So, What Do You Do During The BlaZe?

No, friends, Columbia hasn't resorted to handing out free pot treats to the new first-years. It's the "new" CUnity, or the anti-CUnity, if you will. The BlaZe was probably the most fun I've had at college (sober) thus far. Hopefully I will snag some pictures from committee and the Bwog to showcase in the very near future. I was in charge of the "Make The NSOP Staffer Laugh" event, and committee members would just set up camp with me because my event was most awesome. Although, I saw way more naked freshman ass than I ever needed to see. Why do people think that by simply pulling down your pants I will fall down in stitches? Mooning is all in the delivery.

Will You Light My Candle?

I was given a truly amazing opportunity to commune with my fellow students and be a representative for my sophomore class by lighting the sophomore candle at the Barnard Convocation for the Class of 2010. For those of you who didn't go through some type of convocation during their orientation at college, it's basically an opportunity for administrators to prove that they're real people and not just a title to the students, and for all the students to be gathered together under the same roof (or in our case, gathered under a beautiful setup of lights and draped fabric that took about three hours, twenty people, and a lot of coffee to construct).

After a long day of helping first-years get moved into their doubles in the quad (in the pouring, humid rain, I might add), stuffing bags with programs and stuffed Barnard Bears for convocation, and frantically trying to memorize my lines for my College Night performance, I was ready for some meditation and communion with my fellow Barnard women that I have come to know and love, as well as the newest class to enter the iron gates at 115th and Broadway.

During bag stuffing, Danielle, who planned Convocation, asked Kate, Megan, and I to practice using the lighter we would be using to light our respective candles during the ceremony. It's the same kind I use at home to light the barbecue with, so I lit it with ease. I was so excited to be a part of this tradition - it was all really happening.

I sat through the ceremony, watched the alumni slideshow, and took it all in. I even teared up during Andi Grossman's speech, a graduate of 2006.

As Andi asked the Class of 2010, "What will your next four years mean for you?" I walked up to the candles set up on stage with Kate and Megan. Kate lit her candle as a representative for the senior class, Megan lit hers for the juniors, and after her wick was aflame, she handed me the lighter.

It was time. I lit the lighter, but nothing was happening. I tried again. As I was frantically trying to the light the green candle in front of me, my hands started to sweat, making the whole "spin and push" action required to make the lighter function all the more impossible.

Thirty seconds passed. I still could not break the genius code that guarded the key to unlocking this seemingly archaic device.

I finally caved the giggling in the audience among the freshman and peers was deafening. As was the thunderous applause I incurred when I lit the sophomore candle with the flame from the junior candle. You would think I had just won the Special Olympics.

Mortified. I can make the Dean's List, but I can't light a candle. Nice.

Lights Will Guide You Home

I leave for my island in two rivers in thirty short hours. And, I must say, for as much as I complained and moaned about the fact that I had to put my life on pause for three months, this was actually a completely and wholly worthwhile summer.

But, enough with that sentimental hooey. Get me the eff back to New York.

PS
...this is my nightmare...

My Hero: Kelly Clarkson

Kelly Clarkson is my hero for the following reasons:
1) Rocks out with Metal Skool
2) Drinks whiskey straight from the bottle
3) Is clearly hooking up with hot lead singer of Yellowcard
4) Sings Guns N Roses covers while plastered.

A Good Wife Always Knows Her Place

This was sent to me by a female coworker. Let the laughter ensue. Oh, you can click it to make it bigger if you don't have super-human zoom vision.

LA Has Made Me A Cynic. Ironic?

