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Our astonishingly biased, brazenly unapologetic, thoroughly tactless dissection of this academic year. THE WEEKLY presents an unsolicited commentary on all that went down since September. All that we deemed worthy of mentioning, that is.

YEAR IN REVIEW From the newsworthy to the notorious, a mindblowing recap of Northwestern and its peripheries, both culturally and geographically.




Disclaimer: Yes, we know there’s one more issue left. Deal with it.





the weekly


THE WEEKLY MEMO It’s been an interesting year, and it seems appropriate to reflect on the events of the last year and perhaps try to divine some meaning from them. But reflecting is for hippies and bad yoga instructors, and I’ll leave the divination to L. Ron Hubbard and those scary dudes from Big Love. Here at The Weekly, we’ve prepared a year in review the only way we know how: by shamelessly ripping off a brilliant idea from another magazine and bending it to our own ends (p. 5). Speaking of shamelessness, you’ll find one of our correspondents who has led a life without learning to ride a bike (p. 6). Speaking of bikes, Assistant Editor Jeremy Gordon chips in with a gripping first-person account of running his into a door (p. 7). First-time correspondent Timna Axel has an interview with the professor who teaches History of the Holocaust (p. 8). Finally, no year would be complete without a set of Confirmed & Denieds that involve cops, strippers dressed as cops, cops busting parties and a party full of co-eds copping classic outfits. Enjoy Colin Meloy, Grecian braids, bright nails and Joose. I know I will. KYLE BERLIN THE


EDITOR IN CHIEF kyle berlin

MANAGING EDITOR alexandra ilyashov

ASSISTANT EDITORS emmy blotnick jeremy gordon




like the line-up?


ith Dillo Day upon us and most of the line-up announced, we ventured out of our office and into the greater Norrisphere to find out – are you excited for these artists’ performances? We received an unexpectedly high volume of lukewarm answers, many complaining about the depressing notion of dancing to the ever-brooding Decemberists. “They’re just not an allday drunkfest kind of band,” one said. In fact, the only people who really glowed with excitement were covert Mayfest members. One students put it best – “No matter who they bring, Dillo Day is always fun.” We couldn’t agree more.





contact the weekly at: 847.491.4901 send confirmed and denied tips to the managing editor want to join our staff? e-mail our editor in chief A weekly supplement to The Daily Northwestern.


you deactivated from your sorority? Every winter, women excitedly pledge sororities and assume it’ll be all BFF ever after. For some, however, Greek life can make for an alienating, isolating four years – unless you decide to cut your losses, break it off and put away the checkbook. never want to be viewed as a stereotypical She walks decidedly to the Kappa Delta sorority girl. She lived in the ZTA house as house, deactivation forms and pin in hand. a sophomore but quickly deactivated as a She’ll have to return these items to a mailbox junior. inside, quietly make her exit and endure ban“I think there are people excited about ishment from the house forever. Once inside, wearing bags with their letters on them, a she is stunned by the crowd of her soon-to-be former KD sisters, all looking on as she makes willingness to label themselves,” Darby said. “I felt like the qualities that people would her willing departure from sorority life. assume by seeing my letters were not qualities “I ended up going to the house during that I associate with myself.” chapter (to complete deactivation). That Ultimately, an overriding factor in deacwas a little awkward,” said junior Michelle tivation is the financial burden of being in a Soffen. “It was symbolic of how I didn’t know sisterhood, someanything about the times coupled with sorority.” I knew I had to deactivate a lack of emotional Soffen probably connections to the should have realized when we were singing other women. when chapter took a silly song (at chapter) “The majority of place, considering it about how you need a my friends weren’t was one of the many man to be happy. in a sorority,” said mandatory activities junior Lauren Bergshe was constantly Jen Darby, former ZTA member man, a former ZTA. trying to avoid at“Why was I paying tending. $500 a quarter to go to social events where I “I realized I was only going (to the house) was not close to the people there?” to drop off checks and pay fees for not going Deactivation is different for each house, to events,” said Soffen, who deactivated in her but generally it is a simple process, if not a tad sophomore year. “I just didn’t have the time.” uncomfortable. Hundreds of Northwestern women join “The worst part was when the president sorority recruitment in a rush of excitement, tried to have a heart-to-heart (to convince singing and sisterhood. But down the road, me to stay),” Soffen said. “She said everyone all that is left is dues, mandatory activities is going to miss me but I didn’t even know and a house full of acquaintances, deactivaanyone’s names. I knew three people from my tion might become the next step. Each year pledge class.” dozens of women disappear from their pledge Each of the women insisted their deactivaclass and for a wide variety of reasons. tion was nothing personal against individual “I knew I had to deactivate when we were sororities, the Greek system or the other singing a silly song [at chapter] about how women. As far as they know, there is no bad you need a man to be happy,” said junior Jen blood harbored between them and their forDarby, a former Zeta Tau Alpha. “They were joking about it but it was the nail in the coffin mer sisters. Sorority life just wasn’t the right fit that they hoped for on bid night. for me. I no longer fit in the sorority.” Darby decided to try sorority life her freshman year, despite knowing she would PAULINA LOPEZ


