The Underground Devil

SORRY WE'VE MOVED

2006-07-12T14:06:00.000-05:00

http://undergrounddevil.wordpress.com

see ya there!

College is Turning Me into a Pretentious Snob, and I Like It

2006-07-12T13:50:00.000-05:00

When I was but a wee 8th grader, my parents took my brother and me to Paris for Spring Break. My mother and father appreciated everything, my brother appreciated the availability of crepes at midnight, and I appreciated jack. (Sorry, Mom.) We wandered through the halls of hallowed art museums in our non-tourist, completely polite American clothes staring at walls filled with artwork. The Musee D'Orsay, The Louvre. I recall seeing the Mona Lisa. And a naked lady in a shell. A naked lady with a huge ass.

Five years after that underappreciated trip to the City of Lights, I began the new chapter of my life called "Small Liberal Arts College". My english courses built up my feeling of superiority, which was then knocked down a few pegs by my science and language courses. My college radio show then fueled the fire for my ego, as I constantly proved to myself that yes, I do have better taste in music than you. And everyone you know. But what would be the one topic that could catapault me over the bar for "Sophisticated, Pretentious, Knowledgeable College Student?" C'est simple! Art & Art History 102: Introduction to Art History.

Every other day I sat in a lecture hall kept at Arctic temperatures and endured over 600 slides of great works of art. (Why they kept the temperature quite so frigid and dry was beyond me, as there were no actual works of art to be protected. Just poor photographs of them.) I memorized dates, and periods, and names, and paintings until I dreamed of Carvaggio. I wrote a paper comparing paintings. I flipped through the exorbitantly priced textbook, breathing in its acrid scent and running my fingers over the glossy pages.

Occasionally, I paid attention in class.

My complete determination to bullshit my way through what was quite possibly the easiest class known to man paid off. With a B+ average on proud display, and a 15 lb textbook to carry home, I tossed my hair, and smirked with my superiority.

Seeing paintings in films, I could correctly identify the artist and the work of art. Even the time period. Most recently, in the horrificly written though admittedly exciting novel The Da Vinci Code, I am proud to say I pick up on the importance of the paintings far more impotant than the philistines of the world. When it was mentioned a charcter wished to purchase a Boucher for his home, I laughed aloud, knowing that only people with very little taste purchase Bouchers for anything other than collection. I understood the great horror of seeing a Carvaggio on the floor.

All these verifications of my clear superiority put a smile on my face. Deep down inside, I enjoy knowing that I am better than you.

And that painting of the lady with the posterior is Boticelli's "Birth of Venus".

And I'm really not better than you, but I like to think so, anyway.

Loathe Though I am to Quote Billy Joel I'm "Movin' Out!"

2006-07-12T13:30:00.000-05:00

Ladies and gents, my time here with blogger has come to a close.

Farewell.

No, just kidding. I had you scared there for a second though. I am however, moving sites.
You can now find this incredibly attractive and cynical college student at
http://undergrounddevil.wordpress.com

It's a tricky switch, I know, but bare with me.

Just in case you forget, I'll be posting identical posts on both pages for a while. With a note that you really shouldn't be reading the post on blogger.

See you there, kiddies.

Physical Therapy, Early Mornings, and Jesus

2006-07-12T10:18:00.000-05:00

For those of you better aquainted with my personal life, as of recently I've had problems with my shoulder. First, I went to my primary physician, who sent me to an orthopedist, who sent me to a physical therapist. (A word for physical therapists - they are 10 times smarter than the orthopedist.) This morning, at the lovely late hour of 7 AM, I had my second phyiscal therapy appointment.

I had a different therapist than my first visit, due to tight scheduling, and I expected her to do what the first had - force me to move my right arm in various shoulder crackingly painful positions and then say, "Oh, does that hurt?" Today, I was happily surprised. The therapist lay me out on one of the beds and placed her hand on my shoulder. Hardly any pressure. She held it there for a moment. I waited for something to happen. "Yep," she said "I can feel a lot of displacement in here." "What??" I exclaimed, surprised."You can feel displacement just from touching my shoulder? Oh man, that's so cool." She smiled. I thought for a second. "Wait," I said, "What is displacement?"

Prior appointments and doctors had not given me very definitive answers in the Seriously Guys, What the Hell is Wrong With Me category, but this lady, whoooo boy, she knew her stuff. She moved her hand around my shoulder and back, very lightly, applying slight pressure. "How does the top of your hand feel?" she'd say, and then I'd feel a tingling sensation on the top of my hand. "How do you do that??" I asked incredulously. "Well," she said "I can feel the muscle response a few seconds before you."

She explained in far more simple terms that not only do I have muscle issues, I have nerve issues. Pinched nerve issues. Loose ligament issues. And tracking issues? Apparently, my shoulder joint connection isn't in the right place. Which explains why the shoulder bone itself is pushed forward. But back to my story.

We talked, she asked me about my life, about school, and we discussed our favorite books. I divulged that I was an English major with a passion for all things literary. She continued moving her hand around my shoulder, causing tingling sensations down my arm, back, and up my neck (where all my muscle damage lies). It feels like when you hit your funny bone, only all over. And not painful, but relieving. I asked her how exactly she was able to perform such a feat, because "I'm giving you two very enthusiastic thumbs up". She asked me if I had any science background, a question I responded to with a hearty chuckle, and then went on to explain something about nerve brain connections with the spinal column and shortening things. Basically, it didn't explain anything. "So," I said, "What you're basically saying to me, is that with my English major's leaning towards the fantastic, what you're doing is magic." She smiled.

That got me to thinking. Apparently, these fantastic feats can be taught in a school. And smart people can make my boo boos feel tingly with a light pressure on a certain point. Which is kind of dissapointing if I really was one to believe in magic. Which I'm not. But anyway, like I was saying, this kind of thing is purely muscle related, and knowledge of this must date back. Waaay back. Back somewhere right after dinosaurs walked the earth but before Jesus. Because there were always healers. So if Jesus, and others, were faith healers, isn't my phsyical therapist doing the same thing? So in a really obscure way, isn't my physical therapist a bit like Jesus? Of course, this is purely blasphemous conjecture from a nonpracticing Jew, but it sure is fun to talk about Jesus.

But still. I think my phsyical therapist could give Jesus a good run for his money.

Also, if I wasn't Jewish, I'd absolutely be going to hell for this post. Thankfully, Jews have the good sense not to believe in enternal damnation and hellfire. Jewish mothers take care of that kind of suffering in life. (Dear Mom, please don't kill me. I was making a general statement.)

(An afterthought: I really need to finish reading The Da Vinci Code, the most poorly written page turner of all time, just so I can stop thinking about Jesus. Thanks Dan Brown, really, thanks. You big jerk. GET OUT OF MY HEAD)

Communications with Greatness and Spoons

2006-07-11T11:02:00.000-05:00

I used to hear things in my Rice Krispies. You know, the commericals tell you that the snaps and crackles and pops are actually things you can hear. At least they did, back in the 90s. Now, I don't know what twisted mind sent my ear to my bowl of milky puffed rice, but down I went. And overactive imagination that I had (or was it severe psychosis?) dammit, I heard messages in my Rice Krispies. Usually it was things like "I love you, Mom!" or "Garkdarewadsfeiaackdaee" but I listened intently nonetheless. I'm sure had I been eating Alphabits my delusions could have been slightly more visual, but my special moments with my Rice Krispies were the start of a long journey of messages in my food.

As I got older, I saw shapes in the schnitzel (breaded chicken cutlets) that my mom makes oh so well. I still do. Usually, I saw whales, or rabbits, or mice, but sometimes I saw far more important animals like lions and bears. (Truth be told, I still see shapes in my schnitzel. Psychosis? Overactive imagination? Someone needs to clue me in here.)

Today, I opened a piece of chocolate at work, popped it in my mouth and saw the message "Sing Along to the Music in the Elevator". I surprised myself. I had never had such an intelligent audio/visual message in my food. And then, then I realized it was just an inspirational message written inside the wrapper. Thanks, Dove Milk Chocolate, I appreciate your support in my musical endeavors. Maybe, next time I sing along to the jazz muzak, a huge Hollywood agent will be in the elevator. Maybe, he'll be so taken by my singing he'll punch me in the face to get me to shut up. And the fellow elevator passengers would applaud him and shake his hand for ending their suffering. Seriously Dove Chocolate, are you trying to piss off innocent elevator riders? Eager for more fodder for insults, I took another piece of chocolate. Inside the wrapper was written, "Follow Your Instincts". Follow my instincts? No shit, Dove. I'm really glad you're able to come up with such amazingly original "PROM ISES Message". Following my instincts made me take that second piece of chocolate and look how amazingly dissapointing that was. Stop force feeding me my communication with my food.

And someone get me a bowl of Rice Krispies, stat.

The Older I Get the More Fun it is to Mock My Parents

2006-07-09T19:34:00.000-05:00

This past weekend, my parents went away to Vermont, leaving me to fend for myself. This same weekend, my friend from school took a train into visit me. Today, my parents returned from Vermont and we all went out to dinner.

My dad said to me, "After we left, I realized I left you no alcohol in case you wanted to drink with your friend."

My mom said to me, "After we left, I realized I left you no money in case you needed it."

Thanks guys, really. I'm so glad I'm that forefront in your minds. Really. I love you, too.

Holy Schnikeys, How Cool am I?

2006-07-06T19:52:00.000-05:00

The crossword clue was "A russian authors mark on his to-do list."

I thought about it for a moment.

Lightbulb moment.

Chekov's Check off = Checkovscheckoff

Will Shortz, you are the best, I love you, the NY Times crossword puzzles, being pretentions, and I can't wait to see your movie.

Tales of Great Beantown

2006-07-06T19:34:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a young cynical college student. She spent all her money to visit another young, equally as cynical college student in Boston for her birthday. Not much can be written about the party itself, to protect all parties involved, but in going through crime scene photos, a this-describes-everything photo was discovered. And will now be shared with you, the blogging public. Enjoy.

I Hate People That _____ : Part 1

2006-07-06T19:20:00.000-05:00

According to my mother, I have a lot of hate. I can see that, after all, I'm 18. Is this not the age at which I'm supposed to hate the world and everyone in it? I mean, if I started loving the world, there would be quite a few raised eyebrows. ("What? A teenager? Being pleasant? Quick call the Scientologists, aliens are on this planet!") And besides, I'm only 18 for a few more months, I'm going to enjoy my completely baseless and irrelevant hatred for as long as I can. Without actually harming anyone, of course.

So, seeing as I have a lot of hatred, I'm going to take this opportunity to lash out at a few individuals or groups of people who, in my humble, baseless, irrelevant opinion, should be shipped of to a remote island where I don't need to see them anymore. Of course they'll be provided for and very happy, just not near me.

Let's begin, shall we?

I hate people that say the same thing, every time you pass them in the office. Every. Single. Time. The front desk of the station is situated right next to the room in which I work every day. So, everytime I walk out of the room (which is quite frequently) I have a conversation with this woman.

When she walks in every morning...
Hi Sarah, how are you, I'm wonderful thank you and yourself, I'm fine thank you.
When she walks into my room...
Hi Sarah, how are you feeling, fine thank you, that's good, yep.
When I pass her in the hallway...
Well Hello, Sarah, how is everything, it's great, thanks and you, good good!

And that's just the first hour at work.

I had no idea there were so many different ways to say the exact same thing. I mean this woman needs a bland greetings thesaurus named after her. For the love of God, come up with something unique to say. Ask me about the weather. Ask me if I prefer Jif or Skippy peanut butter, but dammit, seeing as we surmised the first 12 times that we are both just dandy, stop asking me how I am!

Thank you.

A Short Note

2006-07-06T19:12:00.000-05:00

The next time someone tells me I look like I'm 15 is getting punched. Hard.
Right in the face.

When I turn 21, people are going to think my legal ID is fake, I just know it.

The Trifecta of Cool that is My Mom

2006-07-05T10:46:00.000-05:00

Some quick background information: My mom is on crutches. I'm having painful shoulder issues.

1. At the movie theater:

"Hey Sarah, do you want to go over to the handicap seats and stare at the people who don't need them?"

2. Regarding my shoulder 1:

Mom: "How's your shoulder feeling?"
Sarah: "Get me a hacksaw, it's coming off."
Mom: "I'd suggest something sharper. It would make a cleaner, easier cut, and could be re-attached more easily."

3. Regarding my shoulder 2; at the family picnic:

Sarah: "I took the painkiller and it still hurts a lot."
Mom: "Did you have a beer yet?"
Sarah: "Yes, one."
Mom: "Have another, it will make you feel better."

This is Not a Political Message

2006-07-05T10:37:00.000-05:00

I think Ann Coulter is anorexic.

And anorexic and butt ugly is not a good combination.

Someone get that woman a bucket full of fried chicken, so when she's done eating she can cover her head.

Tales of Retail Horror: Chapter 3

2006-06-29T11:57:00.000-05:00

When I was a little girl, I had a Barbie doll or two. I wasn’t sickly fascinated by her triangular torpedo breasts or her slim waist, or her tiny pointy feet that wouldn’t say in the miniscule molded plastic pumps. I was most fascinated with her face and hair. Ignoring my Barbie’s untimely stylistic death by kiddie scissors, wielded by an overcurious 8 year old, she was perfect. Barbie had a perfect heart shaped face, crystalline blue eyes, and bright pink lips molded perfectly into a smile over her line of white teeth. (At the time, I hadn’t realized that color was not actually found in nature.) Looking back, as a pasty pale, gray-eyed, curly-haired brunette, I suppose I can understand the appeal of Barbie. How the prettiest girls in school had the same perfect blonde hair and blue eyes and heart shaped faces. And I wanted so desperately to be like them. That need still existed to some degree, after spending 2 semesters sitting across from the most stunningly beautiful girl I’ve seen in my life.

But when I started working in a retail haven for the wealthy and bored wives of Connecticut that started to change. Every day, women over the age of 40 teeter anorexically into the store, asking do I please, please have a size 0 I can find for them? They tug their extra small halters over their shoulders, exposing faces full of icy disdain. And maybe they really are icily disdainful women, but in most cases, I think it’s because they’ve Botoxed their faces out of commission. They still fit the Barbie image, though most have enhanced it through their years of being married to their wealthy husbands. (In my defense, I have nothing against marrying wealthy. I’ve been told to marry a nice Jewish doctor for years.) Their busts are pert, and frighteningly round, their faces tanned to the exact same shades. Their blonde highlights are identical, and the flick of their wrists as they lay down their AmExes has clearly been practiced.

And I was jealous of Barbie? In a town full of women that look like Barbies who have been left in the toaster oven for a few minutes too long, my self-confidence has both dissapeared and skyrocketed. More the latter in the past few days. I am happy to share with you I am 5’0” tall. I weigh 115 pounds. I wear a size 4. When I'm happy, my nose crinkles, and when I cry, my mascara runs. I have scars and bruises all over resulting from years of klutziness. When I turn 40, I hope everyone of my wrinkles tells a story. I have pale skin, gray eyes, and brown hair.

And I am far more beautiful than any Barbie I’ve seen.

I'm Smarter Than You! (Kinda...)

2006-06-27T09:57:00.000-05:00

I have a great many hobbies and pastimes to keep myself entertained. When it comes time to impress, I whip out a favorite pastime of mine, crossword puzzles.

“Oh, you do crossword puzzles?” the to-be-impressed party will say.

“Why yes, I do. I love doing crossword puzzles.” I’ll reply demurely.

“Not the New York Times crossword puzzles!” They’ll say, a note of being-impressed in their voices.

