Fall 2010 - Issue 3

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Featured Articles

2

FEATURE

Riding shotgun with TUPD

ENVIRONMENT

Tufts lights up in the Solar Decathlon

CAMPUS LIFE

Rock on with your smock on at the Craft Center

6 21

14

CAMPUS LIFE

Dress up with the Tufts Sartorialist

OFF CAMPUS

Fallin’ for foliage: weekend in New Hampshire

The Observer has been Tufts’ weekly publication of record since 1895. Our dedication to in-depth reporting, journalistic innovation, and honest dialogue has remained intact for over a century.

Today, we offer insightful news analysis, cogent and diverse opinion pieces, and lively reviews of current arts, entertainment, and sports. Through poignant writing and artistic elegance, we aim to entertain, inform, and above all challenge the Tufts community to affect positive change.

27

O

O

Editors itors

Contents

October 26, 2009 Volume CXIX, Issue 3 The Observer, Since 1895 www.TuftsObserver.org

EDITOR TOR-IN-CHIEF

Daniel iel Rosen

MANAGING AGING GING EDITORS

Marysa sa Lin Lauren en Mazel Maz

PRODUCTION UCTION DIRECTOR

Joshua ua Aschheim ART DIRECTOR RECTOR

Ryan Stolp olp

SECTION ON EDITORS TORS

Katiee Bol Boland nd Katie Christiansen Zachary Foulk Michael Goetzman Micah Hauser Julia Ivanova Brendan Johannsen Zachary Laub Eliza Mills Dana Piombino Will Ramsdell Caitlin Schwartz

PHOTOGRAPHY EDITOR

Elizabeth Herman COPY EDITOR

Kristen Barone ASSISTANT COPY EDITORS

Danielle Carbonneau Kate Grifths Karrie Larsson Carly Machlis Cara Paley Daniela Ramirez Isobel Redelmeier Brian Wolf LEAD ARTIST

Alyce Currier LAYOUT DIRECTOR

Avery Matera ASSISTANT LAYOUT EDITORS

Charlee Corra David Schwartz Natalie Selzer Daniel Weinstein Alyssa Wohl BUSINESS MANAGERS

Jason Clain Max Zarin

2 FTThe Observer Gets Picked Up By The Cops!, by Avery Matera and Ryan Stolp 4 HCCreature Comforts, by Cara Paley 6 EPPowerhouse: Tufts Competes in the Solar Decathlon, by Madeline Christensen 8 IRReclaiming Childhood: Tufts Students Help Rwandan Orphans, by Ariana Siegel P Laws of Life, by William Marquardt 10 The 11 CDogs: ALCollege Essential, by Dan MacLeod 12 OUpon Graduation, by Alex Blum L C Tufts Sartorialist, by Brian Wolf 14 The L on the Treatment of Seniors, by Diana Bade and Marysa Lin 19 CPerspectives 20 ILand of the Hungry Dragon, by Zachary Foulk L the Life Craft, by Natalie Selzer 21 CAll Aboard C Things: the Problem of Adulthood, by Michael Goetzman 22 Wild C

by Ryan Stolp 23 PBrownie& Points, 24 CShamans Be Jam’n, by Reggie Hubbard A &E In: A Tufts Radio Review, by Daniel Heller 26 Tuned 26 Hbunchofguys, by Alyce and Malcolm 27 WFall InOForCFoliage, by Marysa Lin M Dan(ny): The Awkward Second Date by Danny Weiner and Dan Rizzo 28 RA Date&with P

by Kristen Barone 30 PGreen Umbrella, 32 PDusk, naked,Pby Leehae Choee EATURE EALTH

NVIRONMENT

NTERNATIONAL HILOSOPHY AMPUS

IFE

PINIONS

AMPUS

IFE

AMPUS

IFE

NTERNATIONAL AMPUS

IFE

ULTURE

ETEY

HUCK

ULTURE RTS

NTERTAINMENT

UMOR AY

EELS

FF

AMPUS

EALS

OETRY AND

ROSE

OETRY AND

ROSE

Contributors Diana Bade Alex Blum Margaret Boland Hannah Chang Leehae Choee Madeline Christensen

Kimberly Chuang Amy Connors Zara Fishkin Allison Fisk Daniel Heller Laura Liddell

Dan Macleod William Marquardt Catherine Nakajima Dan Rizzo Amy Shipp Ariana Siegel

Helaina Stein Ruth Tam Danny Weiner Brian Wolf

Since

1895

FEATURE

BY AVERY MATERA AND RYAN STOLP

While Tufts was still recovering from the marathon beverage consumption of Homecoming weekend, the Observer rode around with Tufts! nest (in the best way possible, we promise) to get to know some of the Starskys, Hutchs, Lieutenant Dangles, and Superbad cops that help us out and keep us safe day in and day out. Although all was quiet on the P-Row front and we didn!t use the sirens once, excitement still lled the air.

L

ieutenant Domenic Pugliares gave us his play-by-play explanation for the lull.

“What’s really busy is the beginning of the year, because a lot of the freshmen, as you know, don’t realize there’s studying to be done until the end of September, and then it’s like ‘holy shit, I gotta’ buckle down here!’”

“I feel like we’re letting you down tonight, we’re not bringing anything to the table,” Corporal Anthony Regan laments. But, really, it’s not their call. The police are a reactionary force, and their main function is service. Their duties include, outside of enforcing the legal drinking age and unlocking the occasional dorm room, operating a safety escort for students and assisting wherever possible. In the rst half hour of my time with TUPD, they had already completed four escorts, and they’re happy to do them.

“We feel like we grew up with you guys,” Ofcer Colon, who was riding shotgun this night with Corporal Regan, chimed. “We see you from the rst day you come in to the day you graduate…we create this kind of relationship between student and ofcer.”

2

THE OBSERVER

October 26, 2009

Corporal Regan, with TUPD for nine years, and Ofcer Jose Colon, who joined TUPD the year after last, keep the pulse of campus. During their 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift they make laps of campus and keep an eye out for situations and students that need assistance. We drove past Houston Hall, and the acute senses of Ofcer Colon picked up on a seemingly mundane scene of a student calling up to a window. We circled back around. “We always like to pay attention to details,” he tells me just before launching into an exhaustive list of possibilities, from the student being locked out to trying to sneak beer in through the windows. “You never know.”

And what about when the situation is a little stickier than a forgotten key? “It’s amazing,” Lieutenant Pugliares raves. “Everybody’s cooperative.” There is the occasional miscommunication, however. With regards to determining where an individual lives, he sometimes receives the vague and witty response, “Medford,” to which Pugliares has this to say. “Well no kidding. That’s like saying, ‘where do you live?’—the world.”

