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Senior Booze Cruise: Kasia makes out mid radio show

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Kelly Clarkson performs "Since U Been Gone"

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Kelly Clarkson performs "I don't Hook Up"

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Post show: Lady Gaga recap

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Lady GaGa performs piano version of Poker Face

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Lady Gaga performs Papparazzi

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Lady Gaga/Kelly Clarkson pre-show

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Inside the theater: Wolverine premiere

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OUtside the theater: Wolverine premiere

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Column 4/29/09: BU is the Real Deal

You can view it online here.

In middle school, we are introduced to the idea of a person being “fake.” The summer between elementary school and middle school causes some people to mysteriously change – either grow boobs or obtain a deeper voice – and thus receive the label of being “fake.” Perhaps they ditch the values they had in fifth grade or shun their friends who aren’t allowed to shave their legs yet. Nevertheless, being “fake” is the worst thing you can be at 13.

I never really knew what “fake” meant. It seemed to be given to the girls who were dishing out the labels themselves. Still, I got the idea that judging people behind their backs made one very unlikable on the cool kid benches. I watched a notoriously “fake” girl in my gym class wash her hair with shampoo that had been replaced with Nair by girls who felt that she deserved to be taught a lesson. Whether she learned her lesson to not be fake, I don’t know. Her hair fell out in chunks all over the floor, so I assume some knowledge was gained. Now she probably always smells her shampoo before she uses it, and if it smells like the poisonous wafts of hair-thinner farts, I’m guessing she opts out of a hair wash that day.

In middle school, I had braces and bushy eyebrows. Awkwardly tall and starved for attention, I was often asked to leave the classroom for too many instances of talking out of turn. I was consistently in trouble at after-school dances because I was grinding to Usher songs with people of the opposite sex.

Being weird deterred me from my biggest fear: being labeled fake. I dressed in bright, ironic clothing bought at Hot Topic. I noticed that all the “fake” people were also pretty, so to ensure that no one would be jealous of my radiance, I uglied myself up to prevent all the boys from falling in love with me and offering to be my slaves.

Eventually, I figured out that “fake” just meant that you had a blabbermouth, which I had and could not get rid of. I adapted to this situation. These were the seeds of me becoming a journalist.

I learned that it was much more likeable to tell people how you feel about issues, objects, ideas, right to their face. Tears have been shed, but it would be a crime to let my sister walk out of the house when she looks like a bat in that dress, and I’m not going to sit and pretend I like my mom’s cooking when the chicken tastes like it was anorexic. Some say I’m a bitch; I say it’s being honest.

This idea of “fake” is a manifestation that as 13-year-olds we now know how to be a judge of people, places and things in our lives. We are finally old enough to look at a person and label them as “jock,” “nerd” or “slut.” These are labels that come from the judgment of that individual’s actions, and as kids in middle school, we feel that we are grown up enough to assign those labels.

Hopefully we know better now, and we still judge, just with caution. How much time has to pass after knowing someone or experiencing something that we can judge it in its entirety?

I thought of this when Elizabeth Gilbert’s book “Eat, Pray, Love” came out and made its way into the hands of millions of Cosmo-loving women aged 14 to ancient. The book is about a newly divorced woman on a personal quest for some sort of fulfillment as she travels to three different countries. She eats in Italy, prays in India and loves Indonesia. I think she probably gets fat along the way, but there was no mention of that.

I never read the book. I didn’t want people on the T to think I was some sad girl who couldn’t keep a man; I want to wait for people to get to know me to figure that out. But I found Gilbert’s tactic to be a labeling process that was rather junior high. She was assigning a label to three places and trips that were monumental and indescribable. She couldn’t possibly have had enough time to gain the perspective that those trips will have on the rest of her life.

I now feel compelled to label the years I spent at Boston University as Gilbert did in “Eat, Pray Love.” Eventually, I’ll be able to label senior year, but it’s not over yet.

My first semester freshman year went by in a whirl of booze and party tops. My friends and I spent the first few weeks of the school year partying at Rumor because we knew a club promoter who could get us in. We were too young to realize that there were lots of 18-year-old club promoters in Boston, most of whom were dealing cocaine by the age of 19. A night of debauchery at Tantric took a turn when police entered and shut the place down for selling alcohol to minors (mainly me), and so we stopped clubbing.

Like most freshmen, I made best friends that I didn’t speak to after they got a boyfriend or got weird, etc. Dramatic events were spurred by Facebook wall posts and messages written on dry-erase boards. Life was beautiful.

My second semester introduced my first non-CGS classes, a shocking discovery that there were other students at the school not as beautiful and tan as those who took their education at 871 Commonwealth Avenue.

In my sophomore year, I really wanted to be the girl from “Planet of the Apes” for Halloween due to a Charlton Heston obsession. I bought 3 yards of fake fur and cut it into a fur bikini. It was held together with safety pins and Elmer’s Glue. When I woke up the next morning I was cuddling a giant stick with a plastic red cup tied to the end with twine. Sometimes, I wonder if it was even Halloween, or just a normal Tuesday in October that I decided to wear a fur bikini around Allston.

Junior year, I decided to be productive and get ready for the job I would have to get very soon. I stopped waking up in my closet and telling my professors that I was late to class because I was hit by the T. I got rid of all the useless things in my life, like my collection of oversized hats and certain men. I got internships, part time jobs at places on campus where I could sit and do nothing but reap money from BU, and I cut down to two Spike’s Junkyard Dogs hot dogs a week.

It was junior year that Boston became a home to me. I finally began to look at the city as a place that was mine to live and grow in rather than some sort of summer camp that I attended in the wrong seasons. I developed a feeling of comfort that is making it so hard to leave Boston now.

If I had to label these three years like Gilbert did, I would say my college experience was “party, party and party while getting paid by BU.” Senior year will be something like “party harder because I’m entering a jobless economy.”

On the last day of freshman year, my best friend Daria and I walked the halls of 7B, said goodbye to Julie in the last room and Jen in the single. We awkwardly waved at the two sophomores we never got to know. It felt like the end of camp.

