The Cornell Daily Sun (https://cornellsun.com/author/jab326cornell-edu/page/4/)
So there I was, at home in my PJs at 4 in the afternoon on Wednesday, finishing up this season of Weeds while the rest of you lovely people were stuck at Cornell, in the library studying for finals and dealing with the snow. (You think I’m gloating?
The plan was to be famous by 18.
Tyler had thought of a couple methods. She was going to become President of the United States, I was going to become the Prime Minister of Israel, and then, in a feat of stupidity to go down in the ages as bigger than the sale of Alaska, would sell the entirety of America to me for a limited edition, Steve Madden shoe. (We didn’t know Manolo Blahnik existed back then.) In her brief “reign” in the Presidency, she was going to introduce good fashion sense to the unwashed masses of Washington D.C., and thus bring about world peace.
We then realized that this would mean going into politics; even as 13-year-olds we were not that idealistic.
I know I haven’t columned in a while; I’ve been too busy crying my eyes out over the end of Stephen Colbert’s candidacy for the President (in South Carolina). No, really.
Okay, you’re right, I haven’t. I’m actually relieved the charade is up, and not just because I would hate for my hero to become the next Ralph Nader. I’m relieved because even satire can go overboard.
Hi, I’m in a sorority. This means some or all of the following: 1) I’m blonde (or conversely, have dark curly hair and am “Jappy”), 2) I’m a bimbo, 3) I love the color pink, 4) I live my life in pearls and polos, spandex and headbands, or both, 5) I don’t consider my night complete until I am puking up my body weight in alcohol, 6) I am a huge stinkin’ slut. It stands to reason that this is all true, because as a sorority girl, I am, most obviously, a sorostitute.
Waiting in Line
Ok, so this isn’t an actual New Yorker event, per say, though I did pay — in an hour and ten minutes worth of my life — but I strongly believe that one has not truly experienced the New Yorker Festival if one has not waited in line with half of New York’s pretentious wannabe literati for the aforementioned seventy minutes.
A year ago, I wrote my very first real article for the Sun; a eulogy to The OC’s Marissa Cooper. I was not very nice. In fact, when I say eulogy, it was more of a relieved rant about how female characters like Marissa are awful role models for the pre-teen and teen girls who watch them; in it, I hoped that Marissa’s “death” would mean an end to the one-dimensional, permanently-in-distress, whining hot-mess party girl character. I must have really stinkin’ bad karma though, because the opposite happened: two shows with arguably the most substantive female protagonists on prime-time were both axed last spring. So now, while The Hills blares annoyingly from the next room (what? You think I like LC?
It starts with music; a song, a dance and good humor. On a mostly bare set, the piano is played while the main characters exposit the introduction. No one is in a concentration camp, no one is running from the Gestapo, no one is hailing Hitler in uniform. The music is lively, not dismal, the lighting bright and cheery, not grey and foreboding. I’m confused; is this the wrong play? Forgive my glib tone; I am only echoing a part of the juxtaposition that is Good, the Schwartz Center for the Performing Arts’ opening play for their fall season about a good man in Germany in the 1930s who, little by little, becomes a member of the Nazi Party. This struggle between good and bad, and our judgments of both, are Good’s core.
No, really, he was. It was Saturday night and I sat at the Common Ground drenched from another one of Ithaca’s torrential downpours and watched as one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever had the fortune of being within ten feet of dance naked in the name of art. The show was called Queer Love Shoefest, and the performer of the first piece was completely naked. Did I mention that already?
9:05 pm: I walk in late to hear my housemates groaning over how awful Britney was; they can barely disguise their glee. On stage, Sarah Silverman is lauding how amazing and wonderful Britney Spears is. Uh oh, Brit must have been worse than I thought.
But no, she’s just setting up for a bitch-volley. “Isn’t it amazing? She’s only 25 and she’s already accomplished everything she’s going to accomplish in life!” Hey, be nice. But Sarah shouldn’t worry; it looks like she’s tanked too.
Housemate 1: What is she saying? Why is she being so awkward?
Housemate 2: Wait no, I love this. I love awkward.
Today is my 21st birthday. Woot.
Now, you’re probably thinking — why isn’t this chick excited? She’s twenty-one! She’s legal! Stop being such a downer, Julie. But here’s the deal: aside from the fact that life isn’t that much different, the last birthday I had to look forward to has arrived. And now, all I have left, as my friend Nick put it, is to “get a real job, work 8-hour days, get married, have kids, lose your freedom, and then, of course, die.” (As you can see, he’s a real upper.)