confirmed AMERICA THE BOOZIFUL The Mosaic Co-op played host to one wonderfully themed party: American History. It was in honor of one resident’s 21st birthday, so in an incredible instance of appropriateness she dressed as the 21st amendment -- the one that ended prohibition. Present were Uncle Sam, Audrey Hepburn, a few Jackie Os, housewives, cowboys and ’50s greasers, all raising their glasses to the birthday girl and our glorious nation. A few struck the delicate balance of clever and politically incorrect like the Viet Cong and the Three-Fifths Compromise (a guy wearing three fifths on his belt). Of course, in keeping with the American tradition, police asked themselves what they can do for their country and broke it up. BRO-VERLOAD We’re not even sure where to begin with this: For a Weinberg sophomore’s 20th birthday, his roommates decided to “invite the hottest, sluttiest bitches we know and all (their) boys” as well as a hired stripper dressed as a policewoman. “We’ve gotten busted by cops before so we thought it’d be funny for her to come in and arrest him,” crowed one roommate. “So the cops came early on in the night, there were like 150 people there” – just like an Asher Roth video! – “and they just laughed, he told us to keep it down and left.” An hour or so later enters Stripper Cop, telling the birthday boy the jig was up before undressing. “Then it was like, boobies in my face! Every-

thing in my face!” squealed the birthday manchild, amid an overwhelming slew of totally unrelated and disgracefully giggle-botched references to the HBO series Eastbound and Down, unfortunately a favorite show of ours too. Then, in a karmic turn of events, the real police returned to the scene. In describing the confusion, one guy instructed us to “say the theme of the party was ‘yachts on the reg,’” while the other added, “And bitches on the reg!” Ooh, ooh, and rape culture on the reg! Raise your pepper spray to the sky if you’re feeling fly, ladies. STING OP Many of us think of Hundo as something of a safe haven when it comes to bars, but consider that illusion shattered: Last weekend, the brothers of Delta Chi planned a philanthropic bar night, only to become victims of a sting op (hell yeah we said sting op; it makes us feel dangerous. We’re pointing our thumb-andindex finger gun at you, Eastwood, and we’re sliding across your hood, mom.) From what we were told, a couple of undercover cops arrived around 11, one using a fake ID, and both were served, grounds to issue a ticket to the bar. They lingered outside to enforce the fire code and sponge up any remaining traces of fun or profitability toward D-Chi’s (mind if we call you that?) charitable cause. We’re sorry to hear it, guys – how about setting up a lemonade stand? WEEKLY EDITORS








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the weekly



As June approaches: What to do with all that crap Be Charitable Books

Evanston Public Library, Bookman’s Alley The EPL regularly has book sales in the lobby of the main library and is always accepting book donations. They’ll also accept CDs and tapes, so you can unload your Paula Cole and 98 Degrees albums while you’re at it.

Clothes/ Shoes


Sell: Low effort, Sell: High effort, Potential Arts & Crafts project Low reward High reward Beck’s Books, Norris Center Bookstore,

Papier-machĂŠ, collage

Another reason to love the Internet: people out there might be looking for Yep, obvious, and for the laziest of the lazy. Drop your heavy, pricey volumes that exact boring book you have and will pay you something closer to its retail of knowledge on their counter and prepare to receive exactly $1, value. Don’t mess up the ISBN number some Canadian coins, a booger-y tissue and the nerds shall come to you. and regret as repayment.

ORT Resale Thrift Shop (Chicago Ave. & Main St.), Foster Street drop box

Crossroads Trading Company (1730 Sherman Ave.)

ORT Resale Thrift Shop,

Yard sale

Papier-machĂŠ instructions: blow up a balloon, then artfully cover it in strips of paper dipped in a mixture of flour (1 part) and water (2 parts). Allow to dry completely, and voila! More crap for you to deal with, in a different and more fragile form!

Patchwork Quilt

Essentially the world’s online yard While its buyers can be picky, they’ll hand sale, you’re bound to find someone to One must assume the wares dropped in you a satisfying stack of bills for what they buy your stuff. Crap out enough effort to list each item individually and here go to a charitable cause somedo take. Then keep an eye out for your old thoughtfully, then sit back as the where, but where? Who takes it? We clothes on the window mannequins or your bidder pig-pile begins. don’t know, it’s a mystery! Just drop classmates around campus – it happens, your junk off! and it’s kind of weird.