Was it over? All of us were packing up to go elsewhere and leave freshman year in the dust. Wasn’t there something more to it? Finals were over, and since Warren was kicking us out, the fun times had to be over, too. It was as if we had other lives that we were supposed to be living that year. BU was just something fun we were doing while our other, real life, waited. We were just playing for a while.

As all of us wait in line at Barnes and Noble for our cap and gown, we ask each other, “What are you doing after graduation?” not, “What’s going on in your life?” We see graduation as a deadline, when we will go back to that other life we lead before we entered this farce called college. Much like Warren gave us a day that we had to move out, BU gives us a day that we have to give up everything we’ve amassed since Sept. 2005. It’s over, the memories were good and now we move on.

The comfort I felt in my junior year came because I finally felt that Boston was my home, and California was just a nice place to visit. I never realized that after graduation day, the city would no longer be mine, but just a place I went to school.

I don’t want to judge my time here at BU and give it a label, because then it didn’t mean anything, it was just something I did and is now over, not something I lived. I find it so hard to accept that the life I’ve built for four years is going to end on some day with crappy weather in May.

But, like the girl who washed her hair with Nair, I have so many lessons to keep with me. Physically, I may be leaving Boston behind, but those four years weren’t wasted. I can take my memories and my fur bikini with me.

When I interviewed Paul Rudd, Jason Segal, and some other dude

Open publication - Free publishing

Obama Girl Interview: Published in Metro 3/25/09

She’s still ‘Got a crush on Obama’

Enough time has passed since the primary election that it’s officially OK to admit that the first time you heard the name Barack Obama was when you were on YouTube at work and your buddy sent you a link to the video “I’ve got a Crush on Obama” with the note: “LOL.” 

Back in 2007 when Ben Relles came up with the idea of “Obama Girl,” he had no idea how much media attention the images of a lip-synching girl in a bikini would bring to the Obama campaign. 

“Several pundits have commented that our video will be more memorable five years from now than any of Barack Obama’s TV ads,” says Relles. Relles now makes political satire videos full time for his Web site, www.barelypolitical.com. 

The videos have been accused of both hurting and helping the Obama campaign, and while the point is moot now, the fun of superimposing a pretty girl next to our President has not lost its charm. 

“Our video is, more than anything, one example of how a lot of the support and advocacy he garnered as a candidate came at a grassroots level,” says Relles. 

Lucky for Relles, he found Amber Lee Ettinger to play Obama Girl. Unlike the rest of the unenlightened YouTube dwellers, Ettinger had discovered Obama on another popular, all-American news outlet. 

“I had seen him on Oprah,” says Ettinger. “I liked what he had to say.”

She may have been diplomatic back then, never revealing whom she was voting for, but now that the man who made her famous is president, she’s a die-hard fan.

“He’s always being superimposed next to me in my videos, so I feel like I know him!” says Ettinger. “I guess the craziest thing is I’m not just Amber Lee Ettinger, I’m Obama Girl.” 
Her self-awareness makes us envious. Keep the videos coming, Obama Girl. Let’s laugh/ogle at you for the next four years. 

Sarah Shanfield/Metro

You can view it online here

Column 4/22/09: Going back to Cali

You can view it online here. 

I’m moving back to my hometown in Southern California at the end of May. I will be taking residence in a lovely four bedroom, 3 1/2 bath house in a quiet Orange County neighborhood with good schools. I will be living with two roommates – a couple – who own a dog and inexplicably look like me.

Moving back home isn’t what I’m worried about. The frustration I feel about sharing a house with two people who are so old that they still use AOL is far outweighed by my anticipation of re-adapting to a Southern California lifestyle. The thought of this makes me want to crawl under my winter coat (now for sale on eBay) and die. 

I never played into “being Californian.” I like to be on time and freak out irrationally at little things. When I wear sweatpants, I don’t also style my hair nicely and put on big sunglasses to take a walk down Rodeo drive like I’m “dressed down but still fabulous.” I wear them because I feel like looking ugly and don’t want to see daylight, like a normal person in sweatpants should feel. 

In short, I’d rather stick a California-grown avocado in my eye than have an entire conversation about how nice it is to have an organic brunch out on the patio in February. This attitude makes me too uptight to for Southern California. That’s why I moved here, where I could be around other uptight people. 

At the beginning of every Boston University student’s career, they meet a statuesque sun-kissed tool bag from California in their dorm or outside of College of General Studies. This person never becomes a consistent friend because all he or she can talk about is how much better California (a state) is than Boston (a city). He or she constantly reminds you that you’ve been eating horrible burgers all your life because you’ve never been to the magical kingdom of In-N-Out. Years later, it is discovered that this person spent a semester at BU and then moved home to attend Santa Monica Community College in hopes of getting into Stanford University. 

I think I took more enjoyment hating this person than anyone else did. I’m normally pretty judgmental but when it comes to other Californians, I am irrationally unforgiving. Perhaps as a freshman, I felt that by separating myself as a Californian who didn’t brag about boogie boarding in January would help me fit in with the non-Californians. Looking back, it was simply being uptight that did this for me.

I still had friends from California, but they were all as self-loathing as I was. We didn’t understand why it was so important to compare our hometowns to Boston, as they were clearly different time zones and therefore exempt from comparison. I would have rather wasted my energy doing something else like, gee, I don’t know, making friends rather than alienating people by talking about stuff no one cares about. 

Californians use their state as a status symbol. I catch myself winning arguments by saying “I’m from California,” and I realize that no other state has people as arrogant as us. Yes, we have laidback attitudes and good Mexican food, but those attitudes cause traffic of South Asian proportions and that Mexican food is more often than not produced by undocumented immigrants who, because of our strict visa laws, can’t get a job anywhere else. We have problems just as big as the next state. Plus, our governor played a pregnant man in a 90s movie, and we wonder why our public education system is so terrible.  

Now that I will be working in Los Angeles, I worry about social scenarios that I might ruin with my extreme disrespect of Californians. I imagine that I will meet a group of girls (undoubtedly followed by a camera crew) who invite me to go to the popular Hollywood nightclub Les Deux with them. After the bar closes, there will be no move to get pizza because they’ll want to go spin class in the morning. This is my hell. 

