only job was to look the
sparkly heiress and most
importantly, show up, on
time. Some unforgiving
words were reportedly
directed towards Paris in
regards to her subsequent
lack of punctuality. Tardiness can tarnish even
the brightest of celebrity
stars, or in this case, tarnish what we all agreed
could be tarnished no
more. Being fashionably
late is so passé. Punctuality is heralded as the
new late. The American
people have pardoned
many things once deemed
socially unacceptable, but
to this day tardiness remains a cardinal sin.
I plead guilty on all
charges of tardiness.
Tardiness was just too
good to me throughout
the years. Fellow perpetrators will agree that it allots maximal “me” time. It didn’t matter how inconvenienced and
peeved the other person was, there was some invisible force that kept me from getting there on
time. When it became clear that this was becoming a problem—the animosity especially—I
sincerely did try to be on time, but the harder I tried, the later I was. It was absurd, really, and at
times I was even amused. My notorious arrival time-range grew to anywhere from 10 minutes
early to 45 minutes late on a good day. I pleaded, “Tardiness must be genetically predisposed!
I come from a tardy family!” but this fell on deaf ears.
So maybe chronic tardiness is not a genetic defect, but consider the case of Gneezy and
Rustichini (2000), which offers an alternative explanation. It is a fact of life that parents are
sometimes late in picking up their children at daycare centers at the inconvenience of the daycare and dismay of their children. We’ve all had to sit on that hard concrete curb as little tykes
with the first grade teacher while waiting for our parents to get around to picking us up. A
study was conducted in the town of Haifa at six randomly chosen day care centers. A fine was
imposed for lateness, and in a control group of centers no fine was imposed. As expected, over
the entire 20 weeks of the experiment, there were no changes in the degree of lateness at the
day care centers in the control group. However, something very interesting was observed in the
experimental group. The expectation was that punctuality would improve, but on the contrary,
parents responded to the fine by even greater tardiness. The fraction of late pick ups more than
doubled. Even more striking was the fact that, when after 16 weeks the fine was removed, their
enhanced tardiness persisted, showing no tendency to either resolve or right itself.
In effect, lateness morphed from a violated obligation to a deliberate choice with a price
tag on it, and one that parents were willing to pay in exchange for tardiness. The study, which
was titled, “A Fine is a Price,” came to the ultimate conclusion that imposing such a fine cued to
the parents that they were participating in a market-like scenario in which they the consumers
were more than willing to buy lateness. The abrupt revocation of the fine did not restore the
deviation; it merely lowered the price of lateness to a lovely zero dollars. Ultimately, monetary
deterrents were counterproductive in encouraging punctuality. Petty punitive damages were
no match for tardiness; it just served as a handbook for the chronic offender. In Hume’s terms,
the Haifa day care centers “designed a constitution for knaves, and they seemingly produced
knaves, rather than improved behaviors.”
It seems to a “knave” such as me that compulsive lateness should be treated like quitting
smoking, or alcoholism. Progress towards that punctual nirvana cannot be attained until a
tardy person decides that it is time to change, whether it is achieved by gradually diminishing
the minutes of lateness or just going cold turkey and suddenly arriving on time. If this is too
much to handle then be warned, if you think that driving really fast will make up for lost time,
you are correct. I’m afraid in this case, my fellow lead foots, safety wins out. Drive safely and
blame your tardiness on morning traffic or suicidal wildlife. If all fails, apologize for your tardiness with the utmost savoir-faire, and hopefully the day will come when you will be on time and
have to apologize no more.
THIS PAST WEEK, winter abruptly swept in and made up
for a lot of lost time by dumping as much precipitation and
misery as possible. As the snow piled up and clogged roads
and sidewalks alike, those few of us dedicated outdoor exercise fanatics who were until that moment enjoying some
balmy fall-like weather winced in anticipation of the next
week or two. No matter how much we’d like to avoid it, the
gym is sometimes the only warm place to burn some calories and stress, and when the weather outside is something
beyond frightful, we have to wait in line with the flabby New
Year’s resolutions rejects and the pre-purge sorority girls for a mere half hour of lukewarm workout trapped in front of The Ellen Show.
As a long distance runner in high school, snow didn’t pose much of a problem; one
merely added a layer and picked up his knees a bit. After I made the switch to cycling,
however, every whim of the weather was suddenly life or death. Cycling and running have
a great deal in common, and while cycling reduces the amount of impact for a roughly
equal aerobic benefit, doing aerobics at twenty miles an hour adds an invigorating sense
of imminent death along with enough wind chill to freeze a nut sack to the inner thigh in
a matter of minutes.
