We try to avoid keeping The Sun’s content inbred; it’s often seen as both self-promotional and perhaps a conflict of interest.
That said, there are times when you have to make allowances; when a former editor is exemplary and interesting enough, that, though he or she may claim that “they majored in the Sun,” everything else he or she has done far surpasses it.
Howard Rodman ’71 is one such dude. He’d be the first to claim that he’s not quite the “Hollywood Insider,” and he may be right: much of his work, though celebrated, happens to be “unproducable or unpublishable” — a common trope of his.
Hello, darling readers and newbies:
Once upon a time, I had a column. Then, during the 6-week-long, Daily Sun hell known as editorial compet, I took a really long break. Now I’m back. Didn’t-cha just miss me?
For those of you who haven’t experienced the pain/plea-sure/antipathy that is my column, allow me to re-introduce myself: I’m Julie. I’m that annoying white girl with the curly hair, blasting Three 6 Mafia and Kate Nash from my car while the rest of you cool souls are probably walking along to Nas, Talib and (I hope to God not) Katy Perry.
I’ll be the first to admit — I had given up on Señor J.J. Abrams a while back. I loved Alias until about the third season, when Jennifer Garner’s character lost her memory and Lauren came and everything got wayyyyy too angsty. Then apparently Vaughn died and Sydney got pregnant with Rimbauldi’s baby or something crazy and it all just got to be too much for me and I quit. I gave up on Lost much earlier — around midway through season two, because the TV in Dickson 4-5 was annexed by these kids who only played video games, and I was too lazy to walk over to Donlon and watch. In fact, the only Abrams show I’ve made it through entirely is Felicity, which to this day remains my favorite of all of them (and is the least Abrams-esque).
The 2nd annual Ithaca Brew Fest dawned dark, wet and nasty on a September day, a day that students and adults alike would usually spend indoors watching Project Runway reruns or getting their study on. But a select group of troopers — those tough-skinned Cornellians, Ithaca Collegians, townies and out-of-towners who possessed a legitimate (hopefully) driver’s license claiming they were 21 years of age or older, made their way to Stewart Park on Saturday afternoon to dance, taste and get their drink on.
Whether you loved, hated, or were just confused by Steven Colbert’s performancce last fall, this fall look forward to another sometimes offensive, always honest, except when he’s being satirical, pundit, Bill Maher. We’re not exactly sure what he’s going to talk to us about — although a reading from When You Ride Alone, You Ride with Bin Laden would be pretty freaking sweet — but we’re sure it will include some heavy Cornell mockery, spoiled-college-kid scolding, humor and maybe a teeny bit of edumucation. Make sure you get your tickets early.
Go to www.rso.cornell.edu/cupb/ for more information.
Dear Cornell students, faculty, staff and random people who pick up this paper,
Right now, you are most likely sitting in Libe Café, CTB or some equivalent. You may have a few blank notebooks, an astronomical bill on your Cornell Card from books you’ve just bought and some (hopefully) good coffee in hand. The nights are already starting to get colder, and your liver is taking some serious beating from this week, because, as you told your mother again last night, classes don’t actually start until like, mid-September. As you try to stave off the what-am-I-going-to-do-without-Schedulizer panic attack, your eyes alight on these words and you groan inwardly, thinking “Man, I wish it was still summer.”
We do too.
Before I delve into the festival itself, it’s necessary to point out that Lollapalooza — if not all music festivals — brings out the worst in people. Case in point: While we were trying to get out of Grant Park after Kanye finished his set Sunday night, fights broke out and class warfare went down when a normal Lolla-goer yelled at the V.I.P.’s for being “upper class yuppies who probably don’t even know who the Ting Tings are.” One woman quite literally stretched out her arms and legs on the staircase every step so as to make sure no one cut in front of her in line. It was like an airport, except that everyone was drunk, sun-burnt and bobbing their heads to music.
The best thing about living in Westwood, Los Angeles is that about every other day, the road you need to walk down or park on is blocked off for a movie premiere. What’s even better is the Los Angeles Film Festival, where the entire neighborhood becomes a mini-Sundance, complete with ticket booths, mini-red carpets, special super-secret party rooms (like the Target Red Room, where — if you are important, famous or a major filmmaker — you get to hang out and drink free booze).
If you’ve read my stuff before, you know I tend to comment on the lighter side of things. You know: theatre, music, cleavage, television, the occasional Ugg boot … It’s rare that I find something disturbing enough to change my tone, especially when I’m at the freakin’ gym, running in place like a gerbil. But when I do, the serious comes out.
Welcome to The Sun’s Arts and Entertainment Blog, which we have oh-so-cleverly titled (f)Artsy, because of both (what we hope is) our healthy ability to laugh at our own pretensions (listen to us, telling you what you should and shouldn’t like in the art/entertainment world!), and our humor that resembles that of pre-adolescent boys, which makes farting is funny.