Nobody wants your mud-stained Dillo Day t-shirt, but cut it (and many similar items) into squares, sew them together, and aww, what a cuddly keepsake!

Really Impractical Installation

What ever happened to the yard sale? Putting it online isn’t nearly as daunting The thrift shop’s proceeds go to the Are we too busy on our iPhones? Many as dealing with strangers and arranging ORT America education programs, and of us are privileged enough to have grassy pick-up and payment. The process can it couldn’t be easier to donate: They’ll lawns here in suburbia, so use them – toss be iffy, so to be safe, drag your couch come pick up furniture within a few your living room out there, put up some down the street to the police department days of your call, and they’ll also accept neon signs and fliers and make that paper and tell the buyer to meet you there those linens and rando tchotchkes where you can. Barbecue at the same time with cash, then never speak again. your mom gave you. and you’re guaranteed a crowd.

social diary [Communication senior] 12 tuesday

13 wednesday

14 thursday

15 friday

16 saturday

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! Woke up incredibly hungover from a crush party I could barely remember. Used my birthday to justify skipping my classes; spent the day at Clarke’s. My dad flew in to celebrate and took out my friends for an amazing dinner at Table 52, Obama’s – and Oprah’s –­­ hotspot. We danced the night away with my idol, Bruce Springsteen.

Read my birthday wall posts, opened my gifts. Had the Norris sushi special and trapped myself in Africana, then escaped to a music pirating party of eye patches, rum and Cokes and illicit substances. Concluded the night with a hilarious 3 a.m. drive to McDonald’s. It took us 15 minutes to order 50 McNuggets.

Early morning presentation in Intro to Acting class. My lack of energy or knowledge made my seniorness obvious. Later, I bonged beers before hitting the Deuce. I was creeped out by all the Kellogg guys and left after one too many Jagerbombs. Went back to my friend’s place in Park Evanston, where we convinced our drug dealer to meet us at 4 a.m.

Dragged myself out of bed for group meeting at Norris. Class on Fridays was a huge mistake. Pregamed on my friend’s Astroturf and smoked before Battle of the Bands. Great music but the judges predictably picked Rotimi. Lolita or SWAM were much better. Driving home, I got pulled over by the cops. FML.

My mom visited for the day. Picked her up early at O’Hare, and met my friend at Blind Faith. Stopped by Pi Phight to watch the debauchery. My roommates got wasted at Fraturday and gobbled down my mom’s amazing, homecooked Greek dinner. Since the party with the stripper got broken up, I went to bed early.

Glue items of furniture atop one another or to unconventional surfaces; call it art. So surrealist! Go back two spaces to the “yard sale� box, then see how you fare. This could be the start of something of something wonderful. eMMY BLOTNICK

18 monday

17 sunday Went into town to pregame and to work with a water bottle of wine. Went home for arts & crafts and beer pong. Made a quick run to my dealer’s and smoked too much before Philfest. Had the best day until someone spilled beer on my phone. Went to Pita Pete’s to forget my woes, then smoked a bowl. Somehow ended up seeing Star Trek at midnight.

Realized my phone was truly broken. Just another manic Monday. Had picnic dinner/Gossip Girl party with my roommate, then Senior Bar Night at Nevins. I left to avoid uncomfortable convos. Packed into the Keg. On my way out a girl yelled to me, “Yeah, Class of 2012.� I replied, “Gosh no, I’m a 2009-er.� She asked me what I was doing there. Good question.

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the weekly



Mosaic Co-Op

The two houses that constitute the Mosaic Co-op have it all figured out: environmentally friendly practices, a diverse and high-functioning community, that lovin’ feeling and the most creative party themes. One writer talks to two residents to spread the word on how they pull it off and how you can too.

TAKING THE PLUNGE Douglas joined the Co-op on somewhat of a whim; he didn’t want to join a frat or live by himself sophomore year but he wanted the freedom of living off campus. “When I moved in, it was really overwhelming because it’s a vastly different experience,” he said. “I didn’t know if I could handle it at first and I was looking for other places to live.” Eventually he adjusted and found that although he didn’t join the Co-op based on his interests or beliefs, his lifestyle changed to fit those of his new environment. “It’s not like I was actively environmentalist freshman year,” he said. “Now I just do these things without even thinking about it and it’s become a way of life for me.” Douglas chose to live in the house again in the fall for his third year there. SHARING THE LOAD Douglas lamented today was his day for chores, groaning about taking out the trash and cooking for the whole house every Sunday. Many residents enjoy the latter task, and the