But I am one of these people. Just because I lived in Boston for four years doesn’t make me a Bostonian. I still grew up with a Disneyland pass and surfboard in the garage. I have an identity crisis as all of us do who move out of state. 

So many of us are about to move home, and adjusting to life in a new city will probably be unpleasant. But I think I’ll be okay. As long as I find someone to hang with who will eat pizza instead of Pinkberry, California won’t be half as bad as it could be. 

My First Ruben Studdard article

Studdard

 

‘Idol’ winner really ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’

Studdard puts his career back on track after ‘A.I.’

 There’s no statue on his mantle announcing it, but Ruben Studdard is still the proud  winner of the second season of “American Idol” in 2003.   

“It’s just like winning a Grammy or an Oscar,” says Studdard, who was also nominated for a Grammy for Best Male R&B Vocal Performance that year. “To me it’s just as important.” 

Studdard has spent the last six years touring, releasing albums and belting those high notes. On Friday, the man that “Idol” fans dubbed The Velvet Teddybear takes a break from melting hearts to star in a revival of “Ain’t Misbehavin’,” the finger-snapping revue about the music scene in 1930s Harlem. 

Studdard says he believes now is a more relevant time than ever to celebrate the songs of African-American legends who weren’t properly appreciated back then.  

“The one thing that I bring to the show is an appreciation of where I am and where he wasn’t able to be,” says Studdard about his character, jazz icon Fats Waller. “These artists were affected by racism so strongly, even though they were so popular. I think this musical and the time that we’re in is really a blessing,” he adds.  

The five-person cast includes other ex-Idols  French ie Davis and Trenyce Cobbins, allowing Studdard to feel right at home. But “Ain’t Misbehavin’” is a limited engagement, so what’s coming up for the singer? Broadway? 

Co-host of the next reality TV show with Justin Guarini? 

“Charley Pride can’t be the only black country star,” Studdard teases. “That’s all I’m saying.”  

‘Ain’t Misbehavin’’
Friday through Sunday
The Strand Theater
536 Columbia Road, Boston
MBTA: Orange Line to 
Downtown Crossing
$28 - $58, 617-482-9393
www.citicenter.org

View it online here. 

Column 4/15/09: Shipping up to Dorchester

You can view it here. 

Last week, I got to interview Ruben Studdard for his traveling production of “Ain’t Misbehavin.’”

The interview was at the Citi Performing Arts Center, where I assumed the show would be held. When I entered the reception area I saw a man holding a white trash bag full of takeout Thai food. Upon learning that I would be interviewing Studdard over a few pounds of crispy chicken that would not be shared with me, I walked down into the basement to meet the Velvet Teddy Bear himself.

The interview went well. Studdard was full of “quotables.” He mentioned his desire to see “17 Again,” which he described as a movie about a girl who goes back to high school. (Not a girl. Zac Efron. He didn’t know who this was.) He said this movie reminds him how much “grown-er” he has become since he was 17. Hey, I would make up words, too, if I beat out Clay Aiken in “American Idol.”

When I do these interviews, my goal is to get free theater tickets from publicists after writing mediocre articles that provide press for mediocre plays. I was excited to get an offer for two opening night tickets to “Ain’t Misbehavin,’” but to my dismay, the performance was not at the Citi Center but at the Strand Theater in Dorchester. Dorchester is the formal name for “Deathchester,” as some of you less familiar with local police logs may not know.

I was conflicted because I didn’t want to take three buses to get to Dorchester, but I also felt like I was being lazy by not going out to see the show. Studdard had been good to me. We’d talked about how he likes to go to Wal-Mart everyday because he never knows what he might need. I didn’t want to let him down, or worse, make him think I couldn’t handle Dorchester. So I gathered up my most intimidating friend Casey and hopped on the No. 1 bus. It would be an adventure. 

While waiting for our second bus at Ruggles Station, the smells of Kennedy Fried Chicken and rain filled our nostrils. A man with an empty pint of Wild Turkey bourbon in his back pocket screamed slurs at the chicken shop and then brandished a large steak knife that he produced from the same pocket. I looked at Casey and realized how un-intimidating his tiny frame and tight jeans were. Plus, the only crime I’d been a victim of was having stuff stolen off me when I was sleeping in public areas. Now I was conscious and wishing Studdard was there to protect me. Luckily, Kennedy came outside to throw out his leftover giblets and gizzards, saving us from the inevitable knife fight I would have won.

We finally arrived at the theater, a glowing beacon in the midst of side-paneled houses and stores that were padlocking their windows. Outside, there was a red carpet and an army of excitable “Idol” fans, along with press people like me who’d felt obligated to attend. Among them was Mayor Thomas Menino, a closet “Idol” fan and huge advocate of bringing theater to underdeveloped areas of Boston.

The show was great, but afterwards we were quick to learn that no cabs come out to Dorchester. The journey home would involve walking two miles in drizzle and the discovery of The Hen House Wings ’n Waffles.

I was reminded of my freshman year when I found myself in East Boston looking for a fabled all-night taco stand. I realized that was the farthest I’d ever ventured in Boston. I’ve never been to Jamaica Plain or Mission Hill because it was too far from cushy Allston, and though I’ve lived here three and a half years and spent every summer here, I’d never once been to Dorchester. It made me wonder, are these Boston neighborhoods hard to get to because the city doesn’t want people going there or because the city doesn’t want those people coming to pristine Beantown?

Boston is famous for its segregated neighborhoods, but college students rarely see this firsthand. Many of us live inside the Green Line bubble, depriving ourselves of the life and wonders that exist outside the Duck Tours route. We never go anywhere that isn’t easily reached by T or a cheap cab. Is it because we’re lazy or because we’re told not to go there? Are we really that afraid to mingle with people from outside of our tuition-affording tax bracket? Are we exacerbating the disparity?

We all complain about Boston being small and boring, but we confine ourselves to the same tired places that just happen to be by the T. We’re missing out on authentic tacos and deep-fried waffles. I’m not saying we should gentrify Dorchester, but I don’t think you can say you lived in Boston unless you’ve seen it all — the good, bad and the Kennedy Fried Chicken.