Other ofcers, such as Ofcer Eric Mo-

rales, also hold a very understanding attitude towards the Tufts students. Though the police department does their best to educate the student body on drugs, alcohol, and campus safety, Morales understands that much of what he encounters is commonplace on a college campus. When asked if he nds the current behavior of students as being on a steady decline, Morales matter-of-factly states, “There have been parties on P-Row before you came to college, and there will [continue to be] be parties on P-Row, and the same thing…so nothing has really changed.”

Morales does recognize the fact that many students only have negative encounters with the Tufts Police. “There is always a percentage of students who aren’t going to like us, for whatever reason,” Morales says, “But we have a good rapport with the students, I think. I believe I do.” Morales nds that his relationship with the people with whom he interacts is just as important as any other part of the job, if not more important. He recalls helping an upset mother on freshman move-in day a few years ago, assuring her of her son’s happiness and safety.

the tak he you wh bin g sta els of the to Mo arr we hav go

lou ess cia fro me bo mi you of

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any the of ver od eI the orore her asety.

He recalls how touching it was to receive an e-mail from her shortly thereafter, thanking him for his reassurance.

Morales mentions, “I have had students come up to m e and say ‘thank you.’ Like tonight, I had a student come up to me and say ‘thank you for what you’re doing tonight.’ And that means a lot, you know?”

Morales’ job oscillates between the exciting and the painful, though he never takes it lightly. “Our job can be very stressful,” he cautions, “I can be going right now to drop you off and the next second I can get a call where there are shots red, or there’s a stabbing, someone’s breaking into a house, there’s a ght in progress…That’s when your adrenaline starts pumping…and that’s when everything else becomes secondary.” Morales makes a note of the fact that students are focused more on their schoolwork, than safety, and he is proud to be the person to watch their back. Recently, Morales caught the car GPS thief in the act and arrested him. “We got a bad guy off the street, we got somebody back their property, and we haven’t had one happen since…” and that is the goal that he works towards every day.

Beyond the arrests, escort service, and loud party calls, Morales looks fondly on the essentials of the job of a police ofcer, especially on a college campus. “The gratitude I get from someone saying, ‘Hey, thanks for helping me’…if someone is on crutches…bring their book bag or suitcase or whatever…go that extra mile,” Morales instructs, “People will forget your name, but they will never forget the act of kindness.”

As the night wound on, my unease about sitting in the back of a cop car, and perhaps the

they!re funny, “The"causekids,they!re drunk... ”

ofcer’s unease about hosting a journalist in their cop car, seemed to dissipate, revealing some TUPD secrets.

The conversation started on the topic of parties. “It’s between DU and 123,” Colon condently asserted. “It’s hard to tell,” Corporal Regan cautioned, “We’re not really invited.” Even though they’re not in attendance, the parties are still “extremely entertaining,” especially with regards to the themes. “There was one that was a Rubik’s cube—everybody came with a different color clothes on, and by the end you have to come out with one color. At the beginning, we talked with some of the students, and it seemed like a good idea.” He continued, “The kids, they’re funny, ‘cause they’re drunk. They don’t know what they’re doing. They don’t even realize the police are in the area. You can catch them doing stupid things—funny—but stupid.” I was curious if that seemed a little unfair, a little less exciting. A thoughtful “no” answered my question.

Corporal Regan also had some advice for students who practice certain campus traditions involving pumpkins and buildings around this time of year. “There was a time when…all of a sudden the sunlight came up, and you were like ‘where’d all these pumpkins come from?’

They [students] used to be sneaky about it, now they’re not…we catch them all the time,” he said with the tone a mother takes when she can’t believe her child lost his lunch box for the third time this week. “They’re not really elusive anymore. They fell down on the job [no pun intended]…They’ve let me down, the students.”

At other times, it’s the houses that let the neighbors down.

With the h i g h

student turnover rate in off-campus houses, it’s tough work for residents to keep track of the addresses of the infamous 3 a.m. rage-ers. “The [students] who lived there move out, new students move in, but the house still has the name,” Pugliares explains. “What happens is residents see four or ve students go into the building, the call goes out that there’s a big party going on, well, they live there. There’s no party going on.”

College Ave. has also quieted down. “College Ave here used to be incredible, it was like every weekend it was all lit up with parties.”

“Fridays and Saturdays we get hammered sometimes,” Colon says not of TUPD’s party habits but rather work obligations. While the evening’s events led us not to a bike thief, club ATO or on a high-speed car chase (which, I learned, is against TUPD policy), the night still felt important and alive. As the night wound down, par for students who nd themselves late at night in the back of a police car, I found myself being questioned. “What stories have you heard about us?” rang in my ears as Corporal Regan and Colon drove off into the unpredictable night that had taken a rm hold on the Hill. O

AVERY MATERA

ude ice he pus hat ege ent dy ere to ies has

FEATURE

October 26, 2009

THE OBSERVER

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PHILOSOPHY

BY WILLIAM MARQUARDT If there is one thing that people can agree on, it’s that things are not the way they ought to be. There is always room for improvement, particularly with regards to your laws. You probably don’t think of laws as yours, as something that you participated in, but rather as the undesirable rules that are imposed on your life. Especially in college, it’s a game of us versus them, and it’s hard to imagine that this relationship will change in the future.

The truth is, you weren’t really asked for your opinion when laws were drafted.

Of course, we have the benet of living in a democratic country that asks us who most accurately represents our views. Representatives run based on what they think most people want, which in turn is based on the opinions of the loudest group, not the one with the greatest numbers. If you’re lucky, your representative will help pass a law that is relevant to you. If not, tough luck. Through representation, your ability to make or alter a law is more limited than the proportion of the population that you represent. It has been assumed that you agree to the laws that govern your life from day one. This is called tacit consent, and it is your daddy.

John Locke was one of the rst people to discuss tacit consent. The rationale behind it is that when people come together to form a society, they create a social contract– a set of rules to which all give their express consent in order to protect themselves. The key component to this contract is that all the members of the group are involved in the creation of society. The problem arises when a new generation comes along, as they did not participate in the creation of the social contract. Locke argues that simply by remaining within the society and thus bene10

THE OBSERVER

October 26, 2009

tting from its government, each individual gives tacit consent to its rules.

The question remains, however, what happens when we reject Locke’s premises?

Theoretically, one could defect from society and start anew. In a modern world where there is no unclaimed land, however, such an option is infeasible. Nevertheless, consenting to stay within your society is akin to consenting to give your wallet to a man with a gun. If the alternative is not viable, it is not an actual alternative.

There are other alternatives, but none ensure you will obtain the benets of society without the detriments of undesired imposed law. The rst obvious one would be to move to a country with few laws, or one with desirable laws. The drawback of the former is that you don’t truly gain the benets of society. The latter is ideal except that, if it exists, you will likely have to endure a long wait before gaining the citizenship necessary to truly gain those benets. More commonly people resort to crime.