Considering the sheer volume of broken glass, pipe wielding crack addicts and irate
fat asses in rust bucket cars, cycling in urban Philadelphia doesn’t lessen the amount of
danger. Once there is a layer of snow on the ground, and the aforementioned lunatics are
sliding around the ice-covered sheets in wheeled metal coffins, cycling outdoors is more
akin to a faster version of Russian
roulette. As a result, this week, I
and a number of other intrepid
male cyclists have ventured into
the mysterious world of spinning.
Chances are you’ve already
seen the strangely lit, glass walled
room on the third floor of Pottruck, where about thirty of the
sweatiest people ever marshal all
of their strength and endurance in
a vivid atmosphere of black light
and pulsing techno music while an
instructor barks instructions over a
headset microphone. On any given
night, the female-to-male ratio is
something like eight to three.
For the most part, my time as a cyclist has left me with little or no shame whatsoever.
I shave my legs and like it. I wear the smallest size spandex I can find in bright, unthinkable combinations of colors and spend long hours in public looking like a cape-less, gay
superhero. However, I was chagrined by the reactions I encountered after I told people
the reason my room smelled like shit was because I had sweated gallons of nastiness into
all my workout clothes during the spinning classes I was attending in lieu of my usual
outdoor commute from the ghetto to the mainline. Even my girlfriend barely hid her
amusement, as she stifled giggles to ask, “Spinning? I thought only girls went to spinning. Don’t you feel like a pussy?” My roommates expressed similar sentiments, especially after having seen me only months earlier with one leg propped provocatively up on
the bath ledge, attempting to get that tricky spot behind the knee.
After about a full week of spinning classes, I’m here to dispel any negative associations
with the male attendees of spinning classes. First, spinning is not more flagrantly homosexual or feminine than any other form of exercise. In fact, the high female to male ratio
makes the spinning room the best place for a lonely single man to pick up an exhausted
hottie. As a bonus, girls may be too tired after an hour on the bike to react violently to
crude pick up lines, though I wouldn’t completely rule out a swift kick to the nuts. They
are lower body powerhouses, after all.
Second, even though the classes contain an inordinate number of the trendy furry
booted cult, if you follow the instructor’s workout, spinning reaches far beyond the usual
half hearted attempts at running and weightlifting exhibited by the majority of gym goers, myself included. For all of those skeptics out there, here’s a home spinning exercise
that will give you a taste of the pain we hardcore spinning champions deal with on a daily
basis without forcing you to waddle down Walnut Street (we both know you wouldn’t get
past College Buffet anyway). To begin, fashion a rough bicycle seat out of a length of two
by four cut into an eight to twelve inch section. Take a deep breath and stuff it up deep
into your ass. You should leave enough two by four sticking out so that when you sit on a
chair, you can balance the whole of your body weight on your anus. Having accomplished
this, turn up the thermostat as high as it will go, close all windows and doors, sealing
the edges with towels. Once seated, stare at a blank patch of wall and move your feet in
circles for the next hour. The next day, re-saturate your saddle with KY and repeat.
After only one simulated spinning experience, I’m sure you will agree with me that
it is in no way for the faint of heart. I know my roommates can speak from experience.
However, if you want a better version that does not involve severe posterior damage, Pottruck offers a comprehensive schedule of classes at convenient times in the morning and
night, though as per usual, the usual Penn price gouge is strictly enforced for the five dollar fee each class. However, a thirty dollar group exercise pass will pay for itself after only
six classes, a week’s worth if you are not, in fact, a pussy. Better yet, invest in man’s finest
mode of transportation and do it all year round and in the great outdoors.
Most importantly, support the brave gender pioneers of spinning, the men who refuse
to be shamed from a so-called “girly” activity. Women have good taste. They smell nice,
they look nice, their voices don’t sound like front end loaders and they routinely make
anything with a penis look stupid. The fact that many of them know and love spinning
is ample proof that it is without a doubt superior to the grunting, sphincter bursting
antics of the weight room. Men everywhere may as well accept the truth and get in on
the ground floor. Spinning, like tight jeans and pink polo shirts, is just as manly as, say,
boxing, but nobody will bite off your ear. Embrace the new and don’t be afraid if you like
it. Ditch the leg hair and get some spandex.
Christine Chen is a sophomore in Engineering. You can write to her at cachen@seas.
Andrew Pederson is a sophomore in the College. You can write to him at awl@sas.
I wear the smallest size
spandex I can find in
bright, unthinkable
combinations of colors
and spend long hours
in public looking like a
cape-less, gay superhero.
P AGE 6
J ANUAR Y 31, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 11
HOLLYWOOD SWINGS, MISSES AND
NOMINATES OSCARS
ROB FORMAN | MY 13-INCH BOX
THE OSCAR
NOMINATIONS were
announced
on
Tuesday
morning
(January 25th)
for
Sunday,
February
27th’s via live
telecast. Even
the least entertainment-minded know the
Academy Awards are the big ticket event of
the season. There are just as many Oscar
parties on campus as there are Super Bowl
parties—though I definitely think football
foods like wings and nachos top the Oscars’
ice cream and chocolate displays any day of
the week.