Column 4/8/09: Don't miss out on BU

You can view it online here. 

When I was accepted to Boston University four years ago, all I read of the letter was “Congratulations Miss . . .” and then immediately posted the news on my MySpace and drove all of my high school textbooks into the arid Southern California desert and buried them alive.

These actions were consequential. Because I never read my acceptance letter, the first day of class included the discovery that I was in the “College of General Studies” instead of a real college. My negligence also caused me to be unaware of any orientation activities, and I simply showed up at Warren Towers in August with my new laptop and drinking face on.

 I still feel like I missed something integral by skipping orientation. When people say “we met at orientation,” or “we made out at orientation,” I get insanely jealous.

The rest of my college experience has been spent in paranoia that I would graduate with that same feeling of exclusion that I felt by missing orientation. So I beg of you, seniors, please don’t make the same mistake I did or you may spend the next four years upset that you missed an epic frat party or chance to complete the “Rhett’s Challenge” while your metabolism is still high. There is no reason we should graduate without doing all of the things we were meant to do as 18- to 22-year-old sexy co-eds. We have more than enough time to complete the essentials. They are:

Make a friend. Make out with a friend. Make out with a stranger. Go home with a stranger. Find out that stranger is your friend’s roommate. Talk about it four years later and pretend you don’t remember because you were sooooo wasted. 

Take advantage of getting someone to misdiagnose your pink eye for pregnancy at Student Health Services while your parents are still paying for insurance. Lose a few pounds at the gym because the only workout facility you’ll be able to afford after graduation will be your old elementary school playground.

If you’re moving away, make sure to take in an artsy film at the Coolidge Corner Theatre, have a delicious dinner with a breathtaking view at Top of the Hub and get arrested for punching people in Southie before you pack up.

Following this advice is easy, but what I’m having trouble with is that when I look back on my college career, I can’t help but see that the whole thing was sort of worthless. I spent four years massacring my GPA taking classes for a minor in the ugly beast subject of sociology. Every sociology class I took was in a room with no windows and taught by a professor that hated sociology as much as I did. I never read a single reading, so I might not even know how to read anymore. College made me lose brain cells –– not by pot and booze, but by looking things up on Wikipedia the night before a final.

I failed miserably at extra curricular’s as well. I joined the College of Communication Student Assembly but left in embarrassment when they vetoed my idea for a Pirate vs. Viking-themed COM Prom. I devoted months of my life to my sketch comedy troupe, which holds the same importance on my resume as my 6-year-old and expired lifeguard certification. I take pride in graduating as a trained journalist, but I never learned about radio and I was so bitter that I didn’t land the role I auditioned for on BUTV’s “Bay State” that I never went back.

I also spent more than $300 getting trashed every week at the BU Pub just so I could be knighted. I have no idea where my knight’s mug is. Or where my pants are.

I spent a great deal of energy building relationships and making delicious drunkchies. Now people tell me that these things will not get me a good paying job. I thought I was a superstar for having three different internships at newspapers, but those are useless because in a year, blogs are going to turn evil and eat all newspapers of the world starting with The Boston Globe.

I imagine some of you can relate to my feeling that I should have done so much more with the opportunities BU gave me, and those of you cum laude people are laughing because it was me you stepped on to get to where you are. But you have regrets too. You’ve walked by the Indian dance groups practicing in the lobby of the College of Arts and Sciences and wish you had tried out. You’ve wondered about being more sexually experimental since you have the excuse of being “young and in college.” So do it. There’s still time.

I can’t say what we will be feeling in two months, but I imagine it will feel a lot like 8 p.m. on Marathon Monday. I’m not looking forward to it and neither are any of you, but I’m not opposed to being the creepy super senior at the BU Pub reminiscing about winning iPods at hockey games and asking anyone if they can sign me into a dorm for mozzarella sticks at Late Nite. I know that whatever regrets I have will be a sufficient price to pay considering I would never give up the fun I had. At least I learned early on not to make out with strangers. That would have been bad in the real world.

Column 3/25/09: Facebook on the Guestlist

You can view it online here.

I was having a bad day recently and, as per usual, my best friend from home, Janine, was the only one to answer my call. She listened, gave advice and spoon-fed me classic lines like “you’re better than him,” and “please don’t set anything on fire.”  

A few days later, I got a handmade card in the mail from Janine. It was a beautiful collage of flowers, lace and glittery letters that spelled out my name. The centerpiece was a sticker that read “two hearts beat as one.” I found it very thoughtful, even though the heartbeat thing was a little suspicious.  

As I was taping it to my wall, I noticed Janine, who had been busy making the “save-the-date” cards for her upcoming wedding, had used bridal magazine scraps and marriage-themed stickers to construct a “you-rock-men-suck” craft for me. At first I thought she was considerate for trying to obstruct the face of a male model in a tux with a metallic flower, but I couldn’t ignore the irony of a sympathy card made from her successes.  

I’m very happy about Janine’s nuptials, but I can’t help but note the inconvenience it has caused me. First, my ex-boyfriend was the one who broke the news of her engagement to me, which ruined my day. Second, her wedding is two days after my birthday, which is just rude. And third, she’s making us wear brown, which is the same color as death.  

Janine’s wedding story convinces me that Facebook has confused my generation when it comes to love and marriage. Janine announced her engagement by inviting everyone she knew to a Facebook group titled “We’re Getting Married.” Practical? Yes. But now there are several people who know that the girl they used to sit next to in math is having a white wedding. Is that really how it should be?  

My senior year has been filled with countless marriage announcements on Facebook. Ryan and Ashley were two people who just liked to hold hands and do it in the bathrooms in middle school. Now they have chosen a venue for their spring wedding. I didn’t need to know this, but now I do, and now I’m thinking about marriage when I’m 21.  

People also hate to be reminded that they’re single, and Facebook seems to do that every time I log on. A friend from kindergarten sent me a message over the summer that read, “I’m getting married New Year’s Eve! There will be lots of handsome single guys there! I suggest bringing a female guest because I’m totally serious about the guys.”  