The only true alternative is to alter rather than escape our original problem. I rmly believe that current nt United States law does not reect ct the will of the majority. The best st solution might be to resort to a popular vote. Laws and amenddments should be proposed through gh petition. Those issues receiving the most signatures would then go to popular vote, and so the outcome me would represent the will of the he majority. By transferring the leg-islative branch to the people, all decisions would truly come from the people. If the result is that iff people are discontent at rst, theyy will strive to understand the cause and d x it.

The main drawback to a popular pular vote is the time commitment we would ld have to

make to politics, rather than to our own lives. This, too, could be solved through popular vote: we could decide how many laws can be passed, and how frequently and for long we would convene. There will be a necessary adjustment period, but it is a selfcorrecting system that will adjust far more quickly to society’s ever-changing needs and desires than our current form of government would.

Locke’s argument of tacit consent was perhaps more compelling in an age when those not abiding by the law were enjoying the benets of anarchy. Today’s society, one in which law-breakers increasingly spark a joint and enjoy the benets of a good couch, is arguably more evolved. Drawing upon this evolution, it seems necessary to reconsider our traditional approach to democracy.

The result of the last presidential election is sufcient evidence that people are ready for change. Let us make this change as drastic as the people see t and put an inkling of truth into the rst three words of the US Constitution: We the people. O

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CAMPUS LIFE

BY

Ever dreamed of nding a land where unicorns dance near smiling suns, orange-bearded shepherds herd lone purple sheep, and bright, brilliant fish swim through the sky? Well rstly, you’re a weirdo. But secondly and more importantly, you need to look no further than th the th painted i t d murals l inside i id off Tufts’ T ft ’ own Crafts Center, a beacon of bright glowing lights in the bottom of Lewis Hall on weekday evenings—just look for the vibrant construction paper letters pasted on all of the windows. Open for free-form crafting, doodling, and dabbling of all sorts Sunday through Thursday, 7-10 p.m., the center is a wonderful and somewhat unknown resource for creative output on campus.

Funded by Tufts Community Union (TCU) and entirely volunteer-run by members of the Crafts House, this place has the muscle to provide craft enthusiasts and amateurs amat am ateurs with anyy tool to ool or material they can imagine in their little crafters’ hearts.

So don’t let the hoards o off haphazardly stacked cardboard boxes, splattered paint, piles of random books, and obscure collections of knickknacks on shelves fool you you—this ou—this is not the neglected art station you remember remem em mber from Miss Peabody’s third grade classroom.

NATALIE SELZER

Here, you won’t nd ruined paintbrushes, ugly scraps of all the worst construction paper colors, or glue that refuses to ever come out of that stupid orange squeeze cap.

“It doesn’t seem like it, but this place is very organized,” says Crafts Center volunteer and Crafts House member Alexis Daniels. “It’s actually kind of crazy how organized we are.”

Upon entering the ordered th d d chaos h of the center, you will nd all manner of cardboard scraps, glitter, wax, beads, clay, pottery wheels, sewing machines, scissors, yarn, tubs of magazines ready for collage, weaving looms, chisels, clasps, hooks, colored glass pieces, paintbrushes, pliers, fabrics, glues, and all sorts of other baubles hidden AMY CONNERS away in draw drawers wer e s andd shelves. But des despite espi pite te the the bevy bev b evyy of materimat ater e ials burstingg forth for orth th from ffro rom m the the room, room ro om,, careful care ca refu full inventory is ttak taken aken en eeac each ach h we week ek tto o ch chec check eckk th thee functionality functionalit ityy an andd av avai availability aila labi bilility ty o off th thee su supp supplies. pplilies es.. members Crafts (endearAll member erss of the the C Cra raft ftss House Hous Ho usee (e (end ndea earrCrafties) responsible ingly known n as C Cra raft ftie ies) s) aare re rres espo pons nsib ible le ffor or a three-hour ur volunteer vvol o un unte teer er shift sshi hift ft at at the the center cent ce nter er once a week, aand nd eeac each ach h ov over oversees erse sees es tthe he iinv invennven en-tory of differ different ren entt it item items emss be befo before fore re gget getting etti ting ng ddow down own n to the business of ggro groovin’ roov ovin in’’ an andd cr craf craftin’. afti tin’ n.

“It’s basically a pa part party rtyy he here re aallll tthe he ttim time,” ime, e” insists another Craf Craft ft Centers Cent Ce nters volunteer, volu l nt nteeer, Kelsey Schur. “Everyone’s al alwa always ways happy happy. y.

There’s loud music and dancing, an andd someone’s always covered in gl gglitter itter at the eend.” n .” nd So it seems that a spending some time tim imee att the

Crafts Center may do more than just pass the time on a weeknight.

Indeed, according to the American Art Therapy Association website, there’s a whole movement “based on the belief that the creative process involved in artistic self-expression helps h l people l tto resolve l conflicts and problems, develop interpersonal skills, manage behavior, reduce stress, increase self-esteem and self-awareness, and achieve insight.” A whole collection of professionals is on board with the idea that art is just plain good for you. Sounds like the perfect cure for overly tense college students worried about friends, feuds, grades and their th h plans for the future.

This is where the Craft Center becomes such a great C resource re esourrcee for stud students—though a little stint with w wi t ffabrics th abrics and scissors may not wipe out ab allll mo al mono monotony noto ony and stress from your life, there aree a lo ar lott of p peo people e p backing up the idea that creativity crea cr eati tivi viity t aand nd aart can improve overall mental health happiness.

This doesn’t mean you heal he alth th aand nd h hap appi pn technique need ne ed ttec echn hniq ique oorr training—pure imagination andd ra an random m bursts burs of creativity are enough.

And let’s fa An fface c the truth: We could all bene b be n t from a lilittle more glitter dance in ne our lives. liives. F Falling alling into the dull and stiing routin routine ne of late-ni late-night cramming and the rush ffrom fr om jobs to club clu positions to volunteer organization or organizations o s and back again is easy to do, an and nd usually ends with a kind of personal disintegration into disi integ egra ration int n a twitchy, coffee-blooded stuck moving in high gear at all times. end stuc ck movin Really, Real lly ly,, it iit’s ’s no way to live when you hardly have the perspective or h ha rdly rd ly h clarity cl clarit l itty of o mind to fully enjoy all of the in which you partake. tth he ac aactivities tiv playing with glitter is just really, really Plus, pl Pl pla aying w And fun. A nd eeverything very ve rythin there is free. Awesome. O October 26, 2009

THE OBSERVER

21

CULTURE

Wild Things, Britney Spears, Hipster Parents, [and the Problem of Adulthood] .

[ ]

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BY

ma pr co lon Fo

MICHAEL GOETZMAN

Finding Neverland [2004], a story of a man or how many kids she has, she is, and always [ ] I'm sure you have heard all about it: incapable of surrendering his boundless will be, the child confronting adulthood too kids today are growing up faster than ever imagination to adulthood. But what was a soon and suffering for it.