Let’s be honest: it’s just not that easy to
get obsessively involved with what’s going
down at the Oscars with this year’s contenders. Last year, with Return of the King’s epic
sweep, may well have been an anomaly.
While it was a great night for LOTR fans
like myself, even my mind wandered off as
the entire country of New Zealand was tediously thanked multiple times throughout
the evening. I don’t have much to complain
about—I came in second place in the Oscars
pool I participated in and won myself a DVD
copy of Pirates of the Caribbean. Free DVD,
yes, but I was one of the five people in America who didn’t like the movie. Curse you, whoever won Lost in Translation by speculating
one more correct winner than I did.
More to the point, the last few years have
included at least one über-blockbuster in the
Best Picture field. You would be hard pressed
to find anyone in America who hadn’t heard
of at least one of the nominees, be they any
of the three successive and successful LOTR
films, Chicago, A Beautiful Mind, or Moulin
Rouge. This year, the highest grossing picture is Ray at around $75-million. The others—The Aviator, Sideways, Million Dollar
Baby, and Finding Neverland—have grossed
considerably less box office revenue and almost no one outside the art-house circuit has
heard of the latter three movies. Not that I
am suggesting the Academy needs to nominate a successful or widely watched film, but
it would certainly help people get into the
awards like the entire city of Philadelphia
will be getting into Sunday’s game.
There are a myriad of successful and acclaimed movies to choose from, though most
didn’t premiere in the last quarter of the year.
Hollywood’s loss, I suppose. I know my Top
10 list this year held Spider-Man 2, Shrek 2,
and The Bourne Supremacy. Not usual Oscar fare, for certain, but they are great films
in their own rite, and they were all summer
flicks.
And what about comedies? Sideways
is charming and witty, for sure, but while
watching Alexander Payne’s film I thought
two things. One: haven’t I seen this before,
just not in wine country? Two: thank god
this is better than About Schmidt. Comedy
isn’t usually big at the Oscars, and I agree
that basically all comedies being churned out
in Hollywood aren’t great pictures. This only
helps those sparse gems stand out. I’d hate
BEST BETS
1/31 - 2/6
Rob’s TV picks for the week
Monday: 24 “Day 4: 1:00 p.m. to 2:00 p.m.” (FOX, 9 p.m.) The cat’s out of the bag, and this
season’s “Big Terrorist Plot” is hijacking the nation’s nuclear plants to instigate a nuclear holocaust. Uh… awesome? I’m guessing this isn’t the real endgame, though. Because it never
is. Still, Aisha Tyler as this year’s mole makes more sense than I expected, and I’m looking
forward to her being openly obtrusive and evil.
Tuesday: House “DNR” (FOX, 9 p.m.) The softer side of Dr. House, a.k.a. medicine’s Sherlock
Holmes for those not paying attention, becomes a lot more clear as he illegally tries to save the
life of a patient. This lands House in court—where his wisecracking will do no good. This
episode is the first creative leap for the show, as it will be reversing the usual search for a cure…
because the patient is somehow getting better anyway.
Wednesday: The State of the Union Address (ABC, CBS, FOX, NBC, 9 p.m.) I dunno where
we are, but you can bet the words “liberty” and “freedom” will pop up a few times each. Seriously, though, if you never watch TV, this is still important. Otherwise you won’t be in on the
joke on Thursday morning.
Thursday: The OC “The Second Chance” (FOX, 8 p.m.) It’s February Sweeps, Day 1! While
networks will be rolling out special programming and guest stars, I’ve chosen a nice, simple
sexploitation episode of UPenn’s favorite show. Yes, I realize it’s February 3rd, and it’s only Day
1 of sweeps. I don’t make the rules. But here’s hoping Marissa and Alex finally L-word Newport Beach up. Rachel Yamagata performs at The Peach Pit, I mean The Bait Shop.
Friday: Monk “Mr. Monk Gets Cabin Fever” (USA, 10 p.m.) So the ho-hum antics of Mr.
Adrian Monk have gotten a bit less tiresome. After one cast member was fired, I feel the show
has bounced back a bit from the creative lull since viewers have to acclimate to Monk’s new
handler. This week the Great OCD Detective witnesses a murder and has to stay in an FBI
safehouse with two less-idiosyncratic people. I’m guessing he’s going to tweak out a little.
Saturday: Saturday Night Live “Paris Hilton” (NBC, 11:29 p.m.) I’m not sure how I feel about
Lil’ Miss Heiress hosting, what with her incredible acting chops she displays over and over
again in guest stints on shows like The OC and Veronica Mars. Still, it can’t be much worse
than an unfunny Ben Affleck episode or anything hosted by an athlete. Okay, it could be much
worse, but at least it will be so bad it’s funny. Plus, Keane is the musical guest. Go Keane!