idea of sharing pervades the house’s atmosphere. Accordingly, the community isn’t just Northwestern students: Currently, one resident is from the Czech Republic, and over the summer, residents hailed from Italy, Greece and France. HOW YOU CAN GET INVOLVED The Co-op employs many green practices, such as growing its own vegetables at the Hamlin house and composting. Douglas says paper towels constitute a major waste factor, so the Co-op doesn’t use them in either house. Even if you can’t grow your own vegetables where you live, you can still be mindful of your use of disposable products and even participate in the Co-op community: Mosaic offers a meal plan that anyone can join as long as the you cook for the house every other week. On the plan, it is $2.50 per meal and Douglas estimates about seven to eight students used the plan this year. IT’S NOT A BROTHEL “We like to have fun and I think that’s why we got our reputation,” Gartner said.“But we do like to do themed parties that you don’t normally see at Northwestern.” Some of these have included Superhero and American History. For the birthday of one resident who has lived in the Co-op for six years, first as an undergraduate and now as a graduate student, they threw a special party: “She really missed those wild, crazy days of yore so she wanted to have a lingerie party,” he said. “She lived here back when it really deserved the reputation it has for being a house full of … yeah.”

Sean Collins Walsh/The Daily Northwestern


• Get free lunch - while it lasts - at 2:30pm on the Lakefill, compliments of IFC and Panhel.

50 65 90 98 100

• Eat pancakes by the Jacobs Center between 9am and 11am, compliments of IFC and Panhel.



There are other things to do on campus on Dillo Day...




Dillo Day M�� 30


s the unofficial social coordinator for the Mosaic Co-op, Weinberg junior Kevin Douglas assures the world that it is not, in fact, “a ridiculous flophouse.” Or two flophouses, as there are 13 residents at the Sherman and Foster house (Douglas’ residence) and five living at the Hamlin and Sherman house. Demystifying what he knows others perceive as a hippie enclave, Douglas points out the benefits of living greener and how anyone in the Northwestern community can get involved. In the true spirit of the Co-op, junior Spencer Gartner joined in as well.



• Visit the Lakefill for great music beginning at 12:30pm.





the weekly



The Weekly’s Year in Review From Brit’s upteenth incarnation to the tortures of Twitter, we’ve snarked to the best of our abilities about the highs, lows and in-betweens of this year thus far – all in a tidy color-coded matrix for your reading pleasure. Call it self-indulgent and defamatory if you must; we like to think of it as editorial (in)discretion. HIGH BROW Our endowment plummets $1.8 billion, the equivalent to two Sears Towers’ worth of $100 bills.

Twitter. Lame.

Jazz musician

Wynton Marsalis is

announced as this year’s commencement speaker.

The Decemberists for Dillo Day

Philfest joins forces with A&O

Medill alum Roxana Saberi is released from prison in Iran after getting sentenced to eight years.

and is graced with glorious weather. Yeah, we didn’t recognize the Norris Lawn, either. In a good way.

NU President New

Cats make it to the Alamo Bowl against Missouri after an impressive 9-3 season.

Cats lose in OT, 30-23.

Waa Mu wows and nauseates with its impressively produced, unnecessarily long 78th annual show. Once again, this epic three-hour songfest was One for the Books…

A horde of high achieving SAT automatons is descending upon this campus. Verdict: even more insufferable than the class of 2012.

Morton Schapiro to take over in the fall.

Newly minted Nobel laureate Paul Krugman speaks on campus.

Election night acceptance speech in Grant Park. Demetri Martin taught us a few



R.I.P. Sparks, the energy-laden alcoholic drink beloved by the Red Bullaverse. Thankfully, Joose lives on.

important things during his February visit.

Pike moves into Delt’s old

Dorm reputations change as

freshies get scattered randomly in this year’s housing assignments. It’s almost time to bid adieu to Bobb as this school’s excuse for a party dorm. Oh, how we’ll miss those garbage cans chained to the walls.

house. Huzzah.


$2 rides to and from the Mark II on the

Chicago snagged the U.S. city bid for the 2016 Olympics last June. Despite the buzz, have we got what it takes to show up rivals Madrid, Rio and Tokyo?

Deuce Caboose

faux hippie mini-braids

Sideswept, faintly

make it harder than ever to stay sober on Thursday night.

appear on tresses everywhere. Now, the talentless Lauren Conrad is recognized for something other than her Hills and Laguna Beach stardom. Oh, and her floundering fashion line.

Dance Marathon N.E.R.D. slated for Dillo Day

Neon nails prevail past last summer on extremities across campus. Electric blue and fungus-esque yellow polishes sort of make us wish we were colorblind. R.I.P Cafe Ambrosia, to the dismay of the java joint’s eclectic junkies. Unicorn Café regulars unable to ever find a table at their fave spot are equally pissed.