It was like she was cursing me to be “single-girl-at-the-wedding” for the rest of my days. I will always be sitting next to that awkward cousin at the uglies table because I have publicly declared that I don’t understand what the rush to get married is, and will be saying that when I’m 42.  

I’m not really sure if I believe in marriage. My parents seem to be happily married, but my dad hangs out with a gaggle of divorced tools that sell night-vision goggles and hunt small birds in Mexico. My mom’s friends are divorced women who nickname their boyfriends like they’re in some “Sex and the City” spinoff about old ladies getting laid. It just doesn’t seem possible to find something as good as my parents’ relationship, and the likely end of most marriages is divorce. I don’t have my hopes up.  

Being alone sounds so fun, too. I will never have to stop buying single servings of Easy Mac and no one will fart on me in bed. I don’t have to worry about childhood obesity or contracting chicken pox. And I will be filthy rich, because how often do you meet an unmarried, unchildren’d bachelorette in her 60s who isn’t driving a Mercedes and dripping in Chanel? Condoleezza Rice comes to mind. And yet, as my senior year goes on, and people are deciding what to do after college, the amount of couples planning to move in together is alarming to me. It’s confusing, because either they’re crazy or I am. I feel immature that I have not reached the point of my life where I can seriously share things with other people, but I also feel lucky that I get to eat this Easy Mac by myself.  

At first, I was shocked every time I went on Facebook and saw that someone I used to sell pot to was getting hitched. Now it’s starting to normalize. I feel genuinely happy that someone I know gets to be a part of something as exciting as a wedding. Does this mean I’m too old to be shocked at my friends getting married? Am I finally an adult? Either way, I’m not giving up my bed anytime soon. I have the rest of my life to sleep next to a man who is going to fart on me and call it “bliss,” so pass me that Easy Mac, I’m taking advantage.

Column 3/5/09: Why do we BU?

You can read it online here. 

This weekend I went to Wesleyan University. It was my first visit to a “small liberal arts school.” My general conclusions are that the town looked like something between a History Channel movie about Puritans and a Food Network special on the kitschiest breakfast nooks in the Northeast. It was the Disneyland of New England, a mock version of a colonial town where everything was a steeple or a statue of some white guy on a horse. The school itself was full of couples and people with cars. It reminded me how weird it is to leave Boston and how weird it is that we go to school in a real, functional city. 

Our school has no football team. Our school has no “annual rush the quad in your underwear after finals” event. Our school has so little Greek life that the Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s frats are on our campus, and we don’t even go to those. Also, our school has no campus. Every time we try to have a campus, it manifests into a poorly executed space for students to meet and greet and tan when it’s warm. But it’s never really warm here — that’s why the Boston University “Beach” is a strip of grass next to a major highway and Marsh Plaza is made of cold, hard, Medusa stone. 

Our school was not meant to be a Notre Dame or a Vassar. It was not meant to be one of those schools where people paint themselves red and white and buy season tickets to all the games after they graduate. Our school is what it is, and at one point or another on our campus tours, every one of us looked at the expressions of disdain students have when walking down Commonwealth Avenue, and we thought, “This is the place for me.”

As a senior, I ask myself these questions halfheartedly and to no one. Why did I choose a school with the only existing school spirit being in the dwindling student section at a hockey game? Aren’t these the students that didn’t realize they were going to a school without team sports? I don’t see these things as problems, and I never really did. I went to a lot of hockey games; I even won an iPod once by convincing the cameraman to point and shoot in my direction. I still have plenty of school spirit; I’m just not the type to paint it on my face. I don’t think any of us are. 

I look around at my senior class and notice that the only thing we have in common is our school. Something about BU made us feel at home. Something about BU made us feel like it could give us the best four years of our lives. 

It was the burritos at Warren Towers that made me realize I was meant for BU. I’m going to assume that 50 percent of every incoming freshman class enrolls for the same reason. Still, there has to be something more.

How did BU seduce us? Yes, we all studied different things, but there’s a reason why most of us are pretty well dressed, repulsed by unkempt hair, and there has to be a reason why most of the guys are kind of tool-ish. At one point, all of us romanticized Boston and said, “Big lights, big city, here I come.” We knew we wanted to be in a real place, not some kitschy town without an airport. We were going to make something of ourselves in this big city, but we weren’t ready for New York yet. New York is for after graduation.

I know, I’m generalizing, but I’m generalizing all the things I like about BU. I like that our law building looks like Tim Burton-inspired Legos. I like that I don’t have to make any all-day commitments other than Marathon Monday. And I find it really satisfying that half the reason for the traffic on Storrow Drive in the springtime is people slowing down to look at the six girls who decide it’s okay to tan in April. 

Perhaps what brings us together is that we were all smart enough to choose a school as perfect as Boston University. There’s plenty to complain about, but most of it is for people who like to complain (me). It’s expensive, but there are so many things partially funded by your undergraduate student fee that you haven’t even discovered (free bagels in the basement of the George Sherman Union on Tuesdays). It’s a great school with a great support system. If you haven’t found that yet, I promise you will. 

Those of us who stick around at BU are people who like to get their coffee and then sit and not talk to anyone while applying for internships. We have our friends, yes, but we have our jobs at State Street too. We’re living in a real city with real problems. It’s comforting to know we belong.3/5/

Column 3/18/09: A Purim Princess Parable

You can view it online here. 

I visited my sister at her college dorm room in San Francisco over spring break. On Tuesday morning, we awoke in her twin XL bed with a picture of her wearing a funny hat and holding an alcoholic beverage staring down at us. She wiped her eyes, dutifully checked her Facebook wall posts and said to me, “Happy Purim.” 

How could I forget it was Jewish Halloween? If I can remember kindergarten Sunday school at my synagogue correctly, Purim celebrates a queen named Esther who married a man named something like Heman, Hymen or H&M. He hated Jews and wanted to kill them all (how original), but Esther, a brave and shrewd queen, convinced him not to because she was Jewish or her uncle was Jewish. Someone was Jewish. Anyway, no one died except Herman, I think, and he was stoned. Stoned to death, I mean. 