“Actually, I have a few NY Times crossword puzzles that I completed hanging in my cubicle!” I’ll reply, faintly boastful.

“Really! That’s great! Have you ever finished a Sunday?” They’ll ask, clearly impressed.

“I’ve never finished a Tuesday.” I’ll say, a broad smile on my face, tossing my bangs out of my eyes, hoping in vain my pearly white and theatrics will distract them from my answer.

It never does. It never does.

My Passage to Adulthood

2006-06-27T09:34:00.000-05:00

Every culture in every country in every part of this world has some sort of tradition that brings a child into adulthood. In some countries it’s ritualistic tattooing, in others it is being bathed in corn seeds, and in others its confirmation. Technically, according to my Jewish heritage, I passed into adulthood on Friday, December 29, 2000 at my Bat Mitzvah. In my personal opinion, I passed into adulthood Monday, June 13, 2006.

This morning was marked by the acquisition through trial and error of an important life skill. This bright spring morning, I learned how to use a coffee maker.

My father was out of town, and my mother recovering from surgery, thus leaving me to forage desperately for myself, and to prepare breakfast for my grandfather. Seeing as I’d spent a full year being fed by unhappy looking people in red dining hall uniforms, fending for myself was not an idea with which I was accustomed. Still, I put on a brave face, and cheerily went to set up the table. I had prepared everything perfectly, except for one, daunting task. Making coffee. My mother had told me simply: Put in the filter, the coffee grinds, then fill the coffee pot with water to the silver line, and add that water to the coffee maker. I was thrilled that it was so simple; any more would have surpassed my capacity for understanding. So, I put in the filter. I added the coffee. I filled the pot with water. And I poured the water in.

Directly into the filter.

“[Egads]*!”, I exclaimed, as the water rapidly fell through to the bottom of the coffee maker. I was at an impasse. I held the rapidly emptying coffee pot above the coffee maker as water gushed through the filter. Finally, in all my infinite intelligence, I thought, “Cleanliness be damned!” and placed the coffee pot back into the coffee maker. But it was too late.

Brown diluted sick looking water had puddle up at the bottom of the machine and all over the counter. I looked stealthily around me, sure that my mother had seen my mistake through a secret hole in the floor, and was laughing at me. I sheepishly wiped up my mess. Tail between my legs, I crept upstairs, and said quietly, “Mom, I think I broke the coffee maker.”

She inquired as to why I believed this, and after my brief explanation, she stared at me in disbelief. “Sarah,” she said shaking her head, “Sarah, you are supposed to put the water in the well on the side of the coffee machine. The triangle. With the numbers inside it.”

In my defense, I am much too short to see that well from the proper angle, but really, the answer seemed so obvious. Had I really thought the water would magically stay in the filter until the machine had turned on? Yes, yes dear readers, I had.

In my great aversion towards coffee and tea, I have found that hot chocolate requires no more preparation that heaping spoonfuls of cocoa powder and hot water. Coffee on the other hand, coffee requires a filter, and a well, and common sense.

And common sense, who uses that anymore, anyway?

*Actual phrase uttered has been replaced to preserve blogger’s dignity.

Quoting My Dad

2006-06-01T22:06:00.000-05:00

"So you're in this ocean, and there are some really fucked up fish..." - My Dad describing a situation at the place I work with some unkind folks.

Tales of Retail Horror: Part 2

2006-06-01T14:49:00.000-05:00

In 5th grade, the boys and girls of every classroom were split up and taught about puberty and the human anatomy. In middle school, the boys (and girls) discovered the Victoria's Secret catalog. In high school, our burgeoning, sponge-like minds discovered pornography. With these ample educational supplies available to us, one would think that all lessons in the female anatomy would be complete.

This assumption is clearly the sign of a feeble mind that has not worked in women's clothing retail. Exposed mainly to the leggy, lean and curvy, buxom women that cover our magazines and television sets, the concept of unpleasant visuals on the human body was completely foreign to my naive eighteen year-old-mind. That is, of course, until I started working in the wardrobing (dressing) rooms at work.

There are two ways I was so brutally exposed to these unpleasantries. Let's take a dive into those, shall we?

Number 1: You may be tan, blonde, and insanely stacked, but would you kindly wait until I leave the dressing room to remove your shirt?
I have already written about this particular woman in my first chapter on retail horror, but I feel it needs revisiting. I'm thrilled for you, ma'am, that you are so comfortable with your body. Women and girls across the world would kill for that self-confidence. So I applaud your self confidence. Unfortunately, not all of us are a. comfortable with our own bodies or b. comfortable seeing your chubby belly. Understandable, ma'am, you are were in a rush, but the 2 seconds it would have taken me to back out and shut the door would hardly have detracted from your fancy dinner plans. So, as a general tip, to everyone, some of your sales associates are prudes, and don't want to see you naked. Shocking as that may seem Ms. BlondeTanWealthy, not everyone wants to see you naked.

Number 2: The accidental nipslip.
The title of this section is no even remotely as sexy as it sounds. (Assuming you're into TiVoing nipples during large sporting events.) But not all the women who frequent the store in which I work are blessed with perfect points, if you will. An admittedly thin and well muscled middle aged woman came into the store looking for an outfit for a dinner at a country club. (That night). She was in a terrible rush, and was also terribly fickle. So for a period of time, I dashed from the floor to the wardrobing room and back handing the woman shirts and sweaters through a half open door. She bent over, her perfect flat, size 2 abs evident. But then, I saw it. In the rapid change, a certain undergarment, and a certain item had decided to breathe the fresh air. And it was not normal. And by normal, I mean the Victoria's Secret's standards to which I am accustomed. However, there is only so much a girl can take. And that, unusual item, tipped the scale. So Ms. OldLadywithahotBody please, for the love of everything good in this world, just wear the right bra when trying on clothes.

Next chapter in Tales of Retail Horror, we shall address women who overstay their welcome.

J'adore CT

2006-06-01T13:48:00.000-05:00

It's rained a few times since I have returned home from school. That warm, sticky rain that can't decide if it wants to drizzle or downpour, so it sticks somewhere in between. I despise rain like that. Because there's so much power in nature that you want to see some display of it. That's why I love thunderstorms. I'm sitting crosslegged on the floor right now on an upstairs floor in the house, in front of a large picture window, and I'm watching the rain fall. The thunder is literally right above the house. It's raining so hard you can no longer see drops on the window, but just steady streams covering the entire thing.

Thunderstorms aren't really anything more than nature, but with my new English major knowledge, I'm going to have to go ahead and analyze it a bit. Thunderstorms are the reminder that there is still force and power and glory in nature. That no matter what man does, nothing can prevent a lightning bolt from striking. Even in the most hum-drum moments, the most painfully stressful moments, those points in life when it feels like gravity weighs especially heavy on you and the walls are closing in, the thunder comes and the world is suddenly a much bigger place. It's a cool down, for nature and for the soul.

Borders is a Learning Experience

2006-05-27T10:23:00.000-05:00

Nonchalant Non Sequitors (aka My Father Has Forbidden Me from Blogging About Work and Thus I Have Nothing of Interest to Share)

2006-05-27T10:14:00.000-05:00

1. The World Loves Me: Seriously, I'm not kidding. I had a meeting with the Director of Sales Affiliates and she said to me, "You just seem so cool." I thanked her, but corrected her mistake. I may dress damn well but I'm a nerd through and through. Otherwise I wouldn't spend my summer working that hard for no pay. Although I might have. I really do like it.

2. Thank You For Smoking: Is an amazing movie. Aaaron Eckhart plays the smooth-talking asshole perfectly. The points the film makes, and the manner in which it makes them, makes one leave the theater not only laughing, but seriously contemplating the manner in which we as a nation receive our information. The single weak component in this movie is Katie Holmes. Seriously, she needs to stop existing. For the good of humanity.

3. Cherry Now and Laters: It's like a taste explosion in my mouth.

4. Paste Magazine's 100 Greatest LIVING Songwriters: Call me crazy, but I would have put Paul Simon and Jackson Browne in the top 5. And I stil stand firm in my belief that Bruce Springsteen is overrated. And Ray Davies deserved top 10, easily. Who are these people at Paste Magazine, and why is Stevie Wonder ranked better than Carole King? Just wait until I'm writing for you, boys, you'll get it then.

5. I Got My First Paycheck!: It was fifty dollars!

6. The Wedding I'm Going to on Sunday, Where I Don't Really Know Anyone Other than My Parents, who I will not be seated with: Rumor has it there's an open bar.

7. Who are you?: I'd really love to know who is reading my blog. Other than my parents and my brother. So if you are reading this, please drop me a comment, I'd love to hear from you.

Tales from Retail : Chapter 1

2006-05-21T19:23:00.000-05:00

I have seen more unclothed parts of more women than I have ever wanted to see in my entire life.

As a sales associate, it is one of my jobs to assist women in the dressing room. Let me tell you about the woman I like to call Buxom Blonde, or BB for short. She is blonde. Blonde! BLONDE! BLONDE! The kind of blonde that could be twisted into a glowing sign and provides a night light for women afraid of the dark. And she's top heavy. And tan. It was hard to tell which part of her skin wasn't cancerous. This woman came into the store frantic for an outfit to wear out to dinner that evening. Which is good for us, because it guarantees she will leave the store buying a full outfit, and if we're really good, we can sell shoes and jewelery to match. This woman, however, was far too comfortable with the concept of client-employee relations. I had given her my opinion on a black top, and had run to grab another style black sweater. I returned to her dressing room and handed her the black top. She thanked me enthusiastically and then proceeded to remove her current top. I turned quickly, but not before I saw her insanely large breasts in her bra, and an unpleasant roll of fat. Granted, I sold her a pair of shoes, a top, a sweater, a skirt, and a necklace, which was quite a haul but I suffered far too much for that.

More tales of Retail Woe, coming up in Chapter 2.

On a Sadder Note

2006-05-18T18:53:00.000-05:00

My mother left my father and I alone to feed the entire family.

Bad idea.

We ordered pizza.

Then Dad proceeded to attempt to give my already ailing grandfather a heart attack by pressing more zepoles on him, then offering some chocolate ice cream to flush down the zepoles.

I've Got the World on a String, Sitting on a Rainbow

2006-05-16T13:07:00.000-05:00

For those of you who have been reading my blog since it's creation, including the blog I maintained in high school, you have read my many entries about my struggles to amount to something, to be something more, or something great.

Well, it is with great pleasure that I inform you that I am so happy with my life right now. And there isn't a trace of sarcasm in that sentence. It's pouring rain, I haven't seen sunlight in 4 days, and I'm still entirely satisfied. I have an amazing internship. As of yesterday afternoon, I am a Sales Associate at Ann Taylor. A classy store. And I pursued the internship and the job by myself, without help, making the phone calls, walking into stores, introducing myself, presenting myself, selling my talents. And it paid off! I also got a B in Art History.

Things are finally going my way. And I'm still in a little bit of shock that I am personally doing so well. I keep telling my mother over and over again, just because I have to repeat it to remind myself that it's me, and that I'm being successful. And both my parents are repeatedly telling me how proud they are of me. Which would seem pretty normal, but my parents use the "I'm Proud" statement only when they mean it. When I made artwork in middle school, it wasn't "I'm Proud" but more of an "It's Interesting...". They don't beat around the bush, and they don't build up false hopes. Thats what's great about them. And they are proud of me. And I'm proud of me.

Even more satisfying, is the approval I'm getting from certain senior members of my family. My entire life I was always make to feel (whether intentional or not) what I wasn't good enough. I wasn't as good as my older brother, and I wasn't as good as my cousins. I felt shunted aside and underappreciated by this member of my family. And so, I pretended I didn't care. But as of recently, this senior member of my family said "I'm so proud of you" and "I love you" in one phone call. And I am so happy. While I am happy for myself, having this person's approval tells me that I'm doing something very very right. To finally be worthy of this person's notice is something I never thought I'd achieve. So maybe I'm a reverting to little girl basking in appreciative attention, but I actually feel like I deserve it.

I have an internship. I have a job. I have a lovely new work wardrobe courtsey of my parents. (You guys are awesome, seriously. I'll try not to grow anymore.) I'm taking better care of myself, physically and mentally. It's strange that this change has happened so quickly, but I am so happy that it has. I may be elitist and spoiled, but I'm working. And I'm doing really great things with my life. It's fabulous.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation :: Part I

2006-05-15T14:02:00.000-05:00

As a recap, I have an internship at a radio station in Greenwich, Connecticut this summer. During this internship, I will be co-producing an hour long national radio show every weekday. While this will probably be the single most educational and enriching job I've ever had, it has the great misfortune of being an unpaid internship. So! Yesterday, I donned my new Brooks Brothers atire and high heels (Thank you, Parents) and made my way to Greenwich Avenue, Greenwich, CT, a strip of the most high quality and expensive stores, in search of a job.

I pounded that pavement, entering every store with a smile on my face and inquired after summer employment. I left Greenwich Avenue later that day with an interview for Ann Taylor and Victoria's Secret, and a possible follow up phone call from Banana Republic.

Today was the day of the interviews. I put on another Brooks Brothers ensemble, classy as hell, and drove into Greenwich. Halfway there, I got stuck in traffic. During that standstill, the heavens opened, and it started to pour. Buckets. I crossed my fingers on the wheel and hoped the rain would let up by the time I got into Greenwich. I had no umbrella.

About that crossing fingers thing...not really helpful. At all. I parked my car, sprinted into the nearest store for quarters to pay for parking, and then ducked beneath an awning to consider the situation. It was 10:15 am. My interview at Ann Taylor was at 11:30 am. I could walk to Saks Fifth Avenue and get an application, which was the original plan.

There were pros and cons to moving from beneath that awning. Let's start with the cons. First, I was wearing a skirt. My legs would get wet. Second, I was wearing open toed suede shoes. My shoes would be destroyed. Third, I straighten my hair. Should my hair be rained on, part of it would be curly again. But not all the way through. About those pros? Yeah, there weren't any pros.

I sprinted (in heels) to Saks Fifth Avenue, where it was made clear to me that I could fill out an application, but would not be hired. I considered my options. I fished out the business card given to me by the manager at Ann Taylor, and telephoned her, telling her that I was across the street, and asking if it was at all possible, could I meet with her a half hour early? She agreed happily. (I won't go into the interview, other than it went perfectly, but if I go into too much detail, it will destroy the mood of the story.)

After my interview, I met my friend for lunch, and found I still had an hour before my interview at Victoria's Secret. I went in, and asked if it were at all possible, could I please interview now? They were, also, wonderfully receptive. That interview went well, too. They gave me a sheet, told me to go home, call a toll free number, and answer some questions by phone.

When I got home, I dialed the number, and answered the questions. They were simple. Mainly, would you steal from your business? Would you be honest? Are you a crack whore? Which, is hardly an exaggeration. There were over 20 questions asking whether or not you were addicted to any drug. If you had taken any drug at work. If you thought it was okay to do drugs at work. If you do drugs when you aren't at work. Before asking about the drugs, they asked if you ever got into a shouting match at work. Or a shoving match at work. Things that cracked out people would do. Cracked out whores.

First things first. I wear pearls. I waited half an hour at Wal-Mart to pay for my photo prints when I could have easily paid for them. I would never, ever get in a shouting match in public with anyone besides my mother. (It's all love, Mom.) And the only question I may have stretched the truth on was if I had ever smoked marijuana away from work. Yes. I have. But do you really think I'm stupid enough to bring any illegal substance, or do anything illegal within 100 miles of a job? A paying job? Does anyone? Because I'd like to meet those people, and stare at them quizically. For a long time.