Estelle was announced last week as the third Dillo headliner. No comment. Playboy finds not

one, but two NU coeds sexy enough to (dis)grace the pages of its barely-legal Big 10 issue.

Britney’s Circus tour hits Chi-town. Cue unflattering red rubberized bodysuits and wasted limos of sorority girls.

Crappy, crappy


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the weekly


Like Riding a Bike

If you never learned to ride a bike, how do you get started?


never learned to ride a bike because I was afraid I’d get pregnant. Don’t worry, my mom isn’t an exhibitionist who forced me to ride some beastly dildo-bike creation to elementary school; she just had a unique way of dealing with that awkward sex talk usually accomplished with lots of metaphors and educational books. Pregnancy, she told me after my cousin provided me with a few surprisingly detailed drawings of the deed, happened because a woman sat on the same place a man has just sat. She assured me pregnancy was most commonly contracted on the toilet, where your skin was directly exposed to the virus (a handy explanation for bathroom segregation), but I was still terrified. Nowhere was safe. The chairs in my second grade classroom, benches at lunch and seats on the bus were all breeding grounds for the preggo bacteria that might crawl into my secret place when I least expected it. Bike riding was a no-no, naturally. That pointy seat definitely didn’t look sanitary, and why take chances? This pleased my mom, since she’d happily have raised me in a giant polyethylene bubble if possible. She told me it was okay not to ride a bike, and instead enrolled me in less dangerous activities like Tae Kwon Do and fencing. Once I learned how people really get knocked up, I tried to ride a bike junior year of high school. That time, my teacher was my boyfriend at the time who, in retrospect, kind of reminds me of one of Zeus’ bastard children – convinced of their own superiority, overly entitled and really hot. I was in the throws of that charming stage of awkwardness and insecurity induced by misguided lust, and was really nervous. He kept barking orders, calling me “baby,” and hurling insults with “It’s just a joke” disclaimers. I’ve never been able to have someone dictate be like that. I always wear the pants – even if they’re not padded biker pants – and this situation was highly uncool. You’re probably wondering, ‘What kind of person doesn’t know how to ride a bike by the time they’re 20 years old?’ One of those headgear-wearing, 4.0, socks-and-sandals swagger, WOW-addicted jokers, right? As much as I’d really like to experience advanced orthodontia like that, I’m pretty much a yawn on the personality front. Riding a bike isn’t like swimming – I’m not afraid I’ll suddenly have to pedal my way to safety, so why learn? Just like porn stars are endearing in a dumb, slutty way, I was endearing in a pathetic, helpless way. At least that was how my “instructor,” as he requested to

be called, explained it to me, in between floating around in grey skinny jeans and rambling uncontrollably about the babes he could have hooked up with Friday night if only the party hadn’t been busted by the po’. Of all of his ramblings I’ve endured over the past year, this one was by the far the most informative. The lesson started by him gliding around the graduate student housing parking lot with the swagger of a yoga instructor, or possibly one of the pseudo-straight Dancing with the Stars contestants, ridin’ dirty with no hands, one hand and questionable motives. “I’ve prepared a monologue,” he said. “Biking is just like walking, except it’s much faster. It doesn’t just get you from point A to point B, it allows you to interact with and experience the world in the complete spectrum of interactive possibility.” And he thought it was okay to blaze without me before this? No wonder he was late. He put me through several “balance exercises,” which basically entailed standing like a flamingo while he tried to push me over and giggled. The day was perfect for conquering a bike. It was sunny, and I had shamelessly skipped my sisterly philanthropy and slept until noon. On my way to the lot, I saw a group of three pink-and-lacy girls on bikes being herded around by a Mr. Mom with an infant carrier strapped to his chest. They looked so damn fly and I just wanted to be them. After 30 minutes of falling over, leaping off of the bike and screaming I was no closer to riding. To cool my heels after the fiery break-up number seven of the week, I retreated into his house for an ice pop, resolving only to ride things that gave me a different kind of joy. Sweet satisfaction. This time, I was ready. After a long explanation of sitting and pedaling technique, I climbed on the glittery purple thing,

Courtesy of Sara Peck

since apparently my friend’s bike had been stolen the night before from his garage. I went a few feet and then sagged to the side and stepped onto the ground to avoid falling on my ass in front of some Kellogg hottie/prospective sugar daddy (what, you’ve never thought of that?). The second time, I circled the parking lot with ease. Lame. It became clear that you never forget how to ride a bike because it’s really, really easy. You don’t forget how to crap or brush your teeth, do you? It’s a really meaningless saying. “This would have been so much more fun in you were completely unathletic and unable to balance,” he said, trying to be smug despite obvious disappointment. “Uh, ETA is 10 minutes. Lame,” he said, snapping unattractive pictures of me squinting into the sun and ironically, wearing the shirt from the sorority event I was blowing off. There’s no way I’m getting 800 words out of this, I replied. Thank sweet Jesus for weird parents and adjectives.