I don't really listen to the radio. Sure, I'll listen to Kevin and Bean in the morning from time to time, but after a while, their "Bush is soooo stupid" and "Oh, look, Ralph is doing another witty impression" and their complete lack of any musical spinnage (disc jockey? hello?) gets old. At my internship, I feel like I have to listen to the radio because the silence can be numbing, and I'm afraid to wear headphones in case there is any kind of toner disaster (upon which my headphones would become the sole obstacle preventing me from hearing the cries of the printer-in-distress and saving the day). Tangents aside, we listen to KIIS FM (or for all you folk fortunate enough not to live in the 818, 323, and beyond, the crap station that Ryan Seacrest does the weekly crap forty on, or whatever) to fulfill (term used loosely) any kind of musical needs we may have between clicks of keys. After hearing the same four songs looped over and over and over so many times that I think my brain my turn to mush and/or implode, I decided to finally take a stand against the musical abortion occurring on the Sony DiscPlayer, and change it to the old stand-by, Star 98.7.

I know what you're thinking. Star is the station listened to by wanna-be-cool parents and twenty-six-year-old-male processing clerks desperately searching for the next "cool jam" to chat about with their semi-attractive-female-co-workers while they flaunt their bed-head and burly man-scruff that is so 2005. Star is like VH1 -- it tries to be as cool as MTV, but for whatever reason falls short with their target demographic of tanorexic Laguna Beach partiers and thugged out guys who listen to "I'm going to shoot you between the eyes while you go down on me" rap in their size eighty pants their mom's bought at Macy's. On sale.

I digress. The analogy I have made (Star : VH1 as KIIS : MTV) brings me to my most valid of points. Who decided that MTV was cool? I mean, okay, secretly watching MTV when you were thirteen and learning everything your parents didn't want you to know about sex is one thing. But I can't bring myself to sit and watch MTV for hours on end like I used to. When I find a pre-Back-To-New-York Real World marathon or an episode of Road Rules (or, I will admit, my latest obsession Making The Band), sure, I'll sit and waste an afternoon. But all of the "reality" on MTV (which, if I remember correctly, does stand for Music Television) is just some self-indulgent crap-o-la exploited as a gateway by slutty contestants to get their paltry fifteen minutes. PS, you are not cool if you make out with a guy you just met if you know your boyfriend is watching. It does not make you bad-ass. MTV used to be about rebellion. Music was supposed to be our way to stick it to the man!

Well, VH1 fortunately provides an ample filler for any void created by the betrayal of mainstream music media vehicles on Generation Y (et tu, MTV?). Okay, it doesn't play music videos either except for waaaay into the wee hours of the morning when we come pouring ourselves into bed (a time, funnily enough, that would be ideal for reality television). However, at least their reality television doesn't take itself seriously. Reality television isn't entertainment. I could go outside and get the same effect. Okay, maybe there wouldn't be as many people mugging for the camera, but at least there wouldn't be any commercials. What makes VH1 reality entertaining is their ability to make fun of reality television. What would a world be like without Flavor of Love? My Sundays wouldn't be complete without watching Flava Flave manage sloppily makeout with a fabulously ghetto booty without his two-foot Movado hanging from his neck distracting him. If that's not magic, I'm not sure what is.

I'm not quite sure what spurred on this sudden urge to shake my fist at the folks at MTV. Maybe I've seen the video for Boulevard of Broken Dreams one too many times (why, Green Day, WHY!?). Maybe I've heard that piece of shit Panic! At the Disco song so many times I want to cry. Or, maybe I just like the fact that Star can always brighten my day with a little Blind Melon or Gin Blossoms action (the finest of nineties rock).

Or, maybe I've just been sulking in my bedroom in LA for too long. I always expected New York to make me a cynic. I think all the sunshine did me in.

The Key to Becoming a Successful Lawyer - A Kicky Voicemail

Part of my duties as an intern at Itel Media is going through the heaps (ha, right) of resumes and applications for a new hire. I came across a resume that looked perfect, but no sooner had I called to schedule an interview with him did I realize how wrong I had obviously been:

Hello, you've reached the law offices of Michael F. Schwartzberg. Since I don't have a secretary, you will have to leave a message. If I did have a secretary, she would be able to page me wherever I was and let me know that you called. ...I wish I was rich. Alright! Bye bye, now!