Britney, Lindsay Lohan, Miley Cyrus, before. But that's not to say they're becoming romantic and whimsical idea in these lms adults faster; they're simply quick to embrace has become a nightmarish one in our modern and whoever is next—they exist to be teen-hood. In our culture, where an insanely society. Neverland isn't just a pleasant fantasy beautiful and young, and to suffer visibly. high premium is placed on maintaining anymore. We don't have to y to the second Their tormented bodies—half-rapture, youthfulness, indoctrination into adulthood star to the right and straight on till morning to half-ruin—peer out at us from TMZ.com and the grocery-line magazine rack. They seems increasingly elusive. While children nd it. Neverland is here; we've made it.

The figure are stuck forever between childhood and eagerly embrace adolescence, we, of the boy-man adulthood, embodying the irreconcilable the waning adolescents, are content or girl-woman tension between nostalgia for childhood and to keep adulthood at arm’s length, negotiating the the inability to escape it. They truly are where wading in a state of extended space between the wild things are. adolescence for as long as possible. childhood and But young celebrities aren't the only ones And who could blame us? Adulthood a d u l t h o o d i s plagued by our culture's xation on youth sucks. Or so we've been told. r i f e n o t o n l y everlasting. It's a much broader, far-reaching Since childhood, we've been i n c h i l d r e n ' s phenomenon that may be a reection of force-fed really enjoyable anti-adult [ ] CC folklore, but also the extended adolescence in which we propaganda. Many of our favorite in all of American all nd ourselves. Even those considered childhood books and movies simply rehash one of the dominant narratives of popular culture. We are a people obsessed adults—with spouses, jobs, and children— our era: the story of the child who faces with youth, and we know this. But we're not are influenced by its sway. Conservative the myriad adversities of adulthood. It simply obsessed with youthful appearance; commentators think this is just rich. If you should be no surprise that Dave Eggers was we're obsessed with youthful lifestyle and the ask them, every urban American under the age of 40 skateboards through trafc on the chosen to bring Maurice Sendak's beloved seemingly mindless grace conferred by it.

Childhood stardom, once a career way to work, and the criteria that once dened Where the Wild Things Are [ ] to lm; his principal theme—present in works from A nonstarter, is now nearly a prerequisite to adulthood—giving up bands, quitting drugs, Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius to bonade icon status. Every week, in every getting a steady job, having normal sex—no tabloid and media-borne canard, we see longer apply. In What Is the What—has been famous children enduring their rites of a way, they're the struggle of the child passage through desperate displays of right. Hipster forced to deal with self-destruction. That's what most of parents are the adulthood and loss. celebrity gossip is—bearing witness new children Perhaps most artful to endless initiation rituals that fail to raising children. in its telling of this tale [ ] actually initiate anything.

They'll put the is the classic Disney CC We lionize these child-adults, kid down for a film, Peter Pan [1953]. set them apart, and take vicarious and nap, check the Its setting, Neverland, is a iPhones to see fantastic place where children can fly voyeuristic pleasure in watching them [ ] CC if the Tok yo with fairies, befriend Lost Boys and never, struggle through the limbo we've created office has sent ever grow up. Half a century later, Johnny for them. We never wanted Britney [ ] to Depp [ ] would revitalize the Peter Pan grow up, and it can certainly be argued that the quarterlies, leave a video message on legacy with his role as author J.M. Barrie in she never did. No matter how much she ages Facebook, and maybe listen to Vampire

.

.

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22

We Ha ma pe an

THE OBSERVER

October 12, 2009

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CULTURE

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Weekend [ ] over a joint while playing doesn't offer the same guarantee or security it empty sort sweet-sixteens and Bar mitzvahs Halo 8 together. That's the new happy once did. It doesn't usher us from our callow have become. We won't, like some Native marriage, the new happy adulthood: all the dorm lives to mature home lives, equipped American tribes, circumcise young men as perks of adolescence empowered by money with jobs and career condence. If college a mark of entry into manhood. We won't and gadgets. wander alone into Without a culture that honors the wilder ness In our culture, where an insanely t o c o n f r o n t maturation and individuation, the problem of entering adulthood is high premium is placed on maintaining the fragility of compounded by the fact that college no youthfulness, indoctrination into adulthood ourselves so we longer serves as an effective passage. seems increasingly elusive. can return to an For our parents, college was accepted as established place the last bastion of were ever a rite of passage from adolescence in society. We won't, and yet, somehow, we youth. Once it was to adulthood, it has ceased to be one. have to make a way for ourselves. Most of over, it was over.

We can try and hold fast to our illusions us don't have the slightest idea of how to After practicing and stay young forever. We certainly wouldn't proceed or whether we've succeeded. In [ ] CC s o m e m o d e s t be alone in doing so. But I think that we're place of the missing ritual, we watch and form of rebellion, missing something—that this isn't the re-watch the story of the child who suffers they would acquiesce, get a job, get married, Neverland we wanted. while earning his adulthood, our need for the and raise us. Today, few of us think of college We've divested ourselves of a clear story as boundless as the duality within us we in this way, because, in reality, it's changed. It passage and have only the overblown and cannot assuage. O

[ ]

”

.

nes uth ng of we ed — ve ou he he ed gs, no In re ter he en en. he ra he ee yo ent on ire October 12, 2009

THE OBSERVER

23

GOING GREEN: AN ALTERNATIVE CULTURE COLUMN

SHAMEN BE JAM'N

Religious Sacrament as Allegory for Phsychedelics and The Root of Human Spirituality

BY REGGIE HUBBARD

I

n almost all religions, there is some form of sacrament—wine, incense, crackers, etc.—which functions as the causal medium for religious experience. Iterations of these holy consumables have been known by the names Kykeon, Ambrosiaa ((Greco-Roman), Greco-Roman), Mannaa (Judeo-Christianity), Somaa (Vedic texts),

Haoma (Zoroastrianism), or Ayahuasca.

Tracing the word “sacrament,” we nd two points of interest. One is that it may be parsed into literalisms: “sacred” (sacra) and “state of mind” (ment). The other is that, the Latin sac-

ramentum, or “solemn oath,” was used when translating the Greek word musterion or “mystery.” Thus, by contextualizing the term in relation to a broader history, we can comprehend “sacrament” not as a physical imbibition, but as a mysterious and sacred state of mind resultant from an imbibation—how tion ti on—how very interesting.

In 1968, the banker and amateur te mycologist Gordon Wasson published a book that investigated the roots of the Vedic Soma. He concluded that the Soma was, at its core, an allegorical g rical reference to the red go and white polka dotted Amanita muscaria CREATIVE COMMONS 24

THE OBSERVER

October 26, 2009

mushroom (or y agaric)—a psychedelic fungi employed by shamanistic cultures, ancient and present, most notably in Eastern Europe where is it naturally prolic. Whether or not one chooses to believe it, shamanism is widely accepted to be the original model of human religion that ourished for thousands of years before the advent of power wielding priesthoods and patriarchy. With shamanistic mushroom consumption at one end of the human religious timeline and Vedic consumption of a mysterious sacrament that gave visions, vitality, and transcendental experiences on the other end, Wasson attempted to trace the evidence through the ages. When he published these ideas in his book, Soma: The Divine Mushroom of Immortality (1968), the intellectual community of the time accepted it with open arms.