My Female Inspirations (In Honor of Mother's Day)

2006-05-12T10:20:00.000-05:00

Mother's Day is this Sunday, and it sparked my train of thought about the women in my life that inspire me on a daily basis. This may be cliche and overdone, but it's always important to give credit where it's due.

1. My Oma: My grandmother on my mother's side was the most intelligent and strong woman I've ever met in my life. Despite going through some hard times before I was born, the time I spent with her was worth more than it's weight in gold. My grandmother escaped Nazi Germany and settled down in the United States. And she lived the American Dream in the best way I can imagine: she got an education. I can remember so many occasions where younger members of my family thirsty for knowledge or philosophical debate would call my grandmother. I attended one of her lectures on a Queen in ancient Egypt. She stockpiled historical books. She gave me my first Complete Works of Shakespeare. She could have earned a Ph. D. But beyond being intelligent, she loved in every sense of the word. At her funeral, her friends and colleagues spoke of her knowledge and intellect, but for me that wasn't enough. At a spur of the moment, I got up and spoke about her. My grandmother. Who, when I called her and told her I was sick one day, sent me enough chicken soup and matzah balls to last me until the end of the world. And she made the best applesauce in the world. There was nothing she wouldn't do for me, letting me spend weekends at her house, spoiling me rotten. My Oma was the ideal image of how to be a ridiculously intelligent woman who still loved endlessly.

2. My Mother: (No, Mom, this is not a shameless plug to make my first week at home easier.) My mother is the single most amazing woman walking the face of the planet. Not only is she an impeccable dresser, but she single handedly turned her life around and started her own business. Despite endless piles of difficult work, she drove me to school, and never missed a concert. Now that I'm at college, she's dropping her weekend to come pick me up. And yesterday, when we were discussing the fact I needed to bring my car in for its check, and was worried about how I would get to work, she told me she would drive me. And I have to give any woman that had to raise me through my high school years insane credit. Not only does she run a sucessful business and is an amazing mother, but she takes care of her father, too. There's an amazing mix of determination, compassion, intelligence and beauty in my mother. If in 20 years, I can be half the woman my mother is, I will have considered my life successful.

3. My Best Friend, Sarah: She's only a year older than me, but Sarah inspires me beyond belief. She was diagnosed with cancer in 4th grade, then continued to beat cancer. Which says a lot considering it was 4th grade. As she grew up, the leg that she had cancer in proved to be a problem, and she has had to continuously get surgery on it. And every time she does, she comes out with a smile. And a hot pink cast. The beauty in Sarah is that she sees the bright side of everything. When I'm at my lowest points, she verbally slaps me upside the head and makes me realize how stupid I'm being. There is so much joy in her that she pulled me through some of my darkest times. She lives in an entirely different state, but there's always a part of her with me. When she laughs, she throws her head back and lets it all out. The world is a brighter place because of her.

4. My Great Aunt Naomi: Aunt Naomi is another one of my inspirations. Like my Oma, she is very intelligent and highly educated. She graduated Barnard! She keeps her home stocked with the best books, and despite living a very classy very Connecticut life, she excitedly admitted to me one day that she was rereading Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton. This woman is nothing she sees at first glance. She keeps her home pristine and beautiful, and still loves the movie "Wedding Crashers". She raves about it on a regular basis. On top of her bubbly humor, she is the epitome of class and sophistication. One afternoon she took me to lunch, she subtely pointed out to me the delicious pair of Jimmy Choos that a fellow diner was wearing. Everything she wears matches perfectly, and in her credit, she lets me ride in her jaguar.

And there you have it, four amazing women that inspire me to be the best I can be, and to see the world for the beautiful place that it is.

This is Pitiful

2006-05-11T09:44:00.000-05:00

I'm in the library. I've finished my last take home final. I have absolutley no more school work to do. I've essentially completely my freshman year. And I don't want to leave this spot.

It took a really long time, but in the past 2 weeks, with the hell and fear of finals, I've learned how much better I feel as a person when I'm working. All those months of slacking off and saving work to the last minute are what caused my deep funks. I don't want to return to my dorm room, because when I'm there, there will only be one thing for me to do. Pack. I don't want to leave this newfound happiness found in work. There is a comfort at waking up at 8, packing my laptop, and heading to the library. There's something soothing in reading over acres of notes, attempting to understand impossible readings, writing Freudian analyses, and overall using my brain.

I desperately wanted to go home for the summer for so long. But now it's losing it's appeal faster than Britney Spears did when she decided Kevin Federline was the man of her dreams. When I'm home, I won't be in the library for hours wanting to throw my book out the window. I won't be debating a theory in my English class. I won't be sitting completely puzzled for 49 straight minutes trying to comprehend what exactly my professor talked about in the first minute of class. There's also the negative that my parents are always home. And I love my parents dearly, but with the presence of parents, and friend's homes that must be driven to, it greatly diminishes the good times I enjoy on weekends. I will also have to pay to go out to dinner with friends, as my ID Card unfortunately cannot be swiped for meal points at diners across the country.

I'll be leaving this bubble that I've finally come to appreciate in the last two weeks of school. Granted, I'll be working at an amazing internship 4 hours a day, but I desperately want another job. Not only because the internship is unpaying and I need money for school, but because I don't want to not be working on something. When I took a break from work for a few hours the other day, I actually felt horribly depressed. It wasn't just guilt, it was just my body not enjoying it's lack of use.

I'm actually going to miss my phone ringing at 2:30 am, with various humorous and ridiculous people on the other end. I'm going to miss running across the quad barefoot completely sober in the middle of the night. I'm going to miss everything I could possibly need being in walking distance. I'm going to miss the endless awkward moments that occur throughout my day. I'm going to miss East College, the humanities building.

How do I bring everything that I love about college home with me? Will I be able to go to Boston and New York City to visit my friends? We all say we will, but will it really happen? I've finally become comfortable in this place, and at that moment I must uproot again. It's sad, but this campus has become more my home than the house of my parents. I feel more comfortable where I am sitting, right now, with the staircase leading to the main lobby of the library to the left of me, and a wall of glass windows in front of me, than I do in my own bedroom in Connecticut.

I have learned so much here. Beyond classes. I've learned how to deal with people, and above all, how to deal with myself. While, dissapointgly enough, I haven't gained any height, at all, I've gained a deeper understanding of myself. And other people. It's far more difficult to anger me than it has been in the past. (With the exception of my mother. Sorry, Mom, but somehow, completely unintentionally, you always strike the proper nerve.)

And I screwed up a lot at school. I still have absolute no concept of money, which frustrates me beyond belief. I want so badly to be able to handle monetary affairs with confidence, only to discover that I cannot touch any of the money left in my bank account. I was so positive that I had proven to my parents that I had matured a great deal, but I couldn't do it entirely. (Also, readers, if you have any suggestions about keeping a budget, please let me know.)

And now with that last paragraph, there is one thing I'm looking forward to in my return home. Maybe, now that I'm slightly (emphasis on slightly) more open to my parents suggestions, I can learn a few more things from them. And it's probably a ridiculously bad idea to post this, but there you have it, they can quote me on this whenever they like.

The scariest thing I've learned here is that I can't see what is in my direct future. All through my high school career, the focus remained on one thing: college. But I'm in college now. I know students who are graduating. I haven't the faintest idea where I will be in three years. I know there will be successes and failures, but I want to know when and where.

But it's not 11:02 am, I have been in this library since 9:15am, it's time to pack up and say goodbye to my favorite place on campus. Friends are leaving, posters need to be taken down, and I need to figure out how exactly everything I own seems to have multiplied since I got to school.

Hello, Summer.

Goodbye, Freshman Year.

I'm Using the Internet to Lash out at Someone

2006-05-11T09:20:00.000-05:00

My dearest brother, currently studying abroad in Germany, has recently accused me of having a drinking problem.

In response to this, I have one thing to say.

You live in Germany. You officially no longer have any right to accuse anyone of drinking too much.

Thank you.

Edit: Also, I don't have a drinking problem. I enjoy alcohol on weekends. And only weekends. Which is more than I can say for my brother, who has recently aquired an obsession for bratwurst and beer at all hours. He also enjoys pointing out where beer cellars are located in obscure buildings. He's also jealous that he's not as cool as me.

Second Edit: I'm exaggerating of course. Neither my brother nor I are all that cool. We are, however, the next great leaders of the world. Which I think trumps coolness and alcoholism.

Third Edit: I'm exaggerating about the great leaders of the world, too.

Fourth Edit: Well, my brother will probably change the world. I'll just be behind him mocking it.

Why yes, I am in fact majoring in Bullshit.

2006-05-11T09:04:00.000-05:00

This post isn't even remotely as harsh as it seems. But in the past few days, working on my take home final for English 220, I've discovered a secret no one ever tells you about being an English major.

When asked to analyse a text without any poke or prod in the right direction, the correct procedure is to a. lean awkwardly to the right and b. pull it out of your ass. Having an outline for all the analysis that can be used, you have to select one, and find as many parts of the text that fit that selection. For example, a 4 stanza poem by Robert Louis Stevenson. This poem is about a dreamland. The logical step would be to connect it to Freud. But how? Being the amazingly adept English student that I am, I connected it to the male repression of Oedipal complexes. Now, that is quite possibly completely wrong, but if I explain and back it up well enough, there is no way I can possibly lose points for it.

Thus is the beauty of literary theory. If you think it, and you can back it up, you can ace that. So, though one may not have the faintest idea what the author meant, if it's well thought, and well supported, it counts.

That's pretty sweet. Hooray for English.

Couple of the Effin' Week

2006-05-10T15:06:00.000-05:00

I have a confession to make. I've been in a relationship for quite some time now. But in the past two weeks, it's gotten quite serious. While there haven't been any sleepoevers yet, as I seem to always be kicked out at midnight, I do feel comfortable enough in this relationship to not shower, wear make up, and to laze around in sweatpants in the middle of the day. Every day spent together, I find myself able to think more clearly and intelligently than before. Yes, the Waidner-Spahr library and I are officially exclusive. My time is no longer split between my dorm room and classrooms, but entirely centered around Waidner-Spahr. But we seem to be having a bit of a tiff. Today, Waidner-Spahr has not assisted in the slightest my flow of creative juices. Over the past 2 weeks, the 6 to 8 hours spent together studying for finals was rewarding and helpful. Normally, the bleach blonde paneling and high ceilings keep me entirely focused away from the sunlight and bright green glow of the trees feet away outside the window. But apparently, my refusal to spend 8 hours together yesterday has resulted in my falling into disfavor. But my dear Waidner-Spahr, I desperately need to write 1000 words of analysis on a 4 stanza Robert Louis Stevenson poem. I promise you, in the future, I will give you fair warning of my absence. I'll even come in and print something out if that's the kind of daily commitment you need. But please, throw out your anger, I need you to spark my intelligence once more.

Do You Know What the Problem With the Youth of America is Today?

2006-04-27T09:40:00.000-05:00

We're numb. We've grown up in an age of technology, when huge romantic gestures can be typed into a computer and sent through an e-mail. Chivalry is nonexistant, calling the next day isn't even remotely required. We don't subtley romance, we don't date. We drink too much, fall into bed together, and should we happen to find the person attractive the next morning, we might deem them worthy of possible attachment. But we're so numb that we run blindly into things hoping to feel something. We grasp for whatever concepts of true feeling we can find. For a lot of us, blind alcoholism and drug addiction do the trick, for others its an unbelievable series of casual hook ups lacking emotional attachment from one end, the other end, or both ends, for some others it's cruelty to one another, even more of us join fraternities and sororities in the hopes of feeling some sort of bond or connection with one another. We run full speed into impossible relationships, knowing the will fail, maybe subconciously knowing at least we'll feel sadness. We're disrespectful and arrogant, but the world doesn't belong to us. It never will belong to us if we continue to carry on in such a fashion. There used to be poetry, and music, and appreciation for things in life that could make you feel something without help. Kandinsky's painting Composition No. 4, for example. (German Expressionism), or any painting by Rothko. I don't advocate that we all live lives of solitude and contemplation, but why must we constantly make the wrong decisions? We all learned the same lessons in grade school, were taught the same principles. So why is rape and sexual assault so common on college campuses that we barely bat an eye when it happens. Why do boys need to feel so powerful, and why do girls need to constantly surround themselves with assholes. Looking around, at the female sex, all of us fall for the boys that treat us like dirt, worth nothing more than their new topsiders. And why do the nice boys seem to become less and less frequent? When did it become okay to hold the door open for someone and not say thank you? When did it become okay to barge into someone else's room without knocking? When did sexiling become commonplace? I want to scream what that senator screamed at Senator McCarthy, "Have you no sense of decency, sir?" But I can't claim to be entirely free of fault, I fall into the same patterns as every girl on this campus. We need to refind something other drugs, sex and booze to lift ourselves up. We need culture and society, and we need wilderness, too. We need eachother in the most base sense, but we cannot touch. If for one day we let everything drop behind us and tried something new? And I am so afraid that this is how my life will proceed until I die, that this is how my generation will use the world and their lives, and that this is what I must be. I'm not speaking in a feminist, or pro youth or any sort of terms, I'm talking in a what-the-hell-are-we-doing term. Am I the only one that sees the degeneration of my peers? Do they not see how hard they are going to fall?

And must I fall with them?

My RA is the Cooler Than Yours

2006-04-17T12:28:00.000-05:00

I don't know how many of you followed my high school blog, but one of my last entries was a conversation I had with my future RA. This future RA turned out to basically be the coolest RA in the history of forever. Why? Why do you ask?

Well, Saturday evening, I walked back to the dorm with a bag full of plastic cups, cranberry juice and orange juice. Alex, my RA, was outside on the steps enjoying a cigarette. He asked what I had bought, and I responded by asking him if he was on duty. He responded in the affirmative, but said he didn't care. I invited him if he was bored during his rounds to come have a drink with us.

An hour later, around 9 30pm, as we were all enjoying our screwdrivers, there was a knock on the door. It was Alex. "How is making sure none of your residents are drinking?" I asked him. "Fine, fine," he said. "Would you like a drink?" "Yes, Please."

Moral of the story: If your RA is as cool as mine, let me know.

Oh. My. God. That is like soooo college.

2006-04-15T12:38:00.000-05:00

Good afternoon, fair readers!
I started up this blog to really share my stories about college and my experiences here. Well, this may have to be my last entry, because I just had the most "college" morning of my life. I went to bed at 4 AM, which may be the latest (or earliest) I've ever gone to bed before in my life. When I finally woke up again at 12 30, I rolled over and put my feet on the floor, and looked around me. My room was a disheveled mess, as on Friday and Saturday nights I don't clean my room. Ever. Then, I noticed a large bruise on my arm. And on my leg. And on my hand. And on my other arm. Now I'm a pale kid. I also bruise freakishly easily. And I remember everything I did last night. Everything. I just don't recall so much bruising while doing it. So college.
Then, I glanced out into the hallway to see my friend bringing a tour down the hall. Which is not normal because tours usually go through the new dorms. Head poking out my door, I inquired as to the change. She informed me that the normal tour dorm was locked, and that she wanted to show the tour a room. So she brought them down to her room. I went back into my room, in just a t-shirt and underwear to clarify, and went to check my e-mail. I hear someone call my name, it's Caitlin, "Can I bring the tour in there?" she asked. In my groggy and hungover state, I agreed, and went to make my bed. 3 families and Caitlin walk into my room. And then I remember I'm not wearing pants. Caitlin points out the size of my room. A mother points out to her son my three Led Zeppelin posters. I stood there. With no pants on. Cowering. The end came too slowly.
Finally, when I was walking back up the stairs in the dorm from breakfast, I dragged myself around a corner, looked down, and saw a crumpled up thong. Clearly used. I was stunned. I just stared at it. Disgusted. Then I walked back up to my room.