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the weekly





“Girl: I think I acted like a complete fool at that party last night. Guy: I think I joined a softball team.” - Sherman Avenue & Simpson Street, Saturday afternoon OVERHEARD AT NU

Understanding in a Bike Crash

What goes through your head after you get doored?


iking is the holiest activity I do, after brushing my teeth and listening to those old Dylan CDs from when he found God. It’s pure thought combined with quickness of motion – moving through the world but continually absorbing all of its images and sounds as they fly past you, blurring slightly together in an increasingly oneiric context as you snap into fuller awareness of your surroundings, but not your mental trappings. How can you worry about the paper you have to write on Friday if you’re looking at the color of the trees as they shift in the wind, or consider your senior thesis while feeling the bumps in the asphalt as you glide over it? It runs the risk of hippie pabulum to espouse so romantically what can be such a gritty, unpleasant activity, but I see biking as not just a way to get around, but as a form of supreme clarity. I head down Foster Street to get to class, the path I’ve taken every day for the last five months (I bike in rain, shine, snow or meteor). A song sticks itself in my head as I continually recreate the opening bars every 30 seconds in lieu of an iPod to do it for me. I begin to distract myself with the work I had to do that night in class, unable to pin it all down with the wind whipping at me. The dreariness of schoolwork soon becomes a sludgy afterthought. A brief distraction comes as I pass in front of Plex, when the accident happens. I don’t remember the door opening, but I remember thinking, Oh n– before I crash into

it head-on, the outer frame clipping my right shoulder as I flip sideways in the air off my bike, crunch the ground landing on my left knee and roll over, my bag tossed aside, the bike spiraling off to the side. In the air, I have no thoughts but a prevailing sense of Huh? as I wait for the sickening crash. Predictably, the first thing I hear is someone yelling, “Oh my God!” and then the sound of my own voice, spitting expletives in frustration. Inseparable from technology, the first thing I do on the ground is reach over to my backpack to make sure my laptop is okay. What good is physical health if I can’t blog, right? More troubling is the expensive piece of tech possibly lying in unfixable pieces that I don’t have the money to replace. I wasn’t even able to open my bag, because by this point, two people have run over to make sure I’m okay, one pulling my bag away and the other leaning over to check on me. “Are you okay?” she asks, a woman in her mid-40s with a red face and long, frayed brown hair pulled back in a pony tail, looking genuinely concerned like a bookish librarian might over any sign of possible conflict in the stacks. Of course, I’m not thinking this at the moment because my body is ON FIRE. Here’s a tip about getting doored, as it’s called: Don’t do it. But there’s no way to avoid it, because it can happen in a split second with no time to react, as I realize while lying on the ground. My reactions aren’t good enough, I think. My mother was right. I get up and limp to the sidewalk, as a guy