Sunday: Super Bowl XXXIX “Eagles vs. Patriots” (FOX, 6:30 p.m.) The Eagles are coming!
Finally… alright, my housemates now require me to go through about an hour’s worth of superstitious crap so I won’t jinx the thing, but here’s a tidbit for you: you don’t need to watch for
the commercials. Apparently they’ll be airing on NFL TV on Monday. Sure, PVN doesn’t get
it, but now you know. Following the game will be a long post-game, followed by a special new
The Simpsons and a preview episode of American Dad.
If You Can Only Watch One: 24. You don’t want to miss this hour.
Since I won’t be around next week due to First Call’s hiatus, keep your eyes peeled on the WB
for Gilmore Girls’ 100th episode on Tuesday, February 8th. Veronica Mars returns that same
day, and new episodes of Lost and Alias start on Wednesday, February 9th.
to think that Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, a far more original semi-comedy
than Sideways, would get snubbed because
it premiered in March rather than October.
Remember that movie? Yes, it was released
in 2004.
Just because the Academy notoriously
nominates dreary films doesn’t mean the
star-studded gala needs to be unwelcoming
because you haven’t seen any of the movies—
though they are worth seeing if you can find
them in theaters. Here’s my brief primer for
those who don’t want to spend about twelve
hours in a move theater watching the Best
Picture films.
The Aviator
Scorsese’s latest leads
all films with eleven nominations. A far better film
than Gangs of New York,
but the prolific director is
not at his peak here. This
isn’t destined to be the
classic Raging Bull, Goodfellas, and my personal alltime favorite movie Taxi
Driver became. It would
be nice for the guy to win
for Picture or Director.
The movie is a fictional
biopic about a real person,
Howard Hughes, a rich
man with a severe mental
problem who spent his money making movies and building airplanes. It’s the kind of
two-hour-plus long movie Hollywood eats
up. Even better, the movie contains some of
Hollywood’s greatest players. Cate Blanchett
as Katherine Hepburn is overwhelmingly believable in her stand-out performance. The
film’s problem is there is very little to connect
to, even during some scenes where DiCaprio
does superb work. The characters are incredibly disjointed from the common plebian like
you or me. Frankly, I kept wondering when
the movie was going to end. And then it
didn’t. Then it finally did.
Finding Neverland
The true story of how the classic story Peter Pan was created? That pretty much sums
this movie and its seven nominations up.
This is an art-house period piece not even
remotely watchable for people who don’t like
art-house movies. There are some impressive sequences and effects, melding a very
real world with the land of make-believe that
lives inside our heads. The crowning achievements of the film are the two leads’ performances. Johnny Depp was nominated, but
Kate Winslett was passed over, in favor of her
role in Eternal Sunshine. Both are deserving
performances, so I’m glad she got one.
Million Dollar Baby
This stunning tour de force from Clint
Eastwood racked up seven nominations as
well. I wasn’t the biggest fan of Mystic River,
mostly for the largely unnecessary last five
minutes, but I like Eastwood far more as a
director than as an actor. This is his best
work to date. It’s a boxing movie that isn’t
a boxing movie, in the same way Rocky was
a boxing movie thirty years ago. Depressing
and emotional as all hell, the film contains
little worthy of criticism. All three headline
actors were nominated in their categories,
and expect Hilary Swank to win for Lead Actress. The movie is dense, and at times slow,
but a re-watch makes the already fantastic
film much better.
Ray
Jamie Foxx had best prepare another acceptance speech for Lead Actor for this film,
which received six nominations. I haven’t
seen this movie, and even its Oscar nominations won’t make me jump into the theaters,
so I can’t say anything objective about it. I’m
just not a big fan of biopics, especially ones
about people I’ve already read biographies on
(versus Howard Hughes). Clearly, it’s a great
film with some fine acting. I’d love to see Foxx
win for Supporting Actor in Collateral as well,
but I don’t see that happening. Yes, that was a
horrible, insensitive, unsubtle pun.
Sideways
Poor Paul Giamatti can’t catch a break.
First he doesn’t win the Golden Globe, then
laughs about it on Saturday Night Live, and
is finally snubbed at the Oscars in favor of
Clint Eastwood. I’ve stated my opinion on
this movie above, so here’s a brief plot summary for the film with five nods. A solitary,
semi-depressed man and his complete antithesis of a freshman year roommate go on
a trip during the week before the roommate’s
wedding. Over the week, the depressed man
tries to break out of his shell, after being
prompted by the crazier of the pair. After
some mishaps, sex, and a few life-metaphors
in the form of wine bottles, the pair manage to return for the roommate’s wedding
changed. It’s not as simple as all that, but,
really, I just don’t get why critics hailed this as
amazing. It’s phenomenally acted, well written and directed, but not all that and a bag of
chips. American Independent Cinema’s finest, this year? It’s possible. I will say this film
is the easiest to get personally involved in,
with its small cast of very well defined, quirky,
human, and flawed characters.