A funny thing though, is that references to magical and downright hallucinogenic herbs and concoctions are common not only in the “pagan” religions of the east like Zoroastrianism and Hinduism, but also in the Abrahamic religions, and, indeed, almost all religions.

Two years later in 1970, a professional philologist and Old Testament scholar named John Allegro who was, at the time, the senior committee member of a team selected to undertake the rst translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls, published just such

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GOING GREEN: AN ALTERNATIVE CULTURE COLUMN a hypothesis about the possible reference to hallucinogen use in the Judeo-Christian cannon. Allegro had a professionals grasp of the texts as an established Old Testament scholar—Wasson was by no means a Vedic scholar. Allegro also brought powerful linguistic arguments to bear from his philologist background—the book utilizes Sumerian, Acadian, Ugaritic, Semitic, Sanskrit, Syriac, Herbew/Aramaic, Arabic, Greek, and Latin. Despite these facts, Allegros book, The Sacred Mushroom and the Cross (1970), was roundly ridiculed and branded as trying to stir up trouble. It is, hopefully, obvious why this was the case—the western, Judeo-Christian thought monopoly.

There is a noun, “entheogen” that means, literally, “creates god within,” indicating a substance that, when taken, causes a transcendental, spiritual experience. So, how did humanity get from shamanistic entheogen use, wherein access to the sacrament and, therefore, to “God” were unregulated, to the model we have today, in which a priesthood generally serves as an aloof medium for distributing an allegorical placebo, the original version of which has been lost to time?

Here is an example. In addition to hallucinations, direct consumption of the Aminita mushroom causes nausea and cramping. The active ingredient, however, is almost immediately urinated out and can be consumed up to ve times in this way. Interestingly, drinking the psychedelic urine does not cause nausea or cramping.

Thus, the shaman would, at times, purify the sacrament for his people by eating heroic quantities and urinating a substance devoid of evil spirits for community consumption. If this role as purier and medium were to become too calcied in the community however, and especially when the knowledge of where to nd and how to prepare the sacrament ceases to be common knowledge, the role of the shaman begins to change signicantly. Eventually, the role of medicine man/women begins to look more like the gatekeeper to God’s realm—and patriarchy and exclusive social stratication are just around the corner. Much like (early) Catholicism, a monopoly on God bestows absolute power. Over time, or perhaps due

to the ideals of a particular regime, the actual entheogenic sacrament is either forgotten or abolished in favor of a placebo. Perhaps it is, in part, because so many of the great religions have lost their entheogenic souls that atheism has ourished—not only has science dealt religion a blow, but religion has ceased to give people the visceral, transcendental experiences of higher-order realities that once characterized human spirituality.

Unable to give spiritual transcendence in

beings and “drugs,” the ebb and ow of time takes its toll, and besides, many of the sacred libations were actually concoctions of several different powerful herbs.

The prominence of one over another for a few hundred years means very little when one keeps in mind that these are all means to the same end.

I think also that, in order to address the deep psychological programming we have undergone concerning “drugs” because of our Judeo-Christian milieu, we need more than arguments about marijuana tax revenues, drug war expenditures, and how cannabis might ght Alzheimer’s. These things are good to hear and talk about, but I think that something deeper and less pragmatic is needed. Weed isn’t here just to lend us a hand with our economy, stimulate our appetite, or provide a somewhat dignied alternative to college alcohol culture. Weed, and all of its psychedelic, entheogenic brethren are an enduring, beloved, and even sacred part of the human experience that have never left our side nor ceased to inuence our art, societal structure, and perception of reality. (Do not overlook the contemporaneous occurrence of democratic thought and coffee in Western Europe!)

In truth, I nd all of this very comforting, not because I seek valiCREATIVE COMMONS dation of my substance use, but because of what it indicates about the “All the men appear to be shamans.” roots of human spirituality. I honestly think that these shamans are and were onto something. There are cerlife, religion is reduced to promising a tran- tain fundamental truths (if such a thing scendent after life. exists) that come up in shamanism and As a columnist primarily concerned other similar spiritual philosophies (damn with Mary Jane, I hope, for your sake, that it’s hippies) such as “love instead of hate”, pretty obvious why all this stuff matters to “unity instead of duality”, and “transcenme. For one thing, cannabis denitely has its dence in life, not afterlife.” Being the propart to play in entheogenic history. Indeed, genitor philosophies of present day relimany of the Vedic texts refer to the Soma as gions, one can still vaguely discern these a milky drink, which rings quite a bell unto principles in the current religious texts Indian bhang—the weed milkshake associ- and practices, but they are heaped unated with Holi, the holiday when everyone der mountains of rhetorical rubbish and runs wild, drinking weed and painting each empty praxis. Once, they were visceral, other pretty colors (awesome). This doesn’t experientially demonstrable facts learned weaken the argument that Soma is an al- through the practice of transcending norlegory for Aminita muscaria, however. In mal reality. If that is the root of human the 10,000-year love affair between human spirituality, I’m down. O October 26, 2009

THE OBSERVER

25

ARTS & ENTERTAINMENT

A TUFTS RADIO REVIEW BY

DANIEL HELLER

D

o you know what goes on at 7:00 a.m. on Wednesday mornings? Have you ever wondered what is happening while you are snug as a bug in a rug, slumbering peacefully inside of your double long twin bed? Suns rise, birds chirp, joggers jog, and WMFO plays tunes. Outside of your window, down the Memorial Steps, inside of Curtis Hall, and in the WMFO studios, Kristen and Sarah are already up and spinning the tunes. I voluntarily decided to wake up at 6:55 a.m. and investigate the quality of those tunes and what was going on at 91.5 FM at this ungodly hour of the morning.

Opening up the WMFO website and waking up hours before my rst class to listen to a show called “Bad Conversation” is not a very pleasant surprise. Oh dear God, what have I gotten myself into? A morning talk show by Tufts students? Ughhhhh.

When the streaming audio started and the sounds of piano, bass, and rhythmic hand claps came through instead of droll, drab talk, I realized that which I should have already known: show names have nothing to

26

THE OBSERVER

October 26, 2009

do with shows. “Bad Conversation” = show with good music. Excellent.

Technically speaking, “Bad Conversation” is not the most polished show. Okay, so the song transitions weren’t the slickest, and, at times, the audio levels changed in the middle of songs, and, yeah, once there was some serious dead air between songs, but who cares? A radio show should not be judged on its polish but on the musical selections. The songs were just right for the time they were played. DJing is about playing the right song for the right moment.