Does college get any more college than that?

PassovA!

2006-04-13T19:23:00.000-05:00

Is it sadistic and twisted and wrong if I offer macaroons to unsuspecting victims just to see the looks on their faces?

Special Edition: Can You Define College in a Single Photo? I think I can.

2006-04-12T10:45:00.000-05:00

College...is hard!

2006-04-12T10:24:00.000-05:00

Hello friendly reader(s).
Hopefully you were able to stick it out alone during my long absence following my discovery that college is actually kind of hard. That kind of took me by surprise. Who knew?

At 8:30 am this morning, I had a massive test in Political Philosophy covering Plato, Hobbes, Aristotle, Augustine, Machiavelli, Thomas Paine, Edmund Burke, John Stuart Mill, J.J. Rousseau, Adam Smith, and Karl Marx. All of it. Everything. I actually met for 4 different study sessions. Monday night I met with the boy who sits next to me, and we got essentially nothing done because we both were similarly ADD. Tuesday afternoon, I got an e-mail from a girl in my class to several students saying "I know this is kind of awkward but...do you want to study together??" So I typed up my notes into a study guide, printed one out for both of us and met her in the library after dinner. Another classmate studied with us. After an hour and a half or so, we split up, the girl taking my study guide and promising to add to it, and reprint copies. We met back up at 10:30 and studied until 11:30 in the basement of the HUB. This morning I woke up early, met her at 7:30, continued studying at breakfast, and met up with another boy from our class who quized us on things we definitely had not thought of. During yesterday's study groups, I was kind enough to tap my inner jewish mother and bring essentially all the non-kosher for passover snacks I had in my room to unload them on the unsuspecting goyem.

If that wasn't ridiculously painful enough, (between stabbing myself repeatedly in the eye with a dull fork and that political philosophy test, I'd pick the former), following directly after Political Philosophy this morning, I had an Art History quiz. Which doesn't seem too bad, so let me elaborate. We needed to memorize and be able to name by sight 57 paintings, the artist, the style, and the time period. For example:
Picasso - Les Demoiselles D'Avignon - Cubism - 1907 to 1915
or
Ball - Dynamism of Dog on Leash - Italian Futurism - 1910 to 1920.
And we were only tested on 18 of the paintings. So imagine memorizing years, years that overlap through symbolism, french impressionism, post-impressionism, and british pre-raphaelite.
After that class, I was just about ready to collapse.

And to share yet another learning experience: I should never, ever, under any circumstances, be allowed to participate in even the most distant form in anything having to do with my taxes. I was sent a packet by my father of things to sign and forms to fill out for taxes, including a check. So I took the check, and did what I always do - signed the back. I don't write checks all that often, or at all, really. I don't even have my checkbook at school with me. A few days later, I get an e-mail from my dad, who uses CAPS when he needs to make a point.
Sarah: you signed THE BACK OF THE CHECK you were only supposed to sign THE FRONT I knew we should have done this when you were at HOME you'll get the check again sign it CORRECTLY.
And my dad doesn't use the best grammar when he's writing e-mails, so here's to you dad.

Continuing along the vein of things I've learned recently: expo marker does not wash of the upper leg so easily. So if, for some reason, you ended the night with I LOVE (Insert Name Here) verticall written up your leg, you have to wear pants. For a week. In 80 degree weather. I am never, ever trusting my friends with markers. Ever again. Never.

So, fair readers, I will leave you with this lovely message left on my Facebook wall by a friend of mine attending seder with me this evening: "tomorrow we are gonna get DRUNK - 4 cups of wine, heck yeah".
Happy Passover, for those of you who are religious, and Happy Four Glasses of Wine at Seder for those of you who just love being Jewish that much.

LONG LIVE ROCK & ROLL

2006-04-06T09:29:00.000-05:00

I don't have any direct link to this piece of news, but I'd like to comment on it anyway. A man in a taxi in London recently asked the driver to play The Clash - London Calling. The cabbie heard the lyrics "Now war is declared and battle comes down". And immediately alerted British authorities. The man was taken into questioning and missed the flight that he was trying to take.

I have one thing to say about this: What the fuck?

If there was a man in the back of my cab talking to someone else about blowing up the plane he was about to board, then yes, I would call the authorities. But a line in a song? The Clash?!?! What height of ludicrous paranoia have we reached in the English speaking world? Rock and roll does ont signify terrorism. Although I would definitely argue that emo/pop-punk are a terror to the name of rock. But honestly, Rock & Roll is not only music, but it signifies something greater than a single person. It can unite a cause (Live 8 and Live Aid), it can yell angry hateful things to a government, and above all it can say extremely pointed things about a society (The Kinks, THE CLASH).

When does the most forward thinking type of music turn into something terrorist? It's ridiculous.

I Never Realized Exactly How Typical a College Student I Am

2006-04-02T18:58:00.000-05:00

I usually like to think that I function at a much higher level than my peers. Intellectually, physically, emotionally. Perhaps I'm deluding myself to some degree, but I'd like to continue doing so.

That was, until, I woke up from my 6pm nap. I awoke hungry, despite having recently eaten dinner. So, I rolled off my bed and to the refrigerator. Now, usually, there's nothing in the refrigerator. But there's always the hope that the tooth fairy dropped by and was feeling pity for a few overfed college students.

Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to my refrigerator - 7:45 pm - April 2, 2006:
(Sorry, Mom.)

For those of you who cannot see well, let me go clockwise from the upper left.
(1) Half empty bottle of Ice Tea, (1) Nearly empter liter of Captain Morgan Rum, (1) Less than frozen Tangerine Slushie, (1) Nearly full liter of Smirnoff Vodka, (1) Cup of Chocolate Pudding, (1) Cup of Cinnamon Applesauce.

And that's it.

I've done it. I've become typical. The shock may just kill me. Either that or the Smirnoff.

MTV INSANITY

2006-03-30T18:46:00.000-05:00

I was flipping channels, and MTV's Room Raiders was on. (A boy raids the rooms of 3 single girls to decide who he wants to go on date with before meeting them.) I noticed a pretty brunette sitting in the center of the 3 girls. I recognized her. I realized I went to school with her. I also realized that she lived at the top of my street. And then I knew for sure it was her when they said her name.

It's so so odd.

The Single Most Useful Essay Criticism I've Ever Received

2006-03-28T10:53:00.000-05:00

B/B -
Sarah -
Some pretty interesting ideas here...you do a good job balancing your focus on the books. You have to think about being more deliberate -- literary criticism is like T'ai Chi: best done slowly for most effect, with great attention to every step in the rhetorical process. Sometimes this essay is too Jackie Chan - it's energetic, but suffers from a lack of finesse - by this I mean that you leap to conclusions without bringing the reader along. You have great ideas; showcase them in carefully written, fully developed, meticiously organized paragraphs.

Personally, I'm a big fan of the Jackie Chan reference. Because I actually know what he's talking about.

....annnnd I'm Awkward

2006-03-28T10:43:00.000-05:00

I think I can really just define my college experience in two seperate occurences yesterday.

Number 1:
In the basement of the central school building, on my way to check my mailbox, I was accosted by a friend of mine who plainly said "Can I see where your clothes were made?". Before I even had a chance to respond, my jacket was being pulled off and my oxford tugged to locate a tag. In the midst of this, gripped with fear of being further stripped in public view I blurted "My skirt was made in America. I'm sure of it." Apparently, I was semi-stripped by Students for Social Action, to see where products are made? Or something? I dashed away as quickly as possible to regain my dignity.

Number 2:
Exiting the building, I walked past a group of students sitting outside and heard one snippet of their conversation - "I don't know. I just have perky testicles, that's all."

Dear God, this place will never cease to amuse me.

Hello! Hello!

2006-03-27T12:03:00.000-05:00

Hello, hello, hello!
To all three or four of my readers!
I apologize for the unfairly long delay in my posting, but I've actually been working hard, so my free time to blog has become greatly diminished.
So let me take this opportunity to fill you in on my collegiate status!

1. My radio show is up and running, and I now have a co-host. Today will be the first show that we will be cohosting together. We've agreed that in order to live up to our name of "Rock Snobs" that he will play mainly modern rock and I will comfortably command my sphere of knowledge in classic rock. So any fears of an all classic rock show can now be released - he plays Pearl Jam and the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and quite a few bands I'm not afraid to admit I've never heard before. So if you happen to have time in your day between 2pm & 4pm this afternoon, try to tune into us on the web here. It should be a rockin' good time.
2. I've declared my major. I'm sure you all know I was really leaning towards majoring in calculas and chemistry, but I caved and was warmly welcomed into the English department Thursday afternoon at 1:30pm. It was such a simple process, and there was no doubt in my mind that English was the major for me. I may have also mentioned that one of my current English teachers had said to me he "would be honored to be my advisor should I choose English." Well, that Professor signed the form after class this afternoon, and will be my advisor until I graduate in May of 2009! I'm really starting to take small forward steps in my life, which is scary and exciting and easy all at once.
3. When I was home for Spring Break, I was lovingly cajoled by my parents into searching for a summer internship. (And by lovingly cajoled I mean: "You will sit by this phone and research on this computer until you have a summer internship.) I think I blew my parents away by getting two seperate interviews and two interested call backs in two days. I decided that I enjoy working at the radio station here at school so much that I would search for an internship in radio over the summer. I interviewed at the local classic rock station and at a Business Talk Station which is also a network in a nearby town. I was hired by the latter after my interview! I'm looking forward to working at this station a great deal because it has a small station feel, and I work well in smaller more community oriented situations. Interestingly enough, the CEO of the station's son is a sophomore at the school I am currently attending.
4. I'm getting better at working harder in class and doing my school work, and am slowly doing better than I was last semester. I wish I could just flip a switch and change my way of doing things, but it's a slow and difficult process. Half the time, I wish I had a parent here to force me to do my work, but this is what college is all about - standing on your own two feet.

The sunny outlook of this post may also be attributed to the beautiful weather outside my window, and the fact that I'm listening to Led Zeppelin, but hopefully I'll continue moving upward in my life and continue to improve myself.

The Real Reason Why I Come Home

2006-03-13T12:20:00.000-05:00

The Scene: Dinner
The Character: My Mother

Mother:"Sarah! Come look at my new spatula! I got it at the Williams Sonoma outlet!"
Daughter:"You bought a designer spatula..."
Mother: "On sale!"

Spring Break Safety Bags

2006-03-09T12:39:00.000-05:00

For the past 2 weeks, posters have been tacked up all over campus sharing the importance of staying safe in the sun and reasonable alcohol consumption. In the HUB basement today, after checking our mailboxes, my friend Liz and I stumbled upon a table manned by our friend giving out spring break safety bags.

"Hooray!" I thought, "Free stuff!"

Plus, I figured there'd be sunblock packs in the bag and being the transluscent shade of white that I am, I figured you can never really have enough sunblock.

Leaving the table, we anxiously peered into our goody bags.
- 2 pieces of chocolate! Hooray!
- 2 mini bottles of hand sanitizer. Good idea college! If the I'm-going-to-Mexico-for-Spring-Break girls had room in their skimpy clothes, they would absolutely carry a mini hand sanitizer around. Speaking of skimpy clothes..
- 7, count them, SEVEN condoms. Durex.

Now seriously, how slutty do you think we are? I mean, okay, yeah, the campus is pretty whorish, but 7 condoms? I'm offended. I really am.

Now, ahem, pardon me, I'm going to go, uh, store these condoms somewhere. You never know when, uh, your roomate might need one. *Shifty eyes*

So I Probably Should Have Worn a Jacket But...

2006-03-07T10:25:00.000-05:00

I woke up this morning with a ray of direct sunlight coming through my window and warming me up in my bed. That's a pretty satisfying way to wake up. It's even more satisfying to get ready for class in the rays of sunshine that are spotlighting your entire room. While listening to Spoon.

It's doubley satisfying to be in a sunny enough mood to skip down the front steps of your dorm room into even more (admitedly chilly) sunshine, into the distinct sound that seperates spring from winter. Birds chirping. As I cut through the back parking lot behind the arts center to get to the English/Classics Department building, I heard birds singing.

That's the difference between Winter and Spring. Not just the sound of birds singing but the sounds in general. Winter is a far quieter, dull, blanket of silence. Walking to class is a brisk and careful endeavor, attempting to avoid dark ice patches. What little sound escapes into the world outside is muffled in the snow and gray.

I went to class without my iPod today, do to a random sudden visibility of wires in the headphones, I went to class early. I walked slowly, and deliberately, listening to the birds singing. I heard my footsteps resounding clearly on the pavement. The sound was sure and strong. Nothing was muffled, nothing was gray.

Even the buildings sound different in the spring. The creak of the heavy door into the building suddenly seems more promising, the high-backed cushioned chairs in the lobby welcoming you to sit and read in them, in the spots of sunlight.

But the best sound of all, in the clear air, devoid of clouds or gray, or any color other than a bright clear blue, was the sound of the clocktower. We were let out of class over 15 minutes early, and as I walked towards the crosswalk I jumped at the 10 warm tolls of the bell. I stopped. The sound seemed to carry farther than it ever had, I could barely ever hear it during the winter in my classroom, though my classroom is adjacent to the bell.

I'm really happy that spring is coming.

JOY EXCITEMENT HAPPY EXCITED WEEE

2006-03-06T16:48:00.000-05:00

I
just
broadcast
my very first
radio show
ever.
And it was

AMAZING.

Maiden Voyage

2006-03-06T11:58:00.000-05:00

If all things work out the way they are supposed to today -

Rock Snobs
on WDCV 88.3 FM
2 - 4 pm
Stream it here
Enjoy.

The Running Oscar Blog

2006-03-05T20:36:00.000-05:00

There are bad thoughts, there are terrible nightmares, and then there is Dolly Parton.
I always thought Jennifer Aniston was pretty hot, but has anyone else noticed that her face looks like of like a man's?
Thank you speeches are boring.
Jon Stewart - I love you. So. Much.
George Clooney - I love you. So. Much. More.
Why is there no logical order to this awards ceremony? WHY?
Jack Nicholson is seated next to Keira Knightley. She's hot. He's old. Someone should warn her.
Also, going back to the opening clip - Jon Stewart wakes up next to Halle Berry then George Clooney. Which would you pick?
How did Star Wars not win for best makeup? There are aliens in Star Wars. Hairy ones! But points for the winner for citing Maurice Sendak's "Where the Wild Things Are" as his inspiration. I love that book.
Have I mentioned recently how much I love George Clooney?
Lauren Baccall - what a classy lady. The last of an era.
It's not just me - the Documentary Short winner loves George Clooney, too.
What the hell? Since when is it okay for Jennifer Lopez to be at the Oscars? Seriously.
The performance of the song nominated for "Crash". What's up with the fire? And the smoke? And the people in the background? Is it the Oscars way of saying "Sorry, you're not famous enough to get full camera coverage, watch the people holding small children behind you"?
The guy on the pre-commerical announcement just announced a "Surprise performance". Doesn't that defeat the purpose? Seriously?
There's been far too great a period of time in which the camera has NOT gone to George Clooney. Please rectify this immediately.
Thumbs up: Gregory Peck was clearly displayed in 2 of the films recognized as those that address important issues and changed the world.
I have to stop watching the Oscars. It's been fun. But I have Political Philosophy reading to do. Farewell all!

ew ew ew EW EW EW EW EWWWW

2006-02-28T19:39:00.000-05:00

I started this blog to discuss the trials and tribulations of a typical liberal arts student at a typical liberal arts college in a typical situation.

I've officially hit the height of collegiate living.