This year won’t be quite as predictable
as the 2004 awards. I doubt I’ll be correctly
guessing twenty-two of the twenty-four categories as few, if any, are set in stone. This
isn’t a function of not having a hit in the
mix… fan-favorites have no affect on awards
outside the People’s Choice Awards. This is
all about what the industry thinks and how
much money a studio, performer, director, or
otherwise shells out in their Oscar campaign.
I know I’m rooting for Million Dollar Baby,
even though some films ranked above it on
my list. They just weren’t nominated. At
least this year’s host, Chris Rock, will make
things interesting. Let’s just thank god it’s
not Billy Crystal, Whoopi Goldberg, or Steve
Martin again.
Next year Peter Jackson will once again be
filling up the nominations with a successful
and critically hailed movie, in King Kong. I
suppose we’ll just look back at 2004 as a bad
year for movies at the Oscars. Either that, or
the past few years have been horribly misrepresentative because of Tolkein and a select
few other hits that have somehow found their
way onto the podium.
For a full list of nominees, check out http:
//www.oscar.com/nominees/nominees.html
Rob Forman is a senior in Wharton. You can write
to him at robertf@wharton.
m
s
i
l
l
a
our dose of
c
t
s
weekly wisdom
r
i
f
“LOVE THY NEIGHBOR,
BUT LOCK THY DOORS.”
GO EAGLES!
J ANUAR Y 31, 2005 | FIRST CALL | VOL . V N O . 11
P AGE 7
JAMES HOUSTON | THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS
First Call’s Weekly
Album Reviews
Alison Krauss and Union Station, Lonely Runs U2, How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb
Both Ways
When an artist
eschews the safe,
imprecise umbrellas of “pop”
and “rock” for a
style that’s actually interesting,
she risks more
than
obscurity—there’s also
the possibility
she’ll make it big
and get tagged
a
“crossover
success”. Once
this
happens,
charges of selling out become as familiar as sold-out concerts.
Such has been Alison Krauss’s lot since her metamorphosis
from bluegrass wunderkind to multiplatinum sensation in
the mid-90’s—the more she seduces casual fans, the more she
infuriates traditionalists.
Lonely Runs Both Ways, Krauss’s fifth studio album with
the dependable quartet Union Station, won’t change anyone’s
mind. Its fifteen tracks alternate polished pop with authentic roots music, held together by the band’s virtuosity and
its frontwoman’s voice—the exquisite missing link between
Chrissie Hynde and Joni Mitchell. She’s no less impressive
leaving lead vocals to guitarist Dan Tyminski or guitarist/
banjoist Ron Block and showing off her facility on fiddle and
viola.
No reason to straddle the fence—the quality of each song
is in direct proportion to the blueness of its grass. Compare
the first ten evocative seconds of “This Sad Song” with all of “A
Living Prayer”, which is just waiting to be covered by Jessica
(or, *shudder*, Ashlee) Simpson. The sparing use of percussion keeps things honest, and by keeping their hands (mostly)
out of the songwriting jar, the five musicians leave their performances unclouded by personal artistic indulgence. Even
on this record’s boring crossover confections, Krauss proves
that if she’s sold anything out over the years she has more than
enough talent to buy it all back.
Grade: B+
Awful title. Awful, terrible title.
It
symbolizes
everything bad
Bono has become—a cultural
pest who can’t
kick his addiction to “causes”.
With the Rolling
Stones mainlining
nostalgia,
half The Who
trashing
hotel
rooms in heaven,
and Coldplay still
on the brink, U2 are the only legitimate megastars in rock. It’s
probably impossible to handle this distinction gracefully, but
did that iPod commercial really have to happen?
Obviously, such excess is excusable—charming even—if the
music remains superior. Not this time. Bomb isn’t a bad album
per sé, it just feels too much like Joshua Tree leftovers. The
songs are predictably grandiose and rib-sticking: “Vertigo”, only
unbearable in the service of Apple, sounds like forty year-olds
doing a passable impression of being twenty. “Sometimes You
Can’t Make it on Your Own” overcomes its sentimentality with
a passable melody, and for a moment on the best track, “City
of Blinding Lights”, U2 remind us of when they really were the
greatest band in the world. The mere existence of a song called
“Yahweh” should convey the gist of the lyrics.