Let’s play a little game to see if you could be a DJ. It’s 7:14 a.m., do you play “Rollin” by Limp Bizkit, or do you play “I Feel It All” by Feist? Well “Bad Conversation” is run by some professional disc jockeys, and at 7:14 a.m., they proved it by choosing Feist over Limp Bizkit. In a clever, culturally relevant series of song choices, Taylor Swift’s “Forever and Always” (a surprisingly awesome song, I’d like to point out) was followed by Kanye West’s “Heartbreak & 808s,” and then topped off with a little Beyoncé. As the show progressed over the course of the hour, the songs changed from smooth and sexy (Hello Seahorse!

tune “Won’t Say Anything”) to upbeat and frantic (The Clash’s “Train in Vain”), easing my tired ears out of sleep and into alive, alert, awakeness.

It’s not only the song choice but also the vocal interludes that made “Bad Conversation” a good early morning listen. About every three songs, Kristen and Sarah would take to the microphone to inform the listeners about what we had just heard and what was up next. Not too much chitchatting, just simple stuff with a few anecdotes thrown in. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be in the morning?

I know it’s hard to wake up more than nine minutes before class, but what about lying in your cozy bed and letting the sexy sounds of “Bad Conversation” wash over you? Sounds pretty alluring, eh?

I would give “Bad Conversation” a: “Lie in bed, and listen to it occasionally.” O If you are inspired to listen, WMFO can be heard over FM radio at 91.5.

What’s that? Your iPod doesn’t have a radio? Neither does mine. Luckily WMFO is also streaming online at WMFO.org.

WAY OFF CAMPUS

FALL IN FOR FOLIAGE

Autumn is New England is everything it purports to be... and more BY

F

MARYSA LIN

or a girl that grew up almost exclusively in the backseat of a car in metropolitan Philadelphia and Los Angeles, it’s rare that I’ll admit a craving for natural beauty and outdoor activities. But, by the third hour of bumper-to-bumper trafc and a McDonald’s-induced stomachache, no afnity for belligerent drivers, near-accidents, and urban noise could make me turn back from my weekend trip to New Hampshire.

It was dark by the time my companions and I arrived at the Rodd family home in Bradford, New Hampshire. The combination of nally getting out of the car, being greeted by two gigantic dogs bounding across the driveway, and breathing delicious country air was heavenly. After being treated to the home-cooked generosity of Beth and Carey Rodd, the six of us spent the rest of the night sitting around an unbelievably quaint replace in the Rodd’s unbelievably quaint lake cottage.

Little did we know that we had a long, grueling day of outdoor activities ahead of us. In fact, anyone who knows me will attest that I nd physical activity to be largely repulsive and wholly unappealing. That being said, our New Hampshire adventure was only getting better.

After stufng ourselves with a heart attack-inducing breakfast the next morning, the team set out for Mt. Kearsarge and the Warner Fall Foliage Festival decked out in weather-appropriate gear that we’d packed ahead of time… just kidding; we looked like a band of traveling gypsies wearing whatever odd assortment of eeces, hats, and sweatshirts the Rodds could offer us. This adventure camp was not exactly well prepared.

But, in retrospect, the unfortunate mishmash of clothing perfectly illustrates the splendor of this trip: even with minimal forethought, an astounding weekend outing is perfectly possible.

Standing at 2,937 feet, Mt. Kearsarge is the highest point along the trail running around the Kearsarge-Lake Sunapee region in western New Hampshire. It hosts two state parks, Winslow and Rollins, and it’s accessible from several different sides. From Bradford, it took about 20 minutes to drive to the southern entrance in the town of Warner. After paying a nominal fee of $4 per person, we took a narrow, windy road that hugged the side of the mountain for another 15 minutes of breathtaking views and scenery before arriving at the Rollins State Park Picnic Area.

We were a tad too nauseous from breakfast to plan a picnic, but there are tables scattered throughout the lower park area. During the rst part of our climb, the mist was slowly burning away, revealing an unbelievable sea of orange, yellow, brown, red, and green. At a certain point, we could actually see the heavy mist clouds yield to sunlight and roll across the sky.

Unfortunately, the higher we climbed, the mistier and windier it got. As we approached the observation tower at the summit, the wind was so strong that it was hard to breathe head-on, and I was nearly knocked over. Luckily there were exceedingly helpful arrows drawn all over the rocks to guide me back down into the relatively sheltered path.

For someone that barely climbs stairs unless I’m feeling particularly guilty about last night’s dinner, this hike was the perfect combination of challenging and rewarding.

The Rollins Trail is only about half a mile

long, but it’s a steep incline. Though was muddy and slippery at times, but the rocks were generally easy to climb up and several children shamefully overtook me. (Look, I was taking pictures, okay?)

The autumn foliage is honestly breathtaking…and I’m not just saying this because I’m still amazed at how many trees there are in New England compared to my native desert home. The views were an endless panorama of more mountains and lakes marked with huge swaths of orange, yellow, and red. White birch trees starkly contrasted the other shrubbery and some parts were still dominated by deep green leaves and moss, but that only enhanced the shades of day-quil, exposed-brick, and ginger.

It took us about two hours to climb, descend, and thoroughly enjoy the hike at a leisurely pace. The most unusual spectacle we encountered was two women having a photo shoot with their dozen dogs to which they referred as “babies.” Still, Beth Rodd likes to recall a story in which she met a woman walking her pet goat along Rollins Trail.

Afterwards, we topped off our hike with the Warner Fall Foliage Festival, which was basically a small-town street fair where I rewarded my effort with hot apple cider, apple crisp, and sausage made from locallyraised buffalo, all while wandering around yet another startlingly quaint area.

It took me an hour to nap off the exhausting effects of fresh air, physical activity and fair food; by 10 p.m., we were back in Boston. As disturbed as I am that I found fresh air so sweet and hiking so satisfying, I’m a changed person. A little trip to a little town for a little adventure was the perfect cure for mid-semester restlessness and senior-year stress. O October 26, 2009

THE OBSERVER

27

REELS & MEALS

J

Our two favorite man-daters are back for another round of restaurant and lm reviews, reporting on the high, lows, and downright awkward moments.

ust a quick stroll from campus is Porter Square, famous for Lesley University, Bally Total Fitness, the perennially top-rated homeless-hang out-T-station, and some great gustatory gems. It was an arduous and stomach-grumbling feat to walk down Mass Ave. and pass all of the Thai, Indian, and Himalayan restaurants; tonight, though, we were not in the mood for Eastern food. Just past Lesley University on Mass Ave. is Addis, an Ethiopian restaurant named for the country's capital city.

Warning: those hard of sight should bring a ashlight. The heavily-dimmed lighting created a romantic and comfortable atmosphere but made for a tough time reading the menu.

However, this cozy ambiance was further emphasized by the striking colors of the African art adorning the walls.