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me, unable to move my head or my arms. I on the corner calls an ambulance. The woman feel no sense of direction, only moving as the who struck me looks like a mom – older, momentum of the ambulance turning shifts granny glasses and looking totally horrified me from side to side, the paramedic asking by what had just happened. As I sit on the me a bunch of small questions to get my pergrass, out of nowhere a tough green blanket sonal details and make sure I haven’t incurred is draped over my knees and a white wooly any brain damage. one over my shoulders. Someone asks me, If you’ve never laid on a stretcher before, I “Where does it hurt?” I point at my knee and highly recommend it. The only sense of movemy shoulder, babbling a little bit about what ment you have are the wheels of the gurney I do and don’t feel. “Did you hit your head?” moving over whatever terrain you’re going I shake my head no. “He’s in shock, give him through – the bumps of the road, the slick tile some space.” No, I’m not in shock, I think to of the hospital floor. Above you, the world myself, then loudly say so. passes. Inside the hospital, I’m wheeled to the The ambulance comes quickly, surER and lifted up onto a fixed hospital bed, rounded by a fleet of cop cars in an where a bevy of nurses and hospital assistants impressive reaction time of five minutes rush to help me. (obviously, the ultimate crisis is an injured In the next few minutes, a couple of college kid). Four paramedics jump out and things are determined: 1) I didn’t hit my survey the situation, asking me questions head (well, duh) and 2) I should have been about where I hurt and whether or not I wearing a helmet (well, duh). Twenty years of had hit my head (“A lot” and “No” were my bike riding and this answers). Cops linger is the first accident to the side, where Twenty years of bikeI’ve had, but as the they talk to the owner riding and this is the first medical assistant of the car I hit, who warns me, one is locked her keys inside accident I’ve had, enough. His brother in the confusion. but one is enough. got doored and was “We don’t know hit by a car in the if you hit your head,” road, he tells me – the paramedic says. you don’t want to take that risk. Wordlessly, “So we’re going to put a neck brace on you, I nod. It seems silly to argue otherwise – had okay?” Why not, I think to myself. “We’re I landed the wrong way, I would have been also going to put you into a stretcher.” I start dead. That’s no exaggeration, because I giggling uncontrollably – the rush of adrenaliterally had no control over my body as I line masking the taut pain I would later feel fell through the air, and if I had fallen on my in my joints – because the scene now seems head, I wouldn’t have just needed some aspiso ridiculous. I was hobbled, for sure – walkrin and a a weekend of rest, as turned out to ing to the side was difficult, and I couldn’t be the case. Two doctors and a cop tell me I lift myself up without feeling pain in my legs need to buy a helmet, and I agree with all of – but a stretcher? That seemed like a chronic them. They discharge me after an hour and overreaction in the tradition of the Mama Gordon School of Medicine. But if something let me leave under my own strength. “How do I get home?” I ask one of the orderlies. was fractured, why not? “The train station is right outside,” he says. They have me roll to my side while the “Oh,” I say, “thanks.” stretcher is dumped beneath me, and I I’m leaving with a contused knee, as the remember wishing for anyone I knew to official medical report says, and a bizarre suddenly walk past the scene, see me being what-if sense of mortality that is exacerbatloaded into the back of an ambulance and ed by my mother’s near-hysterical reaction be overcome with fear that I could later play when I call her on the phone to tell her into massive sympathy points. This is an act what happened. The lesson learned? Wear of sheer egotism – at the same time, I hoped a helmet. If you’re a driver, look out the it wouldn’t be someone who would call my window. I limp to the nearby train, go home mother, who would obviously freak out. “Do and rest for the next three days. A week you have an emergency contact?” They ask after that, my bike is stolen in the middle in the ambulance. “Yes,” I groan. “But please of the night. I don’t know what karma gods don’t call her.” I’ve offended to make my ‘biking high’ crash Inside the ambulance, the paramedic tries down so offensively, but Evanston is sending to roll up my jeans to check my knee out me a message. I’ll have to wait until sumbut is unable to because they’re too tight – a mer, when I return home, to experience the complete betrayal of hipster fashion. He asks frantic thought of biking once more. me if I want him to cut them off, and I reply in the negative, half out of embarrassment. As the ambulance moves, I can only look above JEREMY GORDON


the weekly


‘We can understand a particularly Jewish victimization as something deeply human’




Paul Jaskot, History of the Holocaust professor

It’s hard to find an artist more mischievously rebellious than Patrick Wolf. A child of the hipster generation, Wolf was artistically adopted in his youth by Leigh Bowery, the shock artist. As a member of Bowery’s pop art collective he learned how to take his audience’s expectations and trample all over them. It’s not surprising that his most recent music video features him in a leather bondage suit writhing on the floor singing about how his “dead meat yearns/for the vulture’s return.� I was introduced to Wolf in high school, when my iTunes held mostly musical theatre albums and They Might Be Giants. For someone used to the playful humor of Avenue Q, Wolf ’s earnest songs about sexual predators and lost boys strike a chord that every teenager responds to: earnest angst and fantasy. At the same time, he affects a disinterested and flat tone that plays right into his fans expectations of “coolness.� He doesn’t just wear the trappings of interesting musicianship, either. Having built a theremin when he was 11, Wolf knows music inside and out. His repertoire spans rousing folk-like songs (“The Bachelor�) to beautiful violin and chorus-accompanied eulogies (“The Sun is Often Out�) to angry punk-like rants (“Battle�). Although his lyrics leave something to be desired at times, such as the aforementioned “Battle,� the barely-hidden enthusiasm bleeds through his painted-on apathetic exterior into his music. That is what makes his music so relevant today. While still enjoying the glamour of a music career, Wolf shows us all his love of music. He stands in direct opposition to “mainstream� artists who seem to show more love for the lifestyle of a performer than for the music itself. In his songs, Patrick Wolf combines audacity and love of music into a package that appeals to many. JULIAN HICKS

Rwanda, Cambodia or other sites. The need to understand genocide is the need for us to deal with international human rights, which is still a struggle in the world today, as we know in our own government. To convince people that international human rights law should, for example, trump international law, is an uphill battle. The Holocaust, which in many ways was a real foundation stone for international human rights law, is still very much a touchstone for our own politics and our understanding of comparative genocide today.