The bottom drawer of my dresser wasn't closing so finally I pulled it out to see why. Much to my surprise, I found a few shirts of mine that I'd been missing for sometime. Within that pile, I discovered a pair of boxers. A pair of men's boxers. A pair of men's boxers that don't belong to me. A pair of men's boxers that I've never seen before in my life. A pair of men's boxers that have no doubt been beneath my dresser since last year.

I won't touch them. I gingerly picked my clothes up from around them. And promptly threw them in my laundry basket. But my GOD. EW. EW. EW.

Underwear. NOT MINE. Beneath all my clothes.

And Speaking of Being Stronger than Things

2006-02-27T11:47:00.000-05:00

Tragedy has struck in the form of late bloomers and hot pink. Confused? I'll elaborate.

My senior year, I found the single most perfect dress in the entire world for prom. You know those dresses you know will only come around once in a lifetime because they fit your body and your personality to a tee. This perfect dress was purchased for a hefty price and was worn for my senior prom to great success. After the event, I carefully lay it in my closet, and hoped that someday, I'd be able to wear it again.

My wish came true, when my invitation for All-College Formal and Casino Night arrived in the campus mail. Freakishly excited, I telephoned my mother and pleaded and begged her to send my precious dress to me as soon as possible, along with the gold heels (what my best friend calls my "F*ck Me Heels") (Sorry Mom) that match it. Truly, the most perfect outfit in the history of mankind.

Finally, the dress arrived. I tore through the packaging (carefully) and removed THE dress. I hung it on the wall. I admired it from close up. I admired it from afar. I sighed with sheer love for the dress. Finally, the moment of truth. I shimmied into the dress, and had a friend zip it. Until..."it won't go up." What? What do you mean it won't go up?

With great tugging, pulling, and cracked ribs, we managed to zip the dress to the top. Two problems occured to me instantly. The first was that I couldn't breathe. The second was that my chest was quite possibly closer to my chin than my collar bones.

I was furious. I would have hyperventilated had I the ability to inflate my lungs. I called my mother instantly. "I told you so." Well of course, she was right. But how frustrating. I waited 18 years for a decent upper half, and when I finally get it, it doesn't fit into THE dress. That's just karma kicking you straight in the butt with some serious high heels on.

I decided to search for a new dress, and with a few friends, traveled to a vintage dress shop in the next town over. My problem persisted. From the rib cage down, everything fit. From the rib cage up? Not happening, kid. Not happening.

I called my mother, aka my Fashion Guru, once again. I suggested that perhaps my dress didn't fit as well because I had just eaten before I tried it on. She conceded that was a possibility. I then confessed I hadn't found a replacement dress. "Well," she said "There's one choice left." "What's that?" I inquired.

"Practice taking very small breaths."

Pennsylvania Has Made a Mockery of Me

2006-02-27T11:38:00.000-05:00

Approximately 365 days ago, I lived in Connecticut full time. This 35 degrees farenheit didn't bother me a bit. No siree, cold and I were good buddies.

In my time as a college student in South Central Pennsylvania, I have discovered my tolerance for cold has greatly diminished. It's 35 degrees? Oh man, everyone needs to start boarding up the windows, hell is freezing over. Let's huddle under our covers in our bed strategically placed next to the heater. The absolute fear of leaving that warm cave every morning occasionally seems like an excellent reason to not attend class. Granted, one then mentally dope slaps themselves out of bed. I used to openly mock my friend from Florida, who nearly died when the temperature dropped to 50 degrees. My friend from WayUpNorth Lodi, NY and I found ourselves bundled up in the 40s, and huddling together for warmth on the way to the cafe yesterday evening in the 30s.

I'm sorry world. I used to be so much stronger than this.

Things I've Learned Since 7:30 AM This Morning

2006-02-27T11:32:00.000-05:00

1. I have an unhealthy obsession with Brit Rock.
2. Jean Jaques Roussea was a lazy fat ass who would have made far more sense if he had actually tested any of his theories.
3. Mmm, wool cable knit.

This is What Happens When I'm Too Sick To Be Original and Someone Else Posted it First

2006-02-26T16:10:00.000-05:00

LIFE
they call me: the cutest little blogger north of the mason-dixon line
status: single
occupation: lazy college student
best friends: a determined roanoke college student, and a wicked hot alabama student

REWIND
my first breath of air: November 8th.
most memorable memory: The night on the rooftop in Beer Sheva.
worst memory: February 24, 2004

LOVE
love is: Something to aspire to, but not worth pursuing at this stage in life.
love or lust: Lust
when love hurts you: Chalk it up to experience.
is there such thing as love at first sight: No

OPPOSITE SEX
turn ons: Well, if he's a rock star, that's a plus.
do your parent's opinion on your bf/gf matter to you: Absolutely. My mother has an annoying habit of being right.
what kind of hair style: Not. Emo.
where do you go to meet new people: I don't.

PICKY PICKY
cat or dog: Dog
short or long hair: Long
rain or shine: Shine
sun or moon: Sun
one best friend or ten acquaintances: One best friend
summer or winter: Winter
playstation or nintendo: Neither. I don't play videogames.
car or motorcycle: Car
house party or club: House party.

LATELY
how are you today: I have a fever, can't breathe through my nose, and may have hacked up a lung. How the hell do you think I am?
what pants are you wearing right now: Target jeans.
What shirt are you wearing right now: Dickinson t-shirt, Dickinson hoodie.
how is the weather right now: I don't know. I haven't left my dorm yet.
last person you talked to on the phone: My dad.
last dream you can remember: Something in the cafe with lots of people and day glo.
who are you talking to right now: Dan

MORE ABOUT YOU
what are the last four digits of your phone number: 0327
if u were a crayon, what color would you be: Cerulean
what's the next cd you are going to buy: Modern Skirts
what's the best advice ever given to you: If you're in a relationship you can't tell your parents about, you know it's wrong.
have you ever won any special award: No.
how many kids do you want to have: None. Hopefully.
shampoo: Pantene Pro-V
how many TV's do you have in your house: 1. In my dorm room.
do you have your own TV: No. It's my roomates.
who do you dream about: Some craaaazy stuff.
who do you tell your dreams to: No one.
who's the loudest friend you have: Probably me
Whos the quietest friend: Margs

HAVE YOU EVER
drank: Yeeesss.
stayed in your pj's all day: Absolutely!
left your state: Yep.
left your country: Yep
drank milk straight from the carton: I. Hate. Milk.
tripped up the stairs: Weekly.
tummy ache: Yes.
wished upon a star: Yes
had it come true: No
slapped someone: No
danced like a maniac: All the flippin' time!
chased a butterfly: Probably last summer.
gone on a cruise: no
driven a motor boat: no
put salt on a slug and watched it shrivel up: Yes. It was gross.
burned stuff just because: Yes
been called a pyro: No
seen a ghost: No
had something published: YES!!!!!
written on money: Yes
lost someone you cared about: Yes
ran away: No
punched a wall: No
punched a person: No
talked to a street sign: Yes. But I may not have been in the straightest of states.
shopped at wal-mart for over an hour: Yes. *Shame*
been a hero: No
taken a picture of yourself: yes! I like photos!
had a journal: Yes
worn mardi-gras beads:Yes
been to Mardi-gras: No
heard a damaging story about your parents when they were younger/or older: If I have, I think I probably blocked it out.
heard of blind melon: Yes. That one song. That isn't good.
started a trend: No
been to a rally (for a cause, not a pep-rally): Yes. 2.
given up on your dreams: Yes
had your dreams come true:
seen someone as your guardian angel: no
protested the national anthem by not standing when everyone else does: No
had a pen-pal: yes
met someone famous: no
gone out with one of your best friends: no
put a message in a bottle: no
sent a telegram: no
received flowers: Yes
listened to a sea-shell: Yes
been stung by a jellyfish: no
been on tv: maybe?
played tag when you were over the "acceptable" age: try lats weekend
notice patterns in the time (11:11, 12:34, etc...): Yes
had your mom show off embarrassing baby pictures of you when your were little to your friends/boy/girlfriend: no
been arrested: no
been put in jail: no
been put on trial: no
re-named yourself: no
followed someone just because: no
been stalked: kinda
stalked someone: facebook stalked
lived a day like it was your last day: no
had your 15 minutes of fame: no
been self-conscious: is it obvious that that one hair is curled?
been in a band: no
started a band: no
sat and watched smoke float through the air: yes
want to be somewhere with someone so much it made you cry: no
played a practical joke: yes
had a practical joke played on you: yes

PEOPLE THINK
my father thinks I am: Pretty freakin' sweet
my mother thinks I am: Pretty freakin' sweet
my boyfriend/girlfriend thinks I am: only not
you are often complimented for: My hair, my eyes, my other excellent traits
you get embarrassed when: ever I open my mouth
what makes you happy: sunshine
upsets you: stupid people

Now That It's Not So Early...

2006-02-24T11:31:00.000-05:00

I absolutely forgot how much warmer wool is than cotton.
So I've avoided the rock tee shock and switched to a wool sweater.
Ah, the simplicities in life.

It's Too Early For This, But...

2006-02-24T08:10:00.000-05:00

Dear World,
Is it wrong to wear an AC/DC zip up hoodie over my Rolling Stones t-shirt? I think it is. I'll change my hoodie.

Music You Need To Listen To, Right Now, No Seriously, I'm Not Kidding, Now

2006-02-23T11:08:00.000-05:00

In my recent post about my trip to Philadelphia I briefly mentioned the purchase of an album. This album is called "Whatever You Say I Am, That's What I'm Not" by Arctic Monkeys, a new band out of the UK. Paste Magazine recommends them for fans of Franz Ferdinand, Buzzcocks, and Undertones. Personally, I recommend them for the absolutely sick guitar solos, the flow of the lyrics, the lyrics themselves, and the absolutely dead sexy accent of the lead singer. (That last bit being just a perk of an amazing band.) They've dominated the British charts for some time now, and hopefully, the same will happen here. The two songs I'd recommend for awesome value are I Bet That You Look Good on the Dancefloor and Fake Tales of San Francisco. Lyrically, Riot Van is the best on the album.

As a musical sidenote, the other band I've recently become obsessed with outside of Arctic Monkeys is The White Stripes. But everyone who actually cares about modern music has heard about them, so I needn't detail.

College Makes You Sound Like You Know Exactly What You're Talking About, When In Truth You Don't Have the Faintest Idea

2006-02-23T10:51:00.000-05:00

I like that title. It's catchy. Golf clap.

But what I'd really like to talk about is something my professor brought up in Political Philosophy at 8 30 AM on Monday morning. Is George W. Bush a Machiavellian leader? The question comes from the idea of the fox and the lion - a leader must be cunning and capable of lying to his or her people, and at the same time a leader must be capable of showing successful signs of brute force in order to maintain the safety of the state.

Of course, the majority of the class automatically jumped to "Yes", because George W. Bush has undeniably has shown his extreme capability for lying to the people. We discussed the scandal with phone taps - Would you have done the same thing?, our professor posed. In this instance, the President and his cabinet were able to successfully undermine the trust of the American public, something Liberals have suspected since prior to his election. So yes, in the sense of being a fox (or the people who he listens to being foxes), Bush is a Machiavellian leader.

Then comes the question of displays of strength. The general consensus in class was that there have been no successful shows of strength for the good of the state. According to Machiavelli it is better to not act, but if you must act, you must do it in a big way. Bush's invasion of Iraq and Afghaniston did not have quite the affect on the American people as I assume he had hoped. Our success there has been limited, and when imagining a direct show of force, our invasions of other countries would not cut it.

Towards the middle of this discussion in class, something occured to me. I raised my hand. I offered that I didn't believe it was possible to ever truly be a absolute Machiavellian leader in any form of democracy or representative form of government. Think about it - a Machiavellian leader must make all major decisions, without question. The safety and welfare of the state resides entirely in the choices he makes. The senate represents the people, and, in an ideal government, would affect the choices of a leader. Granted, Bush did go over the senate in the phone-tapping scandal, but he still must listen to the interests of his people. The people who got him elected.

So, I have decided, after thinking about this a great deal when I should have been studying for other classes, George W. Bush could never be a Machiavellian leader because the United States are a form of a democracy. The best Machiavellian leader would be a dictator, whether benevolant or cruel, but a single embodiment of the Philosopher Kings and the Saved Ones that Aristotle and Augustine have lead a state in their political ideals.

Philadelphia is not for Lovers, its for Sex Addicts

2006-02-19T14:08:00.000-05:00

I spent this weekend at a friend's house about an hour and a half away from campus. Friday night we decided to drive into Philadelphia and wander South Street. I sat in the car with high hopes, looking forward to yet another city to love. Because truthfully, I have met very few cities that I did not like. We parked and started our journey on South Street. It's an interesting place, and I found a record store right off the bat and bought 2 vinyls.

But let's talk Philly. There are a LOT of sex shops. A lot. Every few stores. My friend and I ventured into Condom Kingdom. I thought I'd seen it all on a college campus, I really did, but man was I wrong. Bondage tape! Bondage tape? I'd go more into Condom Kingdom, but it might forever destroy your images of me.

There's also a gum tree. Ladies and gentlemen, the gum tree:
It's actually a pretty cute idea, disgusting and unsanitary, but cute. A pretentious attempt at being artsy in a very unartsy city. Maybe that's why I dislike the city so much - there's very little art. Outside of the grafitti. Which is actually impressive. But it also caters to a different type of person. For example, my friend and I noticed that the mannequins in Philadelphia have an entirely different body shape than the mannequins in New York City. The stores in New York City have thin lean tall mannequins upon which they hang clothings. In Philadelphia, the mannequins have, for lack of a better word, GIGANTIC asses. Which we supposed meant that the average person in Philly has a different body type than the average person in NYC.

Also, it's dirty. In Pennsylvania, it's legal to smoke inside buildings, as well as outside of them. Cigarette smoke literally just rises from the smoke in a wierd clone of mist.

But Philadelphia does score some major points with me - I walked off of South Street with 3 vinyls and a CD that isn't supposed to be available in the United States until next week. Score.

That Second Piece of Cake Was a Mistake

2006-02-14T18:51:00.000-05:00

So as much as I loathe the whole concept of Valentines Day, it has one perk. The dining hall set up a special dessert room with assorted cakes. And who am I to say no to cake? Seriously.

So, my friends and I took our dessert tickets, and ventured into the social hall. The tables were swathed in red fabric and covered with candles. I half expected to see the little serving boy making out with the old cake lady in the corner. It was disturbing. But, on a far table I discovered joy - chocolate cake with vanilla icing! So I politely requested a piece, received it, and settled in to slowly enjoy my cake. But then it was gone. Gone! I looked around bewildered. A crumb fell from the side of my lip. Had I really eaten my cake that quickly? I suppose I had. My face fell in childish dissapointment. But I was saved! My friends decided to get a second piece to take back to the dorm. I retreived a second piece of chocolate with vanilla icing cake and surprisingly enough, managed to not eat it on the way back to the dorm. I placed it on my desk. I sat on my bed. I looked at my cake. My cake didn't look at me. I continued to look at my cake. I could put it in the refrigerator, I thought to myself. Yeah, but then it would be cold, my other self countered. I inched toward my cake. I took a bit. I took the plate and walked out in the hall to eat and talk to my friends.

"Jesus, you're already eating your cake?" Hutch queried kindly.

I looked up with wide eyes.

"Yes..."

"Oh, Sarah..."

But it was so good. Until I realized my stomach had reached it capacity two times over.
Damn cake.