The seating arrangement at each table was perfect for an intimate dinner for two, a nice family dinner, or even a party of four or ve friends. With that being said, we should explain why Addis would probably make for an awkward rst or even second date (for the more conserva-

A Date with Danny & Dan

“The Awkward Second Date” tive of folk). First of all, diners eat at mesabs instead of Western-style tables. Woven from straw, these mesabs look like a conga drum with a hollow bowl carved out on top.

All of the ordered entrées are served on a single piece of injera, Ethiopian spongy bread, which is spread over the top of the mesab. The nature of Ethiopian cuisine, illustrated by the mesab, is communal and personal. Instead of a fork and knife, your utensil is a piece of the spongy and slightly sour injera. Each bite is taken by clutching a piece of meat or vegetables with a chunk of the bread. So, if you are reluctant to eat with your hands, or you do not feel uncomfortable sharing a meal with another person, then Addis probably isn’t the place for you.

We ordered ve entrees, one from each section of the menu. Our chicken dish, Doro Wot, consisted of shredded chicken marinated in a red pepper sauce, and was adorned with onions, garlic, and ginger root.

The thick sauce in the dish was akin to the consistency of a curry, but the avor fell short of the pungency of a stereotypical South Asian dish. Each entrée we ordered disappointingly did not live up to its promising arsenal of ingredients. The lamb, Yebeg Wot, and the beef, Lega-Tibs, had extremely similar avors and consistencies. Since the entrées were served together on the main piece of injera, the dishes blended together and could not be differentiated from their counterparts. We were also served a complimentary lentil dish that was bland and mushy. The only redeeming part of the meal

was the sh, Yasa Wot. The chunks of white sh were cooked in an oily red pepper sauce with onions and garlic. The distinct shy avor allowed the Yasa Wot to escape from the connes of the weak sauce. Even so, the sh was the most polarizing dish, since shiness is an exceptionally acquired taste.

The worst part of the meal? Sitting through a movie afterwards knowing that you are going to get the runs on the walk back from the theater.

I

n the wake of a dining experience that left our stomachs anything but settled, little relief could be found in any of the 87 minutes of Ruben Fleischer’s Zombieland. Featuring zombie carnage, cannibalism, quirky characters, and a contrived love story, all aspects of the lm are ostensibly aimed to induce vomiting.

The lm begins with protagonist Columbus (Jesse Eisenberg of Adventureland and The Squid and the Whale) explaining the tenants of survival in a post-apocalyptic, zombie-ridden world. It is immediately apparent that this main character is a product of the always-mystifying popularity of the ever-so-charming awkward teen actor craze. Whether it’s his irritable bowel syndrome, his fear of clowns, or his penchant for efcient and effective zombie killing, every one of Columbus’ idiosyncrasies appear to have been manufactured for The Cera himself, who, for some reason, could not be convinced to star in another movie that involved Emma Stone as a central love inter-

Wanna go back to my place...

28

THE OBSERVER

October 26, 2009

est is ab

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REELS & MEALS est. While it is not as though the character is entirely exhausted, too often he had the ability to annoy more than amuse.

Accompanying Columbus are Tallahassee, Wichita, and Little Rock: the rst a man (Woody Harrelson) sustained by his lust for zombie killing; the latter, two sisters (Emma Stone and Abigail Breslin) sustained by their skill in con artistry.

Among these, none have the ability to truly entertain as does Tallahassee during many a prolonged zombie slaying scene. It is in these scenes that the lm is able to redeem itself to a large degree for any of the discomfort or stale jokes of the lm’s other cast members. If this lm is to be truly enjoyed, it is during these wonderfully indulgent slow motion scenes of zombie massacre; in many ways the lm’s biggest star is the high-speed camera.

Though little can be said of the movie’s quality as one of the growing number of rom zom coms (romantic zombie comedies), it should be praised for its unique portrayal of zombie-human interaction.

No movie has made zombies seem more benign, or strangely fun. Rather than using the undead as a means of creating suspense or terror, Zombieland villains are more like playthings, outlets of releasing frustration or anger in the most visceral and gratifying of ways. Say what you will of the movie as a whole, few will leave the theater without something more than a eeting desire to spend a day in the shoes of Tallahassee. Regretfully, when such excitement is set against awkward love scenes that mirror too closely your own sorry excuse for dinner and a movie, it can turn, like a date gone wrong, into a bad stomachache and bundle of disappointment. O Danny Weiner and Dan Rizzo will test-drive a series of dates, empirically reporting the good, the bad, and the delicious so you don’t have to. Have something to contribute to their column or to Off Campus? E-mail Kathryn.Christiansen@tufts. edu!

For Your Consideration

YouTube Chimpanzee Riding On A Segway Boston Dynamics Big Dog Major Lazer “Pon De Floor” Cat Massage

Do Friendjob!

Eat Empress Chicken from Rose’s Sunday Brunch Buffet at Danish Pastry House Oberto Jerky from Campus Minimart

...for a friendjob?

October 26, 2009

THE OBSERVER

29

PROSE

GREEN UMBRELLA KRISTEN BARONE

Catherine M. Nakajima 30

THE OBSERVER

October 26, 2009

T

he rain splattered all over the open book in his hand in large drops, wrinkling the pages into an almost an unrecognizable shape and causing the ink to blot and twist the solid world into incomprehensible smudges. The book had been pretty awful anyway. Skill-building, they had told him; it would take a while to fully recover from the accident, and it would only set him back farther if he didn’t complete the therapy assignments. He sighed and ngered the large scar barely hiding beneath his dark cropped hair.

Having forgotten his hat on the train, he was certain that everyone who passed was staring at the disgurement.

Just when he had decided that he had destroyed the book enough for one day, a bright green umbrella skittered across the pavement and landed near his feet. Its owner ran up and deftly plucked it off of the ground but not before shooting a quick glance up at the man on the bench. That one offhand glance oored him.

His mouth opened in an attempt to kick-start his lungs, which had suddenly decided that oxygen was a bit overrated. By the time his battered brain recovered, she had already walked away.

There was no decision-making process, no should I’s. One minute he was sitting on the bench, staring at the spot where the green umbrella had been moments before, and the next he was walking toward the library, following the bobbing umbrella. The rain soaked through his clothes within a second, but the drenched state of his apparel went unnoticed. Once again, without a conscious decision, he hurriedly crossed the street to get a better look at the girl with the green umbrella.

She was beautiful; he had known that from the start. Her hair was the color of the wet autumn leaves underneath her brightly colored sneakers, her eyes matched her umbrella, and she had a light summertime sprinkling of freckles. But there was something else about her that made him keep walking in the pouring rain, following this stranger. Perhaps it was the way her eyes traced the patterns of raindrops on her umbrella like they were looking for constellations or maybe it was the fact that she was barely mouthing the words to the song she was listening to as she walked. Whatever it was, she was like a magnet, and all the little iron lings in his body relentlessly pulled him toward her. He waited a few moments in the rain as she went into the library before he crossed the street and slipped inside.