Timna Axel/The Daily Northwestern Paul Jaskot, associate professor at DePaul University, is substituting this quarter for one of the most popular classes at Northwestern: History of the Holocaust, which immediately fills up at the start of registration every year. His book, The Architecture of Oppression: The SS, Forced Labor, and the Nazi Monumental Building Economy, was published in 2000. Jaskot, WCAS ’88, Ph.D. ’93, sat down with us to talk about the state of current Holocaust studies and what the current Catholic church has to do with the Nazis. Why do you think Holocaust Studies draw so many students? Unfortunately, genocide is still with us in many different forms, many different countries and areas. Whether you’re talking

What is the biggest challenge today for Holocaust memory? We’re in a moment which is very much like the Civil War in the United States and 50 to 60 years after it. Whether it’s the defining moment – we don’t need to say that anymore, because there were many defining moments. The Civil Rights struggle, the Vietnam War, World War II, World War I, all of these were obviously defining moments in terms of the course of American history. I believe that we are also dealing with this moment in Holocaust memory. In Skokie, there’s a new museum. That may very well be the last of the Holocaust memorial museums. This last 10 to 20 years have been a crucial flowering of real knowledge and real public outreach of an understanding the Holocaust, well beyond the realm of a Northwestern class or a few professors. And that’s been really wonderful to see, sand it’s shown that the Holocaust truly is a universal experience, and that we can understand a particularly Jewish victimization as something deeply human, something that we all need to take into account and respect. The current pope was in the Hitler Youth. Any thoughts?

The Catholic Church has a very problematic relationship to the Nazi past. There were some great resistors within the Catholic Church, but there were also some great collaborators. This pope could probably be more sensitive to that particular history. That said, the way that the Vatican works today is as a state, and they’re thinking about foreign relations. Those foreign relations include commemoration of the Holocaust. The pope’s visit to the Middle East is a very interesting move on his part. Whether he will really be a force that pushes understanding of the past, I really can’t say. He seems to want to be a force that tries to reconstruct the ethnic dynamics of the present, but he’s very much distanced and separate from that particular past. So it doesn’t seem that engagement with the past is really of interest to him. But I’m not a specialist on the Vatican, so I really haven’t been following it that closely. Which single Holocaust museum would you recommend? That’s easy – the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum (in Washington D.C.), no question. I haven’t been to Yad Vashem, but I’ve been to most of the ones in Europe and a bunch in the United States. The United States museum is a fantastic installation; it takes a very critical view of history that is responsible, and has fantastic public programming. How has it been teaching at your alma mater? Oh, it’s a wonderful experience. I’ll never wear purple, but Northwestern students are quite challenging and they like to provoke, so I’m very, very satisfied. It’s really been wonderful to be here.

Read the full interview online at Timna axel

THE BROW critical reviews on the week’s new releases LOW BROW


Green Day 21st Century Breakdown


’m just going to cut to the chase and admit it I adore the new Eminem album. If you are familiar with any of Eminem’s past albums, you won’t be surprised by the drastic juxtaposition of topics. On “My Mom,â€? Em sings about his tough relationship with his mother and his now similar addiction, just minutes after singing “Same Song & Dance,â€? a hauntingly good rap in which he abducts and kills Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears. Shock value: zero. It’s the more truthful songs, such as “DĂŠjĂ Vu,â€? (which chronicles his experiences getting high in front of his daughter Hailie) that stick with you.


he one-man bearded wonder that is Sam Beam, also known as Iron and Wine, has garnered enough industry clout and adoring fans that the idea of a 2xCD rarities anthology after less than a decade since his 2002 debut isn’t even funny. Featuring 22 rare and never-before-released tracks, the album spans from his earlier solo acoustic home recordings to the expansive sounds of 2007’s The Shepherd’s Dog. For the diehards, the collection is nothing short of folklorgasm. But don’t pick this up if the only Iron and Wine song you know is the cover of the Postal Service’s “Such Great Heights.� christina chaey

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h Billie Joe, look how smart you are now that you’ve just dropped a monster 18-track concept album about postmodern capitalist exploitation and political apathy. I liked you better when you sang about handjobs. Half the tracks feature you singing in falsetto doing your hardest Gerard Way impression. The others, barring the rocking title track and soaring ‘Before The Lobotomy,’ sound like poor imitations of Fueled by Ramen’s catalog. This album makes me long for when poppunk was simple, without 30somethings trying to deconstruct a generation they don’t even belong to. Andrew sheivachman


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FINAL VERSION--The Weekly Vol. 4, Issue 8  
FINAL VERSION--The Weekly Vol. 4, Issue 8  

The arts & entertainment supplement to the Daily Northwestern.