When rock finally calls it quits and the “greatest ever”
awards are handed out, Bono will be a front-runner for the vocalist prize and, if there’s any justice, The Edge will at least get
an honorable mention for guitar. Tremendous natural talent
is necessary for a band to do as commercially and artistically
well as U2. But, although their popularity shows no signs of
declining, their best music appears to be in their past. A new act
would be lucky to make an album like Bomb, but the band with
the largest audience in the world needs to do better.
Grade: C+
James Houston is a senior in the College. You can write to him at
jhouston@sas.
Neil Young, Greatest Hits
When we judge
a greatest hits
album, are we
considering
the quality of
the
selection
or the songs
themselves? On
Greatest
Hits,
Neil
Young
washes his hands
of any blame for
the track choices
by using the
objective criteria
of sales, airplay,
and “known download history”—which is probably a good
thing considering how often he changes his mind (remember
his electronica album? Didn’t think so).
Assuming we sort Springsteen into a different pile, Young
is the only troubadour within striking distance of Dylan, and
at his very best he achieves a sublime emotional depth unrivaled even by His Bobness. Greatest Hits begins with the
epic jam-band blueprints “Down by the River” and “Cowgirl
in the Sand” from the 1969 album Everybody Knows This Is
Nowhere and ends with 1991’s tender “Harvest Moon”. In between are thirteen of his best-known compositions: “Heart of
Gold”, “Southern Man”, “The Needle and the Damage Done”,
and “Cinnamon Girl”, which features the greatest one-note
guitar solo ever. Despite some unfortunate omissions (yeah, I
know, popularity-based selections), this is as comprehensive a
document of Young’s genius as we’re ever likely to get.
There’s something wrong here. While any diehard fan insists their hero must be heard live to be fully appreciated, there
is a glaring difference between Young’s studio cuts and stage
performances. Live, “After The Gold Rush” is majestic—here,
it’s wimpy. Solo, “Comes a Time” is heartrending—here, it’s
countrified nonsense. Perhaps by including an excellent live
version of “Hey Hey, My My” (the song Kurt Cobain famously
quoted in his suicide note), Young wants us to figure this out
for ourselves. Though Greatest Hits is worthwhile for the
great songs he rarely played on stage, 1979’s Live Rust is a better album that accomplishes the same thing.
Grade: B-
SEXUAL VIOLENCE
Continued from PAGE 1
Tragically, men who have suffered sexual assault discuss
their experience even less often than women. Part of their
reluctance to come forward possibly stems from the general attitude of society regarding sexual violence against men.
First, there is the myth that men only get raped in prison,
but not in the real world. This viewpoint is patently false.
In reality, too many gay men are the victims of date-rape,
too many heterosexual men the victims of sexual violence
from other straight men who commit this crime for no
other reason than because they can.
According to the 2002 National Crime Victimization
Survey, more than one in eight survivors of rape in the U.S.
are men. Yet few of these men discuss their ordeal, even
with close friends and family. Instead, they are left thinking
they are anomalies in society, and feel shame that they ‘let’
themselves be assaulted by another man. For homosexual
men in particular, we face a world that assumes there is
never a time one gay man says ‘no’ to sex from another
man, and means it.
Even more disturbing is the fact that many find the idea
of rape amusing. Far too often, in movies, on television,
and even from people around campus, I hear how someone
deserves what they get then they go to prison, and jokes
about “dropping the soap.”
Without society even realizing it, we have all woken up
in a world in which sexual violence is acceptable to joke
about, and even to use as punishment. It’s not uncommon
for some to believe the punishment for a young man stealing a car should be not only serving several years in prison,
but also being repeatedly raped while in the custody of the
government. Haha...funny, no?
As a result of everything I’ve mentioned, a culture of silence has ensued, leaving those who have been raped feeling
unable to discuss their experience. They become victimized
twice, once by their assailant, and once by a society, or even
a student body, that turns a deaf, ignorant ear to them.
If we ever hope to decrease the sexual violence that too
many people at Penn and college campuses around the nation experience, our attitudes must change. Remember the
statistics I mentioned earlier? The eighteen year old Penn
freshman sexually assaulted last week; she is more than a
stat. The 23 year old woman raped by former Penn professor Tracy McIntosh; she is not just a number. The multiple
Penn students I have encountered who have told me of
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their experiences; they are more than fodder for some government report.
And for the record, I, a 22 year old gay man at Penn, can
definitely say ‘no’ to sex and expect to be believed, despite
what one fellow student thought and wanted.
We can all fall for the mistake of viewing others we
know little about as the mere shell of a person. After all,
we have ourselves to deal with, and that seems more than
enough at times. I fear, though, that as long as ignorance of
rape prevails, and we avoid discussing its place in our society and on our campus, we will never realize how, unlike
the so many ghosts I alluded to before, what happens to
one of us reaches out to all. Sexual violence can be stopped,
but before this can happen, we must all first change our attitudes and allow the issue to be addressed in the way it so
desperately requires.