But the story isn’t the point; the point is that when this tale is told, usually by puppets or a man in a colorful scarf, we Jews listening get to scream “boo” at this Hamlet guy’s name, and “yay” at Esther’s name. There is also pot banging and groggers involved. It’s the only Jewish holiday I know of with fun audience participation. 

Plus, traditional Purim food is these amazing jam-filled triangle cookies called Hamantaschen, which probably means “everyone else’s food sucks” in our secret Jewish language. Last year I went into Shaw’s and saw a tray of day-old homemade ones on sale. I didn’t have any money, nor did I feel I needed to pay considering the pain and suffering of my people under Hambone’s wrath, so I ate the entire box while still in the store. It was a low point and a high point at the same time. 

Despite my extensive knowledge about Jewish holidays, I don’t know why Jews dress up in costumes on Purim, but they do. In fact, Jewish holidays are so strange that my temple would even inexplicably have a gigantic carnival in celebration of the event. Come to think of it, it was just a bunch of food. But I specifically remember there being a way to win goldfish or more of those triangle cookies. I think it was all a way of saying, “Hey, we’re fun, too!”

I have happy memories of Jew-Halloween, but when my sister said “Happy Purim” to me I had nothing but scorn and anger toward her. You see, at my synagogue, a “Purim Princess” was selected among the girls aged 16 that year. Since 16-year-old Jew girls typically look like apes or painfully un-exotic Frida Khalo’s, the girl chosen is usually the most Aryan looking because her facial hair was always the lightest. 

My little sister was somehow blessed with blue eyes and a nice personality, so she was chosen to be princess when she was 16. I was not. At 16, I was more concerned with finding princes than being an actual princess, and I think one thing you need to be a real princess is innocence. 

I take a lot of pride in being better than my sister in every other possible way, but here is where she has me beat. She got to participate in the most important of all the half-assed Jewish holidays as the princess. She got to hold a scepter and rule over the kingdom of the Temple Beth Or lawn. She will always be able to use that against me. I’m smarter than you. Oh yeah? Well I’m a princess. You don’t know how to spell simple words. Oh yeah? I’m Jewish royalty. Mom likes me more. Well, the rabbi likes me more. Instant win, every time.

At this point you may say, “Sarah bat Shlomo, you are missing the true meaning of Purim.” Well my gentile friend, I have long since given up on finding any Jewish holiday meaning that goes beyond “remembering suffering” and stuffing my face with knish. 

I could tell that my sister counted the days until Purim every year so she could take out a photo of herself in a crown surrounded by little boys in yarmulkes and sigh, thinking of how happy she is that her innocence and beauty were appreciated when they were in their prime. 

True to the Jewish holiday tradition outlined above, when I think of Purim I am reminded of the suffering my little sister has put me through, and then I go into Shaw’s and stuff my face with geometric cookies. Perhaps one day I will find a scepter and a people of my own to rule. I will call them the chosen people, and we will have holidays that commemorate the greatness of leaders like me, and there will be delicious treats and debauchery for all, even those with a hair lip. Hmm. Maybe Esther and I were more alike than I thought. I should have been that princess.

Column 2/25/09: Spoiler Alert

You can view it online here. 

I spent the better part of the Oscars wondering if there was a fashion conspiracy at hand. One by one, female starlets stepped onto the red carpet and the Swarovski-bedazzled Kodak Theatre stage in what looked like drag queen-ready mermaid costumes. Miley Cyrus traipsed between the velvet ropes in her scalloped prom gown with barnacles glittering on the edges, Beyonce busted any myths about the existence of giant squids with her black and gold sushi boat number and Sophia Loren floated about wrapped in some sort of ocean foam found on the Jersey shore. Even Tina Fey looked like she needed a triton. It was as if all the fashion designers had gotten together, and the head of their secret society, probably Donatella Versace or Kathy Lee Gifford, said, “Maybe if all of our dresses are ugly, no one will have to be on the worst-dressed list.”  

It was a great joke, but I went to bed before the punchline came, when Kate Winslet’s detachable tentacles enveloped her and her new little gold man. My friends complained at my exit, saying I would miss the montage with all of the movies no one’s ever heard of and seeing Jessica Biel wear the same burlap sack Ariel wore in “The Little Mermaid.” 

What my friends didn’t know is that I retreated to my bedroom because the Oscars were ruining my future moviegoing experiences. I had only seen a fraction of the nominated films, the most notable being “Kung Fu Panda” and “Hellboy II.” Therefore, all of the five-second clips, glorified instrumental scores and Hugh Jackman’s musical numbers were giving away the plot lines to movies I hadn’t yet seen but planned to someday when I remembered to add them to my Netflix queue. I removed myself from a situation that would have been hazardous to my enjoyment of the films. 

As I sat in my quarters contemplating my fingernails, I heard my roommates Tim and Ellie excitedly conversing while Ryan Seacrest’s incoherent post-show rabble played quietly in the background. They were talking about past Oscar winners and possible future ones. Naturally the subject turned to “Harry Potter.” 

Ellie quickly stated that she needed to read the final “Harry Potter” book before she sees any more of the “HP” movies. Tim, perhaps thinking he was doing her a favor, interrupted her and said she need not read the book because he could tell her the end. And then he did, leaving Ellie near tears and leaving me free of 1,000 pages of laborious reading.

Ellie was still mad in the morning. She scrambled her eggs with obvious rage and loudly declared that all people who ruin endings to movies, books, TV series or YouTube videos belong in a certain circle of hell. Tim has failed to apologize to Ellie or myself for giving away –– not one, but many –– devastating endings of the final “Harry Potter” novel. I was tired of waiting for this apology so I ate his pack of Twizzlers to make us even, but Ellie’s fierce silent treatment has yet to be broken. 

I was a little upset that Tim ruined “Harry Potter” for me, much like I was upset that Anne Hathaway ruined “Frost/Nixon” for me, but I never considered that there was malice to the act of spoiling an ending. I thought of all the times I’d seen romance movies that are obviously not comedies and I’d yell at the screen “She’s going to die.” I never meant to hurt anyone, but after seeing Ellie’s pure hatred of Tim, I see there are different levels to this sin.  