Ignoring the silent protest of the librarian behind the desk, he slipped and slid down the corridor, glimpsing her dark red hair near the café. He pretended to be immensely interested in the menu posted on the far wall while she ordered something in a voice that sounded like the hushed murmur of turning pages. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her take her drink and walk to the upper level of the café where the more secluded tables and oversized chairs were. He ordered the rst drink he remembered reading on the menu, waited impatiently while the bored teenage boy behind the counter sluggishly made it, and then tripped over himself trying to get to the stairs. He wasn’t surprised; they had told him that it would take a while to fully recover his coordination after that day that had taken so much away from him. The hot drink had sloshed all over his hand, but he ignored the liquid re and half-heartedly wiped his hand on his soaked shirt.

She sat in an oversized armchair in the corner of the upper level, a large book balanced on her lap with one hand while the

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“Startled, he looked up at her and saw her eyes shining with emotion and felt the burning electricity running from her palm through his arm straight into his bloodstream.

‘Please…stay’”

other held her drink. Her feet were propped up on the small coffee table in front of her, but her sneakers had disappeared, revealing one electric-blue and one magenta sock. His muddled mind stumbled over this fact, and as he approached her, words dropped away until all that was left was the image of those two mismatched socks on the table. He stopped a few feet in front of the coffee table and waited for something incredibly charming and clever to come to mind.

“Your socks don’t match,” he blurted out. Realizing that this was neither charming nor clever, he began to blush furiously and waited for a polite suggestion to leave. Instead she laid the huge book in her lap, sipped her drink and looked up at him as a wry smile crept across her lips.

“You followed me all the way from the park to the library in the pouring rain just to tell me that my socks don’t match?” she asked, now with an outright grin. She shook her head before muttering, “Typical.”

As he tried desperately to decipher that last cryptic word, his eyes found a golden nametag with the word “APRIL” in small block letters crookedly pinned to her blouse. He aimed again for clever, or at least slightly amusing, as he gestured to the nametag. “Were you born in April?” Swing and a miss.

She arched an eyebrow before replying, “No, my parents are just mean. They named my brother Thursday.” She grinned again and gestured to the armchair opposite hers. “After all that trouble, you might as well sit down.” She didn’t ask what his name was, which he thought was odd, but he sat down anyway since he could think of nothing better to do.

“So, April…” he grasped around for words but the right ones melted away into the gray obscurity of his mind, always just out of reach.

“Let’s not do the usual ‘what brings you here, what do you do’ nonsense,” she interrupted. He tried to decipher the beautifully muted sentence, but she had already moved on, leaving him in the dust. “Tell me something interesting about you.”

He let the question drift through his mind for a moment before responding, “I left my hat on the train today, and now I feel exposed.”

Immediately, he wished he could take the absurd thought back and stuff it in the dusty corners of his memory. Surprisingly, though she didn’t roll her eyes or asked him why he felt “exposed.” Instead, she merely nodded and said, “I’m hiding in the library because my new roommate is driving me crazy, and I miss my old place so much it hurts to look at my stuff somewhere else.”

AMY D. SHIPP

rge ble rld ful to arnd air. ne

PROSE

“Why did you move?” Her ne features darkened ever so slightly.

“I lived with someone…but it didn’t work out. My turn to ask you an embarrassing personal question.” She smiled playfully, but he could see a grave sincerity hiding in those glittering green eyes.

“Why did you follow me here?”

The brash question knocked the air out of him, especially since it was delivered in the rich velvet tones that hung in the air before him like snatched-away memories. She spoke to him with such a familiarity, he felt the truth slipping out of his mouth before his mind had even fully formed the intention to speak.

“I had to. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been…drifting.” Staring at the table, he ngered the long, raised scar absently.

“When I saw you, with that green umbrella, I nally felt like I had a direction. And so I had to follow it…follow you.” He shook his head and spread out his hands. “I’m sorry, this makes no sense, and I probably just seem like some insane creep. I’ll leave you alone now-“ Clumsily, he started to stand up, but her small hand shot across the table and grasped his arm. Startled, he looked up at her and saw her eyes shining with emotion and felt the burning electricity running from her palm through his arm straight into his bloodstream.

“Please…stay,” she choked out, her voice charged with those same sparks that made his skin tingle where she touched him.

“The park on Jameson St., three summers ago,” she suddenly blurted out. He continued to stare at her, completely bafed by the outburst. “You were standing by the duck pond, reading just like you were today…” She stopped, seemingly unable to continue.

They stood in silence for a moment, separated by the coffee table in between them yet brought intimately close to each other by that hand on his arm. She stared at him ercely, as though willing him to say or do something extraordinary, and he wished he was a different kind of man who could understand what she was saying.

The tension mounted between them as she stared at him searchingly, desperate for something he could not give her. Seeming to realize this, tears welled up in her eyes.

“You really don’t remember me, do you?” she whispered huskily. The question bafed him, but she didn’t wait for an answer.

Instead, she leaned over the table and brushed a gentle kiss on his cheek before releasing his arm. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I can’t start over, John.”

With those simple words, she hurried off, leaving him standing alone, staring at her still-steaming cup of coffee and the green umbrella lying forgotten on the oor. O October 26, 2009

THE OBSERVER

31

POETRY AND PROSE

Dusk, naked

Leehae Choee

Rows upon rows of tender skins, resting fragile. Light within hardened crates we sit while watching lines crawl by — streets smothered in hot oiled breath, above concrete I watch her from dusty, steamed windows: She peels quickly the fibrous tissue beneath her nails, pink oh and stretching skin from flesh. Juice dripping in heat.

I smell her haunting scent as she feeds me fruit, orange-colored.

Catherine M. Nakajima

Short and sweet POLICE BLOTTER

At 2:10 a.m. police on patrol spotted a male student holding (gasp!) an open container of beer (if you were surprised, go read something else. I haven’t gotten to the good part yet). The intoxicated student, who as of late has found himself in an increasingly sticky situation, deployed several evasive strategies to evade prosecution.

1) The I-can-only-remember-mybirthday-by-checking-my-ID-strategy: When asked if he was 21 he responded that he didn’t have identication.

2) Use your alias: When ofcers checked the name that the student provided, to their surprise, no student existed.

3) Get Physical: Astute ofcers quickly

ore aand nd mmore ore rece ently recently SSergeant ergeant M McCarthy cCarthy agrees,, mmore they’re catching themselves

—Written and Compiled by Ryan Stolp 32

THE OBSERVER

October 26, 2009

recognized two more beers in the individual’s pockets (for the road, we presume) and asked the student to place them on the ground. Thinking quickly and perhaps taking advantage of a sprinter’s stance when near the ground, the individual took off running down Packard Ave. This is where his strategy went awry. It is generally of poor evasive practice to run from the cops while extremely drunk. The eeing suspect made it a fair distance and then face planted in the street. Not to be discouraged, he got up, continued running, then (gasp!) face planted again. Needless to say, he basically apprehended himself. Case closed. O

Kimberly Chuang

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