Michael Patterson is a senior in the College. You can write to him at
mjp2@seas.
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THE UNDERGRADUATE MAGAZINE | J ANUAR Y 31, 2005 VOL . V N O . 11
JUST DO IT
BY THUY TRAN
EVERY ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIP should end like a
Scooby Doo episode where the gang discovers the culprit
behind all the problems and he or she is duly apprehended.
Then the entire Scooby Gang hops into the van and smokes a
doobie. Unfortunately, not every relationship ends with a lucid understanding of what went wrong and break-up sex. You
have heard all kinds of explanations: “We
have nothing in common,” “the spark is
gone,” or “I’ve been screwing your mom for
two years.” Believe me— it sucks. All that
stuff about loving you forever and growing
old together was just lies. One minute you
and your honey are having ravaging sex;
the next, you are a lonely soldier traversing
the precarious field of love. Not surprising,
many struggle to acclimatize to Singleville.
You wrathfully exclaimed, “F#%*!NG Cupid, that fag in diapers! Why doesn’t he
watch where he’s shooting those arrows?”
Nobody says life is easy after a breakup. You try all sorts of things to pull yourself together and bounce back to the dating
scene. Many look for a form of distraction
to recover from a terrible breakup by going
out to a local pub and enjoying a frothy
beverage. Of course, such gallivanting
about campus is not limited to fraternizing with your brothers
or watching the Eagles slaughter the Falcons. You’re surveying the booths and streets, hoping to meet the girl of your
dreams, so to speak. Time is ticking and still no luck.
Then she walks in, strutting about the pub with an entourage of male admirers who stalk her. She ostentatiously sports
the Greek letters embroidered on her sweater and cap. She’s
the nymphet whom your “just-waiting-for tenure” professor
always grins at before commencing lecture. She is the kind of
girl you want to bring home to mom. Oh yeah, now is a perfect
opportunity to ask her out. Come on, offer her a drink! Ask for
her phone number! An hour later, however, you’re still sitting
alone because you never worked up the nerve to approach the
dream girl.
Okay, back to reality. Sometimes you have to seek the love
of someone, even if that means having to hear the word "no,"
returning home defeated and feeling rejected in body and
soul. However, in reality, few choose to gamble in this game
called love. Instead, we approach dating as a vehicle to apply
Nash equilibrium strategies. Even worse, we dwell over the
possibilities or fear that that we will lose a fragment of our
pride after someone honestly expressed their lack of interest.
I say, screw pride. We can all live without pride for one day,
right? It’s not the end of the world.
Suppose you and your so-call Dream Girl make oh-sodiscreet eye contact in your history class. You finally work up
the nerve to accost her fearlessly
and invite her to join you to a
lovely evening at Cosi. At Cosi,
you engage in a conversation
about the hegemony of America,
Bush’s meager brain, cats, and
aspirations. You fall devastatingly in love with her.
You
convince yourself that this is the
one. Alright, maybe you are getting ahead of yourself. While no
one can foresee what lies ahead
in the bumpy ride of love, at least
you didn’t miss an opportunity at what might be something
more than an ephemeral infatuation.
Of course, that’s just one outcome. For all I know, you
might face rejection and you will subsequently cower pathetically in the corner of your room and weep hysterically. The
embarrassment traumatizes and discourages you from approaching another girl the rest of your life. Pish posh— don’t
be silly. Never be intimidated by silence, indifference, or rejection. Don’t abandon hopes, even if you’re socially handicapped
at the art of wooing. I mean, at least you took a risk. Moreover,
relationships don’t fall from the sky and land in your lap. Instead, it’s requires some courage, charisma, and sincerity on
your part. Remember while fate is responsible for 90% of a
new relationship, the other 10% depends on whether or not
you have the courage to foster a promising relationship.
I realize that it’s difficult to convert words into action.
Rejection is one of the worst feelings in the world. The possibility of parting ways with someone whom you dated and
loved is devastating. Still, there’s no logical justification to why
you can’t muster the words to ask someone out. You like this
person, right? Then go for it.
Nevertheless, if you’re still a coward lest another soul will
break your fragile heart, just think of dating as a process of
elimination. It’s a screening process, like the Brita filter of romance. With each bad date, we become smarter and become
more aware of what we want. How else are you going to figure
out who you want to be with and what you're really looking
for except through trial, error, and experience? The values we
held in our significant other when we were fifteen are not what
we want today, and in turn may not be what we want several
years from now. This maturation comes from dating enough
frat boys, bimbos, and pretentious intellectuals to realize that
their appeal actually has its limits.