I can claim innocent outburst, but there is a certain satanic quality in people who go around blabbing the ending to “The Sixth Sense” or “The Departed.” But, like I said, there are always exceptions. For instance, I would have very much appreciated someone telling me that “I Am Legend” was a movie about zombies. All I knew before entering the theater was that it was about Will Smith as a single man in New York City. I figured it was somewhere along the lines of “Hitch 2,” but the second I saw that dog, and I got the urge to yell “She’s going to die” at the screen, I knew it was not going to be an enjoyable event. 

Tim argued that Ellie had literally had years to read “Harry Potter” so she shouldn’t be mad that she was finding out the ending to a cultural phenomenon so late after its publication. Sure, I’d had plenty of time to see the Oscar-nominated films before the big day, but you can’t rush art absorption. I would hope that despite my tardiness, I can still be moved by Leonardo DiCaprio’s performance in “Titanic,” Eddie Murphy’s performance in “Dreamgirls” or Hulk Hogan’s performance in “The Wrestler” and say, with my own conviction, “He should have won the Oscar.”

Column 2/18/09: It's All the Rage These Days

you can view it here.

SHANFIELD: It's All the Rage These Days

When I was a little girl I sincerely hated being made fun of, but my parents never seemed to catch on. I thought if I threw more tantrums, they would stop making fun of me for peeing my pants on that camping trip or throwing an Olsen twin-themed birthday party. But they never did.

On my fourth birthday, my dad sat on the couch poking fun at my bowl cut while I played with the new porcelain doll I’d received from my grandmother. I looked at my dad, desperately wanting him to shut up, then looked back to the doll and realized I would probably have no use playing with this thing, and it would sit on display in my room until I went to college, and, by that time, it would have racked up enough sentimental value not to be thrown away. I decided that shutting my dad up would be a better use for the doll, so I smashed the doe-eyed baby over his head.

I know it shattered into a million pieces, but the rest is blurry. It was my first and only rage blackout.

My mom told me the doll went to the doll hospital but didn’t make it out alive. I suggested a burial, but didn’t push it when my mom said no. I felt awful and apologized to my dad, and I have never struck him with any blunt instruments since. The doll-smashing incident had a significant effect on both my behavior and the way others in my family treated me. They were literally shocked that I had such rage, but I know that I never had to throw any more tantrums because no one ever tried to get in my way.

I thought of this incident when Russell Crowe threw a phone at a hotel worker. I thought of it again when Alec Baldwin’s daughter recorded an angry voice message he had left on her phone. I thought of it most recently when Christian Bale snapped on the set of the new “Terminator” movie and all the world was forced to listen to his rambling rage.

Anger is something we all crave to witness, but I don’t think it was always this way. The most popular form of television is reality TV, but no one wants to watch people with manners or stifled emotions. Reality show casting directors look for people on the brink of explosion, people who will take out their anger by smashing a beer can to various foreheads. Even President Barack Obama, the leader of the free world, expresses his rage at the deficit he has to fix.

It occurred to me that rage is the new black, and rage blackouts are the new little black dress. We say we like it when celebrities, news anchors, political icons and cooking show hosts throw temper tantrums because it makes them look bad, but I beg to differ. We crave the moments in which they snap because they are just making it that much more acceptable for us to snap. Every human loses it once in a while — yes, even you. You might not have broken a porcelain doll on your dad’s head, but your moment is coming, and I know you can feel it.

However, Chris Brown took the fashion trend too far when he pulled an Ike and Tina on Rihanna. Rage is what’s in — a little foul language, maybe some minor vandalism, but not domestic abuse. It’s sort of the equivalent of taking a job as a lumberjack when flannel shirts are what’s in fashion.

What Chris Brown did was obviously wrong on many different levels, and in no way do I consider that to be a healthy rage blackout, but Christian I can relate to. The world was not ready to see this side of him, the side he desperately needed to show if he was going to get anything done the way he wanted it done. No one was ready for my rage blackout either, probably because it occurred before the trend was sweeping the nation.

Sure, we both feel bad, but people will, out of fear, treat us differently for the rest of our lives, and that’s good. Alec Baldwin went on to win two Emmys after his rage blackout, and Tyra Banks went on to have her own talk show after she broke down on the set of “America’s Next Top Model.” I went on to convince my frightened dad to pay for a Boston University college tuition, and I’m currently working on getting a new Xbox. The outlook is good.

Pretty soon, people in the public eye will be able to act like normal humans and have rage attacks whenever they need to have them. Olympians will no longer have to stifle their anger with hallucinogenic drugs, and Naomi Campbell will get hired again. This is a new era: where people get angry, and then get stuff done.

Utters!

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Dance Marathon Video Project

Dance marathon 2009 from Sarah Shanfield on Vimeo.

southie parade slideshow

Southie Parade slideshow

This is what my dad posted on my column today

"I am a surgeon and shared this with the staff. They are still laughing including the patient on the table......"

Ha ha ha Dad. You must have great bedside manner when you tell people they're never going to ski again. 

Also, I thought of a few questions I'm going to ask Jason Segal and Paul Rudd next week:

Hey Paul, so do you get a boner every time you watch "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" because you like seeing Jason's weiner?

That's all I got so far. 

Shanfield out. 

tim takes shits at inopportune moments

if i have to pee in ellie's old coffee cup again i'm going to be pissed. 

Being the coolest kid in town

My popularity has risen since people have discovered that I will be interviewing Jason Segal and Paul Rudd for a Metro article on their upcoming film "I love you, Man."

Here was my day:

When I told Matt Laud

me: I'm interviewing Jason Segal and Paul Rudd

Matt: Did you tell them one day they'll all be working for Matt Laud?

When I told Kasia Pilat

me: I'm interviwing Jason Segal and Paul Rudd

Kasia: Don't forget to show Paul pictures of me in sexy positions. 