...

Needless to say, I didn't leave a message.

Death to ResLife

Okay, so Barnard Residential Life & Housing has officially made my "list"* of people and/or things I hate.

When my friends and I (out of sheer dumb luck) secured a beautiful eleventh floor Plimpton suite for the next year, we were beyond excited. Not only did we get to live with people we loved, we got to have some premium space to love each other in (air-conditioning? breakfast nook? views of buildings twenty feet away? is there anything it doesn't have?). One of our friends, to our deep dismay, decided not to return to Barnard next year and is transferring to Kenyon. We had known about this previous to her decision, so we contacted ResLife** to discuss this hypothetical situation in the case that it should theortically arise. Which it did.

Luckily (well not really for her) another very good friend was on the housing wait-list, and BAM all of our problems were over. Not only did we have another loveable person to live in our suite (because Phish can never be replaced), she would also know where she was living in the fall and that she would be living loveable people.***

We contacted ResLife and let them know our plan. We wrote letters/emails, made phone calls, set up meeting, etc. We did everything we could possibly do to make everyone's lives easy. And happy. And full of love.

BUT NO! ResLife clearly wants no such happiness for anyone. Not even themselves.****

Apparently, it's better for everyone to put a complete stranger in our suite and stick our wait-list friend in a double with someone she already knows she can't live with (long story). It's like they went out of their way to piss everyone off. Because that's what they do at Barnard Residential Life & Housing. They sit and plot with their clock pens and try and figure out the best plan to make everyone unhappy. In the end, I mostly feel bad for the stranger they're sticking us with. Because let's face it. My friends and I are a bunch of freaks.*****

*In high school, my friends made me keep a list of the people I was actively hating so I wouldn't hate more than five people at a time. This was to keep me from being a complete and utter bitch, and also to save my intense hatred reserves for the people who really deserved it.
**In March. We contacted them in March. Months of hoop-jumping ensued.
***And who doesn't appreciate love and security?
****Or at least they won't be happy with themselves on Monday when they recieve the onslaught of my death threat arsenal that I have been preparing in the past few hours
*****ie sexy troll themed parties, calling each other by our true medieval titles, and worshipping a stuffed purple Totoro.

New Obsession: David Hockney

I'm not going to lie. I didn't like my art history survey course I took last semester. No, that's a lie. I really hated it. I hated how it was disorganized, my TA was clueless, my discussion section was useless, and we skipped some of my favorite artists (um, hi, Van Gogh? Magritte? Hello?) However, despite my abhorrance (take that SAT flashcards you said would never come in handy) of that dreadful class (okay, now I'm British), I still love going to museums and seeing new art and old faves.

I had never heard of Hockney before I was driving down Santa Monica Blvd on my way to the Troubadour and saw the banners erected on consecutive lamp-posts wedged between the infamous palms. I was struck by the Gogh-like strokes and the bright technicolor paint of the portrait of an older portly man in a gaudy Hawaiian shirt. I made it my mission to visit the exhibit at LACMA and learn more of this man.

I went on Sunday with my mom. I was completely blown away. David Hockney represents everything I love about art (spontaneity, passion, imperfection, the intimacy of the relationship between viewer/painter/subject, the way it can encapsulate a moment perfectly), and he completely rejects everything I loathe (the installation of fear in the subject, making the viewer feel inconsequential, perfect "by the book technique). His portraits were magnificent: bright colors, clear motion, a moment brilliantly captured, but forever changing. I was drawn into every painting, curious about the subject, and also very aware of its relationship to the world and to Hockney himself. Though the paintings are so much about that painter/subject relationship, I can't help but also feel part of the equation, as I find myself relating so much to the subject. It was incredible.

I leave you with my favorite piece in the collection, an attempt to capture a moment with Polaroids, but defying the photographic convention that this medium must appear static - The Scrabble Game