An Open Letter

2006-02-13T13:51:00.000-05:00

Dear Rolling Stone Magazine,

Once you were special. Once you were the voice of rock & roll, albeit a cruel one. Rumor has it you trashed all of Zeppelin's albums. Despite that, into the new millenium, you were able to cling to your last shred of dignity. Your last shred of respectability. I was willing to ignore Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera on your cover. I let Jessica Simpson slide with only a fire shooting glares at the cover. But I have reached my breaking point. This is the straw that will break the camel's back. Mariah Carey. Mariah Carey? MARIAH CAREY!?!?? Why, dear god, WHY? Impressive as her 8 octave range may be, her high pitched squeaks passing at music do not deserve a magazine cover. I don't care if she won Grammys, everyone wins Grammys these days. She is a pushover. Lots of people can sing. Mariah Carey cannot rock out! Her [insert choice breast reference] will pop out. And speaking of pop, can we just lose the genre entirely? Or at least refrain from calling it "music"? I am tired.

This is my vote.
Ben Folds on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine.
Next month.
And I will forgive this transgression.

Sincerely Yours,
Someone not suffering from Cranial Rectum Syndrome

Just Like Heaven

2006-02-13T13:15:00.000-05:00

I want you to participate in a quick excersize, right now. I want you to close your eyes, take a deep breath, and imagine what your most perfect place in the world would be. Most people I asked tended to think of a warm sunny beach. Being the unusual anomaly that I am, I thought of a room. In this room is a microphone. Next to the microphone are 2 turntables, 2 CD players, and an iPod jack. There are speakers and a computer screen. Attached to this room is another smaller room packed with CDs and vinyl records. There are band posters plastered all over the walls. Does that seem a bit detailed to you? Well it should, because this little room I describe is the radio station here at my college. A radio station at which I just began my apprenticeship.

I never imagined a single place in the world could be the source of so much happiness. Upon my first tour of the room, I found the album Chicago II in the vinyl shelves, and had Alex, my friend and the guy I'm working under, play Fancy Colours.

But the best part? Two times an hour, DJs are required to play Public Service Announcements that are sent to us from various sources. (I'm honestly not sure which sources.) The first public service announcement we played was about...drum roll please...bed wetting above the age of six. An older man, with a cloying and sweet voice, detailed how he and his family used to tease his little brother for wetting the bed. There was something in his voice, very foreboding. A bit like what I would imagine a child molester to sound like, made humorous by the fact he was discussing bed wetting as seriously as possibly. So by the way, guys, if you bed wet above the age of 6, it's a pyschological, get help. Also, whooping cough is a much greater problem than we thought it is. Absolutely worthy of playing two 15-second spots. Well, worth it because we were cracking up too hard to realize it had ended.

But honestly, I don't think I've ever felt more comfortable in a place in my life. We danced to the songs, we chose music, we discussed bands, through around jokes, and just played music. For hundreds and hundreds of people. There's no feeling like that.

www.wdcvfm.com

If you'd like to hear my musical influence during my apprenticeship, listen to the stream from the above link on Thursday night from 10pm to 12 am.

Signing off.

I Don't Have The Flu!

2006-02-10T12:11:00.000-05:00

I have a virus.
Which means I'm not contagious.
But I'm prone to every single illness on campus.
Hurrah.
I'll write about the radio when I don't feel like dying.

I Don't Care What You Say, I Don't Have the Flippin' Flu

2006-02-08T13:38:00.000-05:00

Hey kids. I'm slightly incapacitated. While I can still walk and talk its the breathing and the thinking thing that seem to be slightly immobile. But I don't have the flu. I've had the flu, and I'd feel way worse than this. But you know what's funny? Disease travels faster than rabbits multiply on a college campus, and in observing my fellow students, we've all become increasingly paranoid.

If you sneeze on one side of Britton Plaza a student 200 feet away will subtley turn away and cover their face and nose with their hand. Ha, as if that would protect you from illness. With all the things your hand touches on a college campus, bringing it closer to your orifices is probably not the best idea. Coughing can prompt dirty look from close friends. Coughing in class will prompt a slight breeze of exaggerated sighs from across the room. Cough cough. Breeeze. A how-dare-you-cough-during-my-valuable-class-time sigh.

Another problem that presents itself during flu season is the inability of most college students to plan ahead. This morning I stumbled out of my dorm room with only the essentials, having passed up on my shower in favor of 30 more minutes of sleep. I barely remembered to put my glasses in my backpack. By 10:30, the time of my last class, a problem had presented itself. My nose had begun to flow. I had two choices - be the annoying kid that sniffles all through a round table class, or be the awkward kid that wipes her nose on her sleeve. For the first half of class, I chose the former. But that got uncomfortable, because my sniffling inhales seemed to provoke my snot into running faster, faster than I could ever possibly keep up with and manage to breathe properly at the same time. So, I faced facts. I had a perfectly washable cotton shirt on. But how, how to wipe my nose on my sleeve without being horribley noticable? I tried the slight brush, but that resulted in a clear though visible strand connecting my nose and my shirt. Then, I discovered the answer. I pulled my shirt to cover my palm, and leaned my face against my hand, letting the left drippy nostril rest covered. Awesome. It worked well. Until I realized that it was pretty apparent what I was doing. Sorry kids, I'm the snot queen today.

So, in conclusion, better to be the creepy old lady who keeps tissues in her sleeves than that kid who has snot stains on her arm.

The Only Reason to Watch the Super Bowl aka Mick Jagger Has the Finest Posterior of the Over 60 Set

2006-02-05T20:11:00.000-05:00

As a distinguished member of the FCC, I have a few complaints to make.

Complaint the 1st - The degree of swivel in Mick Jagger's hips at the beginning of "Start Me Up" was not only horribly and sexually perverse, I believe, for his own safety and hip replacements, hip swiveling should be kept to a minimum.

Complaint the 2nd - In the dropping of the word of the final word in the line "make a dead man come" Jagger implied more than keeping the word. The entire audience knows the word, do you think that the fat men sitting on their couches at home drinking brewskies didn't scream it anyway?

Complaint the 3rd - Keith Richards, how are you still alive?

Complaint the 4th - British British British. British people watch real football. What we hear across the Atlantic call Soccer. It's a far nobler sport. My man Mick made it pretty clear he didn't give a damn about American football. Hardcore Mick, you rock.

Complaint the 5th - Mick Jagger, Cher called, she wants her jacket back.

Complaint the 6th - Mick Jagger, Britney Spears called, she says she wants you to stop removing layers, you're stealing her act.

Complaint the 7th - Mick Jagger, you're in your 60s, it's unlawful to have a posterior like that. Man, you are too awesome.

Complaint the 8th - LONG LIVE ROCK & ROLL, WHO NEEDS FOOTBALL?

A Thought, if I may

2006-02-03T15:38:00.000-05:00

I don't think there is anything more awkward than your 50 something male, balding english professor breaking out into a few bars of Carole King's "Natural Woman" to prove a point.

Heh Heh - The Awkward Laugh

2006-02-01T11:42:00.000-05:00

My Art History professor is a very intelligent woman. She knows her stuff and explains it relatively well, although she does seem to have a propensity for repetition. (Yes, Professor, we see the fruit and plants and musical instruments are protruding from unpleasant places of the figures in the painting, will you please stop pointing it out? It's disturbing.)

However, as is often the case with very intelligent people, she's a little bit off-kilter. Clearly desperate to boost the morale and energy level of her 9 30 AM lecture, students wandering in and collapsing on the plush, lovely, comfortable seats, she cracks jokes. Well, not so much jokes, as attempts at funny side comments.

For example: "There are no stupid questions in this class." (Student asks question.) "Now that's a stupid question!"

Pause.

She chuckles.

Pause.

An enterprising student in the front row picks up on the attempted humor and forces out a HEH HEH. This sudden student outburst rouses the dulled conciousness of the students in the following rows into half-hearted and forced, "heh heh"s, for a very brief period.

There is another pause.

The professor stares at us.

We stare back.

Staring. Staring. Staring.
Awkward coughing.
Staring. The seats begin to squeak and students shift uncomfortable.

Finally, after an agonizing 3.288039927 seconds, the professor begins the lecture again.

The moral of the story is this: It's early. We're sleep deprived, possibly hungover, hungry students at 9 30 in the morning. The likelihood of us picking up on anything even slightly off-topic from the lecture, including a joke is not great. So, dear professor, please, you're not funny. Give it up. I'm trying to learn, here.

A Little Phenomenon We Like to Call IMing Your Roomate From Across The Room In a Bored, Sleep Deprived, and Vaguely Sketchy State

2006-02-01T00:06:00.000-05:00

Law & Order: SVU playing in the Background & Roomate's Buddy Icon of Panda is Laughing Sporadically

Me: BLAAAH
Me: INSOMNIA = BAD
Roomate: haha yes this is ture
Roomate: true
Me: yeeccch
Roomate: i could knock u out if ud like
Roomate: lol
Me: nothing like falling asleep to murderous individuals
Roomate: u sicko!
Roomate: haha
Me: hey
Me: i'm not the one that quoted law and order's opening
Me: oh buurn
Roomate: yea u did...i heard u too
Me: DID NOT
Roomate: ohhh burn
Me: NO ONE HEARD ME
Me: NO ONE WILL BELIEVE YOU
Me: MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
Roomate: haha rightttt its all in ur head
Roomate: we are soooo cool
Me: well what I did with your mom las tnight wasn't in my head
Roomate: ohh snap
Roomate: u got me there
Me: i'm all sweaty
Me: and its like - 100 degrees outsisde the dorm
Roomate: haha yea this weather is absurd
Roomate: or maybe ur just going thro menopause
Roomate: haha jk!
Me: that thing looks like its on acid (regarding the giggly Panda buddy icon)
Roomate: maybe it is...u got a problem with pandas who do acid??
Roomate: cuz thats just wrong
Roomate: :-P
Me: maybe i do! i ain't havin no acid whores in my dorm room!
Roomate: lol ohh but u is!
Mee: kiss my jewish white lack of an ass
Roomate: kiss my mixed j-lo look a like dass of an ass
Roomate: way to be snorting (I laughed out loud, my nose is stuffy = snorting)
Roomate: good job
Me: way to be touching yourself
Roomate: damn! u can see that!
Roomate: i thought i was being pretty discreet
Roomate: guess not
Roomate: darn
Roomate: ill have to stop that now
Roomate: awkward!
Roomate: haha

So maybe it's much more funny to me than it is to you, fair readers, but damn, I'm cracking up now.

Literary Theory Sluts

2006-01-31T09:39:00.000-05:00

Anyone who has known me for the smallest amount of time knows that often my mind resides quite happily in the gutter. (Although, I could side with Oscar Wilde, who believes all of us are in the gutter, but some of us look at the stars.) But of course, in class, I try to tone down my perverse nature for the sake of education.

Until of course, my Literary Theory course. For the first real literary criticisms, we read a selection of Little Red Riding Hood tales from different time periods and different perspectives. (My personal favorite was a Politicall Correct Fairy Tale by James Thurber). As we discussed these different stories in class, I was stunned to discover that everything, and I mean everything in that story symbolizes sex of some kind. And the Professor points out things that relate to sex that no one would have picked up on. Trees? Sex. Nature? Sex. The Wolf? Sex. The Hunstman? Sex. Little Red Riding Hood? Sex. Granny? Not so much. But how else would Little Red Riding Hood's Mom exist?

Granted, the characters and scenery symbolize a great many other things, but apparently, in everything I read I need to look for feminist criticism, Christ references, and sex.

This is awkward.

Oh, Sweet Tuesday! Thou art my Joy!

2006-01-31T09:33:00.000-05:00

My alarm went off at 7 am, allowing me ample time to shower, dress, blow dry my hair, AND read over my notes for class. Boston - More than a Feeling, my alarm tone, rang and rang. I woke up. I set my alarm clock for 8 am. I woke up at 8 am. My room was sweltering. The heat was on too high, and I have no control over it. I rolled out of bed feeling disgusting, and realizing I had no time to shower. I threw on some clothes, some make up, pulled my hair up, pulled on a hat, and trudged out of my room into the rain, barely making it to East, where my class is held. I hoisted myself up three flights of stairs, staggered to the door, only to find it closed, with a sign on it.

My class had been cancelled.

My only class for the day is cancelled.

Which is a cause for great jubilance!

I don't have any class for the rest of the day!

Although of course it figures that the one day I barely make it to class is the one day I don't have class.

Thanks Fate, I appreciate that.

Listen to This

2006-01-30T11:44:00.000-05:00

Fiona Apple - Extraordinary Machine
For all the years it took for this album to come out, its amazing. Rolling Stone Magazine named it the #3 album of the year. Her voice is beautiful and her lyrics are powerful. She has the ability in a single song to so intensely display an emotion, it physically affects you.

Sufjan Stevens - (Come on Feel the) Illinoise!
Brilliant, indescribable album. Lyrical, poetic, flowing, lilting, intense.

Maybe Catholic School Would Have Rounded My Education

2006-01-30T11:34:00.000-05:00

Intro to Art History is an insanely fabulous course. It's intense, and thought-provoking, and flat out interesting. However, I often find myself mired in the confusion that comes with, well, being Jewish.

Today we studies a triptych altar piece of the Northern Renaissance depicting the birth of Jesus (which has a specific name that I can't remember) and the stories of John the Baptist and John the Evangelist. I had no idea there were two Johns. Hadn't the faintest idea! I sat there puzzled, flanked on my left and right side by two Catholic school girls, who could actually relate the image of a beheading to something in the bible. Did you know Salome was in the bible? Hell, I didn't.

So, here lies my greatest problem - I have no idea what these pieces depict, ergo, I cannot properly analyze the images in said pieces. Apparently, lilies symbolize Mary, Columbines symbolize 15 something or others of Mary. And who knew that Mary knew Jesus was going to die? I didn't.

I'm sorely tempted to pick up an illustrated children's New Testament just to figure out who this Jesus guy is.

How Do You Say Awesome in German?

2006-01-29T14:30:00.000-05:00

Because my brother is flippin' awesome.

See Reports from Abroad for proof.

88.3 WDCV

2006-01-29T14:00:00.000-05:00

On a far more educational note, I joined the college radio. In a month or show, I will be getting my own show.

It's a slightly complicated process, and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing or how a radio station works, so as a newbie, I start with a 3 week apprenticeship. Luckily for me, I'm friends with the music director of the radio station, so I will be apprenticing under him every Thursday night from 10pm - 12 am for the next three weeks. If all things go well, I will then be given my own show.

I cannot even begin to say how ridiculously exciting this is. Now beyond forcing my excellent taste in music on my roomate, I can force it to everyone in at least a 75 mile radius around my school. Because I'm not afraid to admit that my taste in music far exceeds the majority of the world's taste in music.

And for those disbelievers who mock my love of classic rock, I'll have you know that my show will focus not only on classic rock but indie and alt rock, as well. The only downside of that is I'm required to play at least 2 constant rotation songs that are in great demand every show, but hopefully for the 7 minutes total that those songs are played, all my listeners will simultaneously get up to use the restroom. I don't want to hurt them like that. I couldn't live with myself if I did.

Ha! I'm Back! Suckers!!!!!!

2006-01-29T13:45:00.000-05:00

Hey kids, I know you were getting worried about my health and well-being over there on your computers, but first semester just started, and I've been just a tad bit busy. Just a smidge. But here I am, so please, feel free to breathe a sigh of relief.

2nd Semester is off to a far better start than 1st semester ended, my classes are infinitely better, my outlooks is infinitely better, and the heat in my room is working. And after 3 months of waiting, the college finally replaced my door handle, broken off by a desperate drunkard searching for my roomate. And of course, my iPod speakers. Those babies are hands down the most awesome thing in my dorm room. Besides me of course.