When I told Ellie

me: I'm interviewing Jason Segal and Paul Rudd

Ellie: Sarah, you have to tell Jason Segal that I was the girl that got in the car and drove away with Steven Swanson. He knows me. He'll remember. 

NO. Can you imagine reading an article about Jason Segal in the newspaper when it's about people they don't know or give two flying shits about? It would sound like this:

BOSTON - Jason Segal and Paul Rudd are a happy couple; the two enjoy watching HBO together on Sunday nights, making summer salads, and going to Coldplay concerts. They are also the powerhouse behind the newly invented film genre: the Bromantic Comedy. 

"I don't know who that is," said a gregarious Segal, lazily sipping his Boba tea while wearing Seven jeans and a shirt reading "Hal's Big Electric Sticks." Rudd chuckles, slapping his friends Michelob-enhanced gut and flashing the smile that long ago made Clueless viewers wonder if he was Ben Affleck. "Yeah." says Rudd. "We don't know your friends."

This isn't the first on-screen collaboration for the happy couple, but it's sure to bring them to the top of the brotem pole. "Please stop giving me Dead Man on Campus DVDs to sign," says Segal. "And I don't want these pictures of a small blonde child, your roommate, whatever."

"Aren't you supposed to be asking us questions about the movie?" Rudd jokes. "I've never been invited to a sketch comedy show in the basement of the Boston University student union, but I'm pretty sure it sounds about as fun as making Night at the Museum." 

"I Love You, Man" hits theaters on March 26th. You should brotally go. 

###

Sarah Shanfield - sarah.shanfield@metro.us

The movie was good. Paul Rudd has a little Ben Stiller thing goin on. I must say girls will like it more than guys because well, it's essentially a romantic comedy. But it was good.  I liked looking at Jason Segal's fat face. 

In other news, I had a bowl of peanut butter oatmeal for dinner, which called for me making some rolled oats, stealing a spoon full of Tim's organic sugar free peanut butter, me silently complaining about its bitter taste, adding a dash of cinnamon, blueberries, then about a foot long stream of honey. It tasted gross, so I put it in Ellie's room so she'd eat in when she comes home drunk tonight and then spent some Sarah time standing in the kitchen squeezing honey onto my fingers and eating it. I looked down at my fleece and I had honey dripping off of my hair and on to the fleece fibers. I wondered how long it would be til I could wear just a red shirt and no pants and then I'd really have a lot in common with Winnie the Pooh. 

Shanfield out. 

KNIGHTED IN A NIGHT

This Week's Column

SHANFIELD: Valentine vacation

Published: Wednesday, February 11, 2009


The last Valentine’s Day I celebrated was in 2003. It was with my first real boyfriend, Raul. I’m not sure if we were actually boyfriend and girlfriend because he told me he couldn’t call me his girlfriend in front of people because that would make the title lose meaning. Still, I consider Raul my first relationship, and it began six Valentine’s Days ago.

We had been having drama since winter break ended. By Valentine’s Day, we were still trying to work out our problems over AOL Instant Messenger. That day, we agreed to get hall passes to go to the bathroom at the same time so we could meet in the quad and talk. He waited for me on a bench with a smile straight out of an Accutane commercial. His Billabong t-shirt and heavy chain that connected his Quiksilver wallet to his belt buckle was gleaming in the sun. My heart skipped a few beats. I only hoped that he would finally agree to call me his girlfriend so I could stop telling my mom that I was going to his house to tutor him for woodshop class.

We began to talk about his commitment issues and my refusal to kiss with tongue. Finally, to my sheer delight and after skillful convincing, we agreed to go public with our love. As soon as we’d sealed the deal with a peck on the cheek, a giant, kid cone-sized dollop of bird poop landed right on my leg.

After the poop splattered, I looked up and saw a seagull flap its wings and dart off, probably to the beach 20 miles west from my high school. It was as if the gull had flown inland simply to drop a deuce on me and fly away, leaving me to question the future of my first real relationship and also throw away my pair of l.e.i jeans.

Since that day, I’ve never celebrated a Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend; they’re either conveniently out of town, away at “school,” or we’re on a break for what seems like just that weekend. The only person who has given me flowers in the last six years is my dad, and the only person who has given me chocolates has been the person with his back turned at the Office of Career Services while I take a generous handful from the jar on the counter.

What’s even more curious about the Valentine’s Day poo incident is that a seagull has pooped on me at one point in every courtship I’ve had since Raul, regardless of the day. Whether we were on a date, walking to class or lounging on the beach, a stinky, feathered creature has relieved himself on my person while in the presence of my significant other. One time, I was in the College of Arts and Sciences building and a frightened bird that was caught in the lobby unloaded his fears on my sweater.

My mom says getting pooped on is good luck, but it’s happened to me not just a handful, but a big steaming slew of times, and all I have to look back on is a string of failed relationships in which I kept making the same mistakes that I did when I was 16 and sitting on that bench in the quad.

Like every singleton on Valentine’s Day, I just need a change of perspective. If seagull poop is good luck, then it was all luck in the sense that I would soon see a messy ending to a relationship that wasn’t going to give me happiness anyway, subsequently getting me out of having to date some mindless and stupid boy so I could be more productive with my life. This Valentine’s Day, I can reorganize my sweaters or catch up on past episodes of “Tool Academy” instead of walking around the North End with a rose that my clueless boyfriend bought from a guy outside of Mike’s Pastry.

This Valentine’s Day, millions of single women like me will flock to the movie theaters to cheer themselves up with movies like that “How to Get a Guy That’s Just Not That Into You In Ten Days” film. The theaters will be filled, and the energy coming from those women will be akin to the excitement and attention I felt when I saw “Star Wars” at midnight on opening day in 1999. The sickeningly cute content of the film and Drew Barrymore’s droopy “have-faith-in-love” face will inspire them to go out and start relationships with men whom they will probably break up with or be dumped by before 2010.

I could be one of those women, and for the last six years I was one of them, clinging on to some hopeless boy just to see if he’ll outlast next year’s Feb. 14. But this year, I will sit indoors, afraid of falling bird feces. Not that I don’t want to be cursed with “good luck” again — I just don’t want to have to throw away any more clothes.