With that said, should you surrender to fear and run away
from the mine field of love, hoping to escape unscathed? At
the first sign of doubt, should you strategize and calculate
the probability of success on whether or not Sorority Girl X
or Dickhead Y would date you? Absolutely not. Dating experts, books, and Oprah aren’t going to help you find your way
around Singleville. Instead, there is nothing to fear. Even if
you have experienced pain from wounds of a past love, never
lock your heart in a cage where you can safeguard it 24/7.
Never give in to fear when you’re searching for something you
want.
Thuy Tran is a junior in the College. You can write to her at
thuytran@sas.
GUILT YOU INTO IT
If you’re a good person, read this article
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
EVERY
SO
OFTEN, I’ll be
minding
my
own business,
and suddenly
someone will
make
me
wonder, once
again, if all
humans
inhabit the same
planet. Most recently, I was advised to
buy a family member a “cancer awareness
bracelet” in honor of a relative who succumbed to the disease many years ago.
Readers may think I am talking about the
simple, yellow “Live Strong” bracelets, but
alas, a whole new species of knowledgepromoting jewelry has emerged.
The
particular bracelets in question are sold
at www.heatherfolgert.com. While these
bracelets are aesthetically pleasing, the idea
behind them baffles me. Folgert sells bracelets that supposedly promote awareness for
different cancers. Each cancer possesses its
own bracelet, which is distinguished by the
color of the bracelet’s stones (Colon cancer,
for example, is brown). The bracelets are
moderately priced at about $75 apiece, and
the website pledges to donate 15% of profits
to some sort of cancer society.
I cannot imagine why anyone would
think such a bracelet is an appropriate gift
for another person. The remembrance of a
loved one can only be trivialized by buying
a bracelet whose stones match the diseased
organ’s attributes. In addition, it cannot be
pleasant to use a piece of jewelry as a conversation starter, when the subject is a loved
one’s passing. To add insult to injury, this
jeweler is profiting from selling these gestures of misconstrued sentimentality to her
misguided customer base. The Livestrong
bracelets at least are not-for-profit, and
they are much less personalized. Needless
to say, despite some pressure, I decided
fairly quickly against buying such a gift.
While this story is probably unique, it is
an example of a widespread phenomenon
in our culture: the unwillingness to face
the reality of tragedy, and the replacement
of such feelings with superficial actions.
When I was watching coverage of the tsunami, in Winter Break-induced oblivion,
the high proportion of stories of miraculous recovery almost succeeded in causing
my abandonment of thoughts about the
150,000 people who did not hold onto a
tree for nine days and make the news. A
sprinkling of such uplifting stories makes
it easier for people to tune into the news
everyday without being burdened with
too much sadness. However, when these
uncommonly happy stories take up a disproportionate amount of broadcast time,
it is difficult not to believe the truth’s bitter
taste is being sweetened with something
highly artificial.
In some circumstances, such sweetening can help people cope with difficult
times. For example, making an effort to be
a little bit kinder to someone who has just
gone through a tragic event is advisable. In
addition, fundraisers are a great way to help
raise awareness and money for a cause, and
I especially admire the clubs who organized
tsunami relief fundraisers in the first weeks
of school. Problems merely arise when an
event is distorted, or people try to profit
off a disease with something as absurd as
“awareness bracelets.”
What is most frustrating about products such as “awareness bracelets” is that
their very names place some sort of moral
obligation on potential consumers. Not
being interested in an “awareness bracelet”
is like rejecting a very righteous movement
of people who are supposedly “aware” of
something important. As a Wharton student who has faced the throes of MKTG
101, I recognize the need for marketers to
try to sell a product or a brand in whatever way possible. I am as entertained as
the next person when advertisers perform
outrageous stunts, like staging a soccer
game on a ten-story high billboard. When
companies divide up their product in such
a way that the consumer must buy endless
add-ons, I understand that they are trying
to make as much profit as possible. However, I do not respect companies who take a
moral high ground to promote their product, especially when the premise is shaky, as
it certainly is in this case.
Charities and other organizations may
use this approach. I am certain that for
the rest of our lives, we will receive frequent
phone calls from fellow alums, who will ask
us to give back to Penn. However, at least
when we are middle-aged and interrupted
at dinner, these phone calls will provide us
with the opportunity to remember the good
old days at the U of P, when our parents
only shelled out a scant $40-grand per year.
In all seriousness, though, Penn will have
provided us with a service valued by anyone
who has attended. Legitimate charities also
may need to use guilt as a tactic to extract
donations. However, at least in these circumstances, one’s money actually is going
to an important cause.
Therefore, to all of you who aspire to
market a product: market your product
with a moral exhortation only if circumstances are appropriate. Generally, if there
is profit to be found, toying with your
target’s unpleasant emotions is not an optimal plan.
Lauren Saul is a sophomore dualing in the
WHollege. You can write to her at lcsaul@wharton.