So, today would be Sunday. Sunday follows Saturday. More specifically Sunday follows Saturday night. (I bet you can see where I'm going with this.) Let me preface my Saturday night by telling you all that Friday night I spent in my room watching movies and eating chinese food. Moderation, my friends, moderation. Saturday, however, was a different story. Saturday night I grabbed dinner with some girlfriends of mine, all ROTC. Dinner was excellent, and it was decided upon that we would go to the small party at ROTC house later. It was, of course, a lot of fun, but I learned a very big lesson there.

Never.
Ever.
And I mean never.
Go up against ROTC boys in drinking games.
You will have your ass handed to you in Quarters.
(And yes, that was a pun, for all you old timers.)

This From an Anonymous Donor

2006-01-23T15:11:00.000-05:00

Note the careful use of highlighter and index card.

First Day O' Classes - 2nd Semester Style

2006-01-23T11:52:00.000-05:00

I'd like to take this moment to say that my mother was right. All the sleeping-in I did over Winter Break took its toll at 7 15 this morning when my alarm went off. It took me until 7 40 to remove myself from my bed, where I barely made it to the shower. But, I made it to class on time.

My first class of the morning was Political Science 180: Political Philosophy at 8 30 AM. I arrived with 10 minutes to spare, because I have a horrible and irrational fear of tardiness. The bedraggled and damp (it's raining) class slowly filled in, and at exactly 8 30 our professor walked in. I really shouldn't take a stab at him so early in the semester, but I can't resist. He is clearly a very intelligent man, but he is bald, and his round head is exactly the same shape as his round stomach. It' just cracks me up. How perfectly circular his head and stomach are. Also, when he gets excited and emphatic, he annunciates his words to a comical degree. Think Dr. Evil in the Austin Powers movies. O-kay class. The Pelo-po-ne-sian War. They blamed So-c-rates! And o-f course Pla-to was a contemporary of Socra-tes and had different op-i-n-i-o-n-s.

My second class was Art History, which there isn't much to say other than AWESOME!

My final class was English 220: Critical Thinking and Literary Analysis. What a class. After the introduction and the syllabus review, we spent 30 minutes discussing a 6 line Virginia Woolf poem. I saw more things in that poem than I have in entire novel (with the direction of the Professor.) It's going to be ridiculously difficult, but looks to be the most interesting and expansive English class I've ever taken.

Good Ole Pennsyltucky

2006-01-22T09:30:00.000-05:00

Well, beloved readers, I have returned from my painfully long winter break, (where I quickly ran out of things about which to write) to the good old state of Pennsylvania which is a veritable cornicopia of people to mock. So why deny myself what I do best? So last night, as I mentioned in my previous post, I made a list of things to mock. Let's begin, shall we?

1. The music in Amy's Thai - For our last dinner together, my mother and I went to a restaurant on the main street called Amy's Thai, a quaint little eatery with overly flowerly decor and non-Asian waiters. As we sat, staring blankly at eachother, overcome by the sheer size of the flowers on the wallpaper, my ears picked up a familiar tune. Hotel California (originally by the Eagles for all of you who don't respect yourselfs enough to know good music), was audible. But I was thrown off slightly, last time I'd checked (which believe me, was recently) there was no use of a small sharp sounding string instrument in Hotel California. I'm all for the playing of excellent music in restaurants, but if you're going to destroy it, I'd prefer dead silence. Or the track of birds singing in the forest that was played after Hotel California.

2. Wal-Mart: South Central PA Style - Loathe though I am to admit that I shop at Wal-Mart, in my defense, there is nowhere else to shop in my "might as well be Bible belt" area of Pennyslvania. And so, my mother and I ventured to the Super Center (larger than the college cafeteria). I could mock so much about this place, but I've selected one item. As we walked out of the car, I noticed a mother hurrying her twin sons, who couldn't have been more than nine years old to the entrance of the store. These lovely cherubs were wearing, I kid you not, matching hunting jackets, hats, and pants. Now, for my own conscience I assumed they were imitating Daddy in his hunting gear, but I have a startling suspicion that Daddy might be using these kids for target practice in the woods. Hey, it's Pennyslvania.

3. Dust and Dust Bunnies and Dust Mammoths - Upon my return to my dorm room, my roomate and I re arranged our room for the first time since we arrived at school. I moved my bed from one wall to another. Did you know that it is actually possible to accumulate dust bunnies over 4 inches wide? No? I didn't either. Did you know it's also possible to lose over 5 dollars in change beneath your printer alone? These are all very important things that every college student should learn. I hope you took notes.

Exhausted - But Back at School

2006-01-21T23:18:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm back and settled into my lovely dorm room, too exhausted to write much, but here's a preview of what I'll write tomorrow: Hotel California in Amy's Thai, Twins in Hunting Gear and Maniacal Dust Bunnies.

To hold you over, here are some pictures of my newly arranged room.
(Note - the picture of the Abercrombie and Fitch model belongs to my roomate, not me. I will, however, take credit for the 3 Led Zeppelin posters.)

What I Do in My "Spare" Time, Parts I & II

2006-01-16T18:31:00.000-05:00

No seriously. Save me.

The New York Times Agrees With Me!

2006-01-16T15:41:00.000-05:00

The phone rang this afternoon, and my mother, who always looks for little things like this for me, says "Sarah, go pick up the NYT, Section E, Page 5." I inquired as to why, but she left me hanging. So I sprinted to the NYT, found the page, scanned it, and saw the headline: A Scrappy Jam Band, but Hold the Jam.

The NYT wrote about the O.A.R. concert at Madison Square Garden! They agreed with me entirely, they said everything I said. And since I don't really need to repeat myself, I'll take my favorite quote from the article and expand upon it -

"The members spent two and a half hours entertaining a high-spirited (should that hypen be a comma?) crowd of collegiate and pre-collegiate revelers."

Kelefa Sanneh, you hit the nail on the head with that one. Everyone in that building was stoned. If you didn't bring your own, you were second hand high from the stoners in front of you. From my upper perch, I could see lighters sparking constantly throughout the concert as bowls and pipes and joints were lit. One deep breath in the Garden and you were giddy for 10 minutes.

And seriously, where else can you get high for free AND see an epic concert other than Madison Square Garden.

(In retrospect, probably a lot of places, but I've only been to MSG.)

Angry! Angry! ANGRY!!

2006-01-15T23:26:00.000-05:00

I am avidly opposed to musical blasphemy. For example, when I read that Hilary "Untalented" Duff sang the Who's "My Generation" at a concert and changed the lyrics to "I hope I don't die before I get old." It's taken me a year to overcome that blow.

But the Who just keep the hits coming. First they let Saab use "I'm Free" and "Pinball Wizard" which could have been worse, because at least Saab is a halfway respectable company, but now, they've crossed the line.

I'm watching Pretty Woman on TBS because I am, in fact, in possession of two X chromosones, and a commercial for Silverstar Headlights came on with "I Can See For Miles" playing throughout.

For the love of God, Daltry and Townshend have some pride in your brilliance! Don't sell it to a headlights company! Have you no sense of decency?

The Full Report - O.A.R. Live at Madison Square Garden

2006-01-15T12:57:00.000-05:00

When I first started blogging, in spring of 2004, my father took me to see The Who live at Madison Square Garden, and it wasn't an experience I was ever likely to forget. When I learned that one of my favorite bands, O.A.R. (Of a revolution...), was playing at Madison Square Garden in January, and tickets were 35 dollars, I jumped at the chance. Now, the afternoon after, in retrospect, it was the best split-second decision I've ever made. Despite some ticket mixups, and a bout of mono attacking a friend of mine that was going to drive down from Boston, two friends and an aquaintance of mine took the train into New York City, wandered around for a bit and then headed into Madison Square Garden.

We visited Times Square, which looks ten times more beautiful and cinema-worthy in the rain, the rush of people and blowing umbrellas fitting the speed of the of the sparkling and flashing signs. We ended up walking into the Toys R Us in Times Square, which was quite a rush. The colors, and the hustle and bustle, and the neon lights and the toys! Man, had I know that place existede when I was a kid, I would have run away to live there forever. Between Neverland and the Toys R Us in Times Square, I think I would have passed over Neverland.

And then, the moment, and the rush - Madison Square Garden. We pushed through the crowds of drunk and high teenagers, unable to hold themselves up in thin tank tops and tight skirts, and finally found our entrance to our seats.

When I was at the Who concert, the average age of the concert goer was 50. At the O.A.R. concert, the average age of the concert goer was 19. The vibes of the audience were so entirely different. The excitement of youth who are still wasting their lives away on drugs, and squandering their wealthy parent's money as opposed to the burly beer bellied men who lived that life and now lead a regular one. Of all of us at the concert, we could easily have been split into two categories. The first category is the one that I fall into - people at Madison Square Garden because they love the band and the music. Unfortunately, the majority of concertgoers fell into the second category - drunken teenagers who won't remember the concert, only attending because their friends were all in attendance, equally as blitzed. It was a kind of sad testament to my generation, I think, that we'd rather be so wrecked that we don't remember a concert, as opposed to enjoying the concert for what it is - music.

The opening act was Matisyahu, a Hassidic Jew reggae singer, and odd as that may seem, he's amazing. His voice is amazing, his songs are beautiful, and he's just fun to listen to! Plus, you have to admire that he can move with such grace around the stage in such confining religious garb.

Finally, my friend Jackie and I anxiously awaited the band. This following picture is Jackie and I taking pictures of ourselves to pass the time. To be perfectly honest, it has absolutely nothing to do with this post, other than the fact that we both look awesome.

Finally! O.A.R. took the stage -

I hate that I have no words to describe the incredible feeling of a concert at Madison Square Garden. In my most feeble attempt, I can say that the feeling of the music pumping through your soul at such a volume, that your soul feels like it could swell until it fills the entire 2 block theater. When your heart bumps so fast and the guitarist is playing such a solo that it sends shivers down your spinal chord. Goosebumps up your arms and shoulders in time with the bass.
Forgetting anything else but you, the music, the ebb and flow of the crowd. It's euphoria.

Preface to O.A.R. Post

2006-01-15T02:40:00.000-05:00

I overcame being second hand high, drove 20 miles an hour through a snowstorm, and uploaded all my pictures to update you really quickly on how the sheer awesome of the O.A.R. concert at MSG. But I'm too exhausted. So here are a few briefs.

1. Matisyahu (the opener) is hands down the coolest Jew since Jesus.
2. Drunk white boys shouldn't dance.

Just When I Thought My Family Couldn't Get Any Odder...

2006-01-11T14:16:00.000-05:00

I'm just talking to some friends online when a new box pops up. Its my mom.

Mom: Interesting factoid... Today is the 100th birthday of the man who invented LSD. He's still alive!

Reason #1 to Love College Breaks

2006-01-10T23:35:00.000-05:00

Reuniting with old friends / senior prom dates and finally looking back on it all...and laughing.

Condoms are a Tasty Dinner Discussion

2006-01-09T23:52:00.000-05:00

My older brother, a junior in college, leaves for Germany tomorrow to study abroad until August. (You can see his blog at Reports from Abroad) At dinner this evening, my father mentioned something along the lines of whether or not they had picked up a certain protective item for my brother's trip. I bluntly informed them that I knew exactly what they were talking about.

We joke around for a bit about how my brother would purchase, well, condoms in his moment of need with a beautiful German girl, when my mother learns over to my 82 year old grandfather who was born in Germany and says, "Hey Pop, how do you say condom in german?" His eyes bulged more than usual in his thick glasses. He answered quite plainly that it was the same way you say it in english - a rubber.

"Isn't that what they call condoms in England?", my dad interjected, "rubbers?" The family paused in nearly audible thought. No, my mother said, those are the rain boots.

The conversation then veered more indepth into condoms, and what my brother would do should the situation arise.

"Can we please talk about the weather?" asked my dad.
"Sure." I replied. "So Dad, about the weather, do you think you'll need your rubbers tomorrow?"

Sherwin-Williams is Out for World Domination

2006-01-09T15:56:00.000-05:00

The Sherwin-Williams Paints logo is a quite sizable bucket covering the planet in red liquid. They want you to think it's paint, underneath which is written "Cover the Earth". Cover the earth with what? Paint? Oh yeah, that's a good idea. And besides, it looks like blood. The only conclusion one could draw is that SWP is out for world domination. I'd suggest avoiding them at all possible costs. Unless it's between SWP and Home Depot for paints. I'd go with SWP. They don't play chick music.

Home Depot - What the Hell?

2006-01-09T10:32:00.000-05:00

It was just yesterday, my father and I parked our tiny volvo among a sea of trucks, and wandered into the orange behemoth structure that is Home Depot. We entered through the automatic doors, and took deep breaths, inhaling as much of the testosterone laced saw dust as we could. We were ready. Chests out and shoulders back, we marched proudly into the hardware store of giants, and began our search for our required items. Clamps. Face plates. A larger mat on which to wipe our dirty feet in the mud room, because ours didn't pick up quite enough dirt. My god, we are not manly enough to walk through Home Depot. I felt like I should a. have balls so b. I could be scratching them while staring at power tools. Instead, I stood aloof in front of a wall of ivory and white metal faceplates, a picture of wuss in my polo popped collar and brooks brothers sweater.

But then, I heard it. Was that? No, it couldn't be! It was! Michelle Branch was playing quite audibly through Home Depot's speakers! Chick music! Chick music about independence and breaking away from the oafish lugs in their lives. It was difficult to believe. Maybe it was my mind making a subconcious block to the insane amounts of testosterone shooting at me. No, the music was definitely chick music. Michelle Branch was followed by Train's Drops of Jupiter.

What was this insanity? There are power tools in this building capable of killing a small population of badgers. Why? Why the artsy calming chick music? Is Home Depot so horribly afraid of the big burly men coming together and storming the orange fortress?

I came to Home Depot for a reason. Well I didn't, my dad did, but regardless, give me some music that makes me feel manly. Give me big, round, ball-scratchin', beer-chuggin', heavy-liftin' music, dammit.

King Kong is So Big Right Now

2006-01-08T02:09:00.000-05:00

p.s. We were seeing the Family Stone. King Kong took over and they stopped selling Sour Patch Kids. I adamantly and fervently object to movie theaters not selling Sour Patch Kids. It's moral injustice. And unfair to the overcharged movie goers. Give me SPKs or give me death, Crown Theaters, I'm not kidding.

Things Against Which I am Ethically Opposed

2006-01-06T12:40:00.001-05:00

1. Winter & Being Short: I love winter, because I get to snowboard in winter. But the good things stop right there. First, it's cold. I'm not a big fan of cold. I'm small, I don't produce all that much body heat. Second, in relation to being small, when you are short you have to really reach to the roof to brush off a car. Which means your entire torso becomes soaking wet and icy. Third, I'm convinced that my lack of height has affected my center of gravity to the point that as soon as I hit ice, I'm down. The intelligent thing to do would probably be to strap a pillow to my butt throughout the winter months, for my own protection.

2. The 80s: I have the The Who - Live at the Isle of Wight Festival 1970 DVD. My brother has The Who - Tommy & Quadrophenia 1989 DVD. Roger Daltry what did you do with yourself in those 19 years? Is that a lightning bult earring? And a curly mullet? And a torn jean vest? What? WHAT? He was hot in 1970, he still had the capability to be hot in 1989, but man he blew that one. I'm convinced that nothing good came out of the 80s. You know, other than me.

3. South Central Pennsylvania: It's that place between the Amish people and the cows. It's also where I go to school.

Let's Do the Time Warp Again

2006-01-06T00:07:00.000-05:00

It's just a jump to the left.

And a step to the ri-i-i-i-ight.

Put your hands on your hips. And pull your knees in ti-i-i-i-ght.

Do the pelvic thruuusst. That really drives you insaaaaaane.

Let's do the Time Warp again!

Did I mention how much I love Rocky Horror nights?

Short Notes

2006-01-05T14:34:00.000-05:00

Since I couldn't blog while I was snowboarding in Vermont, I kept a small list of things I wanted to write about when I returned home. A good plan, to be sure, but I wrote only the object about which I wanted to write, not any details regarding it. So, with my scribbled list in my left hand, and scratching my head with my right, I'll attempt to put my ideas together. (Which I guess means I'll have to type with my nose, so I'll put the scrap of paper down.)

Johnny Damon & the Yankees: I'm a Mets fan. My father believes this means we side with the Yankees if the Yankees end up in a World Series. I'm a firm believer that the Yankees should burn in hell either way, so I'll support whatever team is against the Yankees. So I hooted and hollered my head off when the Sox won the World Series. I partook in the hero worship of players, including Johnny Damon. But now, I have one thing to say: Johnny Damon, what the fuck? You're a Yankee now? Why don't you sell your soul to the devil while you're at it? Does Johnny Damon realize he will no longer be able to safely walk through Boston? A toe into the city and he'll be shot. He really will be.

Bush's Foul Exit in China: Escaping press conferences would be much easier if you exited the same door from which you entered. Thumbs up for that one, genius.

Government Spying on Muslim Websites: Ignoring the fact that the entire country's first amendment rights have been violated, there was one thing that really irked me in this situation. News stations, including CNN, spun the scenario in such a way that it was acceptable because "only the muslim websites were being spied on. Not everyone's websites." What? Are Muslims not allowed to have websites now? Are they not a part of this country as well? What would happen if Bush said "It's alright, we were only spying on Christian sites." Am I the only one that picked up on this? What's with the "It's okay to spy on the, they're different." I'm different, hell I'm probably a little bit crazy, but I highly doubt there's anyone spying on my blog.

Dave Eggers: I'm reading the Dave Eggers novel A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. It's brilliant. Eggers is clearly a narcissist, but dammit, he's brilliant! I've chosen two quotes from the novel that I've fallen in love with to share.

"We are unusual and tragic and alive."

"Something needs to happen. Something huge. The taking over of something, a building, a city, a country. We should all be armed and taking over small countries. Or rioting. Or no: an orgy. There should be an orgy."

The Rocky Horror Picture Show: What a flippin' awesome movie.

Small Children: Points if you knock one over on the slopes. Triple points if they lose their skis.

Hi. How are you today?

2006-01-05T14:13:00.000-05:00

I hate New Years Resolutions. Honestly, how many people actually keep their resolutions? And for those of us that don't, why should there be only one day a year on which we decide we should improve ourselves. Should we not be constantly improving? And granted, that's a very naive criticism, most of us are too busy to constantly improve ourselves.

But you know what? I resolved to improve myself. 3 days ago. And it wasn't a New Years Resolution, it was a if I don't fix this problem I'll never survive college. I'll preface the following information with this - I'm a smart kid. I'm not brilliant, but I'm certainly not stupid. In high school my grades were slightly above average, and I'm sure would have been much higher if I'd actually tried. I maintained a steady 2.8 - 3.0 GPA. The idea of getting anything lower than a 2.5 seemed slightly ludicrous to me. That would be called being cocky.

I calculated my first semester GPA, and all sorts of shit hit all sorts of fans. With 4 classes, each final grade combined into a GPA calculator, my grand total was (drum roll) : 1.93. And it's nobody's fault but mine. I know there are "adjustment issues" for college freshman, but I didn't think it was actually possible for anyone other than a football player to get lower than a 2.0 GPA.

I've tried to pinpoint my problem, and I think the main issue lies in focus. But the pure thought that I'm going to have to get straight As next semester to have any glimpse of a hope of being allowed to study abroad, rush a sorority, or even be allowed to remain at college is so panic inducing focus seems miles and miles away.

So here it is -
All homework must be done the day after it is given.
Essays must be started a week before they are due.
If I am in the dorm, I will be sleeping or preparing.
Any free time during the day will be spend in the Library.
Grades lower than a B on any piece of work handed in will be unacceptable.
Social life will be nonexistant until the current grade is 2.5.

I cannot flunk out of college. I cannot get another C - in English.

I'm not entirely sure I can do this.

Masochism for the Family - Snow Sports

2006-01-04T12:55:00.000-05:00

My parents put me in skis when I was three. They'd lug me up the slope and then push me down for the other parent to catch. Pitch and Catch they called it. (Side note: Boy am I glad that I didn't know anything back then, because if I had, I'm not entirely sure I'd trust someone who sent me careening down a snowy hill at the tender age of three in a pink puffy body suit.) So, from an early age I connected with the mountain. And by connected I mean body full force into ice. It soon became clear to my parents that in order to survive childhood, a helmet would be required. And so, to perfectly match my pink puffy body suit, I got a helmet with brightly colored paint splashes on it. I was a fashion plate my friends, a fashion plate.

Pushing past the Pitch & Catch stage of skiing, I was attached to a leash. A nylon cord that kept me somewhat firmly reined in by my parents. Literally reined in. I'd feel the leash pull to the right, and suddenly, I'd turn right! Truly a miraculous feat of engineering. Come to think of it, that may have been the very last time my parents had complete control over everything I did. Oh, those must have been the days.

Continuing my journey through skiing, I progressed from the leash, to free skiing, to skiing with poles! I was invincible. I survived accidents that would crush a mere mortal. In my excellence, I reigned supreme. But something was tugging firmly at me.

Snowboarding! Those guys are awesome, I'd think to myself, my heart beating faster at the sound of a board slapping against a jump. Skiing was for stiffnecked, prim and proper people. At the tender age of 13, I couldn't possibly ever be one of those people. (Perish the thought!) Luckily for me, my father broke his leg, and could no longer comfortable fit in a ski boot with the massive metal screws in his leg. So he took snowboarding lessons. So I took snowboarding lessons.

Then the pain, I mean, fun, began. After mastering the simple task of standing up while on a snowboard, the second day class brought us to the top of the learners hill. I scoffed at it, I had successfully mastered double black diamonds in my days as a skiier! Bad idea, by the way. I began my descent down the hill, excited to be moving with some sort of speed. The edge of my snowboard caught on a granule of snow. I slammed into the ground, head first, hard. But that was nothing. I had enough momentum that as soon as I hit the ground my snowboard flew forward and cracked me in the back of the head. (By the way, wearing a helment was a really good idea.) While that was embarassing enough, my momentum had by no means decreased, and I flipped over, landing on my stomach again, with another dull thump on the back of my head. Three times.

But, I did beat the rest of the learning group down the hill.

My Loft Bed in Vermont - A Fond Recollection of What Should Be Firewood

2006-01-04T00:07:00.000-05:00

This ceiling is spiked. Not the metal spikes of death metal rockers, but the spikes that some interior decorator thought to himself, “Wouldn’t it be just fabulous if the ceiling was coated in little white balls totally randomly placed serving no purpose whatsoever? Absolutely!” And it was beneath this constellation of spikes 8 inches beneath which I slept for two weeks. It was a lovely arrangement at first. In a condominium filled with a large and bustling family, I was lucky enough to have an entire bed to myself. Little did I know that generosity was just a ploy to put the small one in the smallest space, where injury is most possible. I am not a log sleeper, meaning I don’t stay in one place. People as brilliant as I never sit still, even when we are asleep. So I tend to gain minimal amounts of consciousness in the dead of night and roll over violently, flinging my arms over my head. My arms are a great deal longer than 8 inches. My knuckles slammed full speed against the ceiling, the random spikes ripping off the flesh in a 2-millimeter area, causing it to bleed. The knuckles, however, where nothing compared to the severe brain damage I received when the light was turned on in my sleeping quarters every morning. The light is placed in the center of the ceiling, which corresponds precisely with the lower right hand corner of my bed. When turned on, its rays pierced my fluffy sleep and wake me up with a start. Waking up with a start generally involves a sudden raising of the torso. The raising should continue for 90 degrees, unless say, a ceiling got in the way. And when that ceiling gets in the way, large bumps appear one the head, often referred to as huge ass bruises.

The final comment I have to make about my loft bed involves my mother. In passing at breakfast one morning during the course of our vacation, I mentioned that perhaps my bed was not as sturdy as we had all presumed. I was reassured it wasn’t, and we continued our breakfast. At 4 AM the next day, I was awoken with a start when I felt my bed shaking. I looked down – my mother was shaking my bed while helping my grandfather.

“Why are you shaking my bed?” I inquired.

“I wanted to see if it was sturdy.” She responded. “Why are you awake?” she added.

“You were shaking my bed.” I say, slightly puzzled.

“No I wasn’t!”

Yes, Mom, yes you were.

Blast from the Past

2005-12-19T13:08:00.000-05:00

Due to current renovations on our house, my family spent the entire day yesterday emptying rooms of clothing and furniture. Unluckly for me, the rest of the family had had a head start - my parents started last week, and my brother had essentially completely moved out of the house before starting his junior year in college. I, on the other hand, had a full closet, a full chest of drawers, and a small family of trolls under my bed. And so, I began my task.

I started with my closet, finding it far less difficult than it had been in the past to throw away little trinkets from my youth. I found the wooden floor of my closet empty, and began to go through my dresses and skirts hanging there. Now this hurt. I got rid of (donated) my first "grown up" skirt, my classy gray skirt from Express, and worst of all, my purple and black jester costume from 6th grade. (Actually, that last one wasn't all that difficult.) Going through my skirts and dresses, remembering what I wore them for....then I stumbled upon my prom dress from senior year. That I didn't donate. It was the most magical article of clothing I've ever worn in my entire life. There are no words to describe how I felt wearing it, and how it makes me feel looking at it. It's one of those pieces of clothing that absolutely transforms you.

Finally, my closet empty, I emptied my drawers, a surprisingly simple task, considering I brought all the clothes I actually like to school, so it wasn't hard to distinguish what to keep and what to get rid of. With all the clothing accounted for, I prepared myself for the most daunting of all my jobs. The mess beneath my mattress.

10 years ago, I could easily shimmy under the mattress, fitting my entire body beneath it. Now, my brain has grown so much, I can't even fit my head into the space between the frame and the floor. Which is probably good, because there have GOT to be some nasty dust born viruses living beneath my bed. I rummaged around my junk until I found the back scratcher a friend bought for me in Chinatown years ago. Great, now I had an extension of my being with which to reach the mass of stuff beneath my bed. It worked really well, the claw at the end was great for grasping stuff.

I didn't find anything particularly breathtaking, old magazines, books, drawings, pitiful 6th grade poems about how cruel the world was. But then, JACKPOT. Nestled in the far corner, beneath my mattress, in the upper right hand corner, was a little green stride rite shoebox. I pulled it over. Can you guess what I found? I found...Pogs.

Pogs became popular the summer before I was in 2nd grade. I remember sitting on the floor of Mrs. Reed's classroom, next to the baby chicks we were hatching, trading pogs. I found my Slammer too, and it has got to be the sickest slammer ever. It's yellow and black. I must have over 200 pogs, including the sparkly ones my dad bought me in Florida. They had teddy bears and unicorns on them. (Unicorns? Cringe.) But, I had some pretty hardcore pogs too. Wavy Gravy from Ben & Jerry's, pogs my Dad's company had made, Schwinn Bikes pogs, skull pogs, but the best pog ever?

Math Blaster! I found a math blaster pog! Math Blaster was a computer game my brother and I played when we were little. There were little colorful astronauts and math problems. To be perfectly honest, as pitiful as it is, the last time I was able to do math correctly was while playing Math Blaster. Needless to say, I did NOT donate my Pogs.

What I did donate however, was the most shameful pile I have ever seen in my entire life. I brag and I boast a great deal about my fabulous taste in music. Truly. My taste in music is better than yours. But that didn't really come about until late high school, when I really started my obsession with music.

Before that, in middle school, my prepubscent days of naivety, I owned these:

If you look closely at that pile of compact discs you will see - BBMak, Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, Madonna, and Destiny's Child. I am so sorry you had to see that. But to be honest, I don't think I could have learned to be a full and complete person without facing my past demons - blonde and high pitched as they are.

And so, I sit cross-legged on my bed, staring at my empty walls, reminiscing on the days when life was simple, and we all played Pogs.

Farewell First Semester! (The Right Way!)

2005-12-17T00:25:00.000-05:00

So I'm going to be honest here.
I hated you first semester.
With every fiber of my being.
I hope you burn in hell.
So I'm celebrating your departure. In STYLE.

FYI

2005-12-16T13:21:00.000-05:00

I have unhealthy obsession with floss.

Farewell First Semester!

2005-12-16T13:17:00.000-05:00

I just handed in my final paper for English 212A, my bag is mostly packed, my books are put away, and my room is spotless.

Cliche as it is, I cannot fathom how first semester is already over. I'll be leaving for an entire month! I've finally become acclimated with my surroundings, made a friend or two, embarassed myself completely once or twice, and already, a whole semester gone!

I never realized how quickly time goes by, it's a little bit frightening.

Cheap Dates : A Lesson in Lightweights

2005-12-15T16:05:00.000-05:00

College is a learning experience. You learn about the world around you, foreign languages, maths, sciences, and occasionally a thing or two about politics. But that's in the day time? I know this may come as a surprise to you, but college students like to throw back a beer or two at night. Football players and literary geeks alike! So, when one finishes finals, one likes to let lose.

Throughout my college evenings, I've discovered many different types of alcoholic drinks. Shall I take you through my discoverie in tolerance? I think I will
Beer (Lite): Good, clean fun. I can drink 3 without a problem.
Rum: 3 Shots, I'm good.
Vodka: 1 1/2 shots in a screwdriver and I couldn't make it up the stairs to my room.

Last night, I was introduced to a friendly little drink called Whiskey.
Around 2AM, I headed over to my friend's room across campus to watch Family Guy and drink to celebrate the ending of our Final Week hell. He mixed me a travel mug of Coke and whiskey. 2 shots of whiskey max.

I drank slowly. I drank 1/4 of the mug. The world started getting a little fuzzy.

I looked at my friend, he looked at me.
"Dude!" he yelled, "FISH EYES!"
He looked at how much I drank.
"Holy shit...." he said in disbelief, "You are the biggest lightweight I have ever met in my entire life."

This is probably true. I weigh 112 lbs max. It's a short kid thing.

So I was thinking about my lightweight status, and how cheap a date I would be.
I can picture the scene - me, in a bar.
Gentleman: "Excuse me, ma'am, may I buy you a drink?"
Me: "Well, you can buy me 1/2 a drink, 'cuz any more than that and I am DOOONE."

The Biggest Lesson I Learned from Finals Week

2005-12-13T10:52:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: If you really do not want to know really personal information about me or are at all uncomfortable with too much information, for the love of God, do NOT read this post.

Finals week hits you pretty fast. Last weekend, I had every intention of doing my large pile of laundry, the pile that's overflowing from my laundry bag. But studying kept getting in the way! I couldn't keep running back and forth from the library to my dorm. And so I decided to do my laundry on Wednesday, tomorrow, because I took my last final this morning. Bad idea.

When I was getting dressed this morning at 7 30, I frantically searched my sock and underwear drawer. Any comfortable underwear, test-taking underwear, was in the bottom of my laundry bag. Worn. And I didn't have any socks.

So the lesson of Finals Week is: Wash your laundry, because wearing a thong during your environmental science final is NOT a good test taking strategy. At all.