The Cornell Daily Sun (https://cornellsun.com/author/jab326cornell-edu/page/5/)
There aren’t that many things that can bring me back to 1996. And thank G-d: I’ve tried to wipe thoughts of platform shoes, bell bottom jeans, and shirts from LimitedToo with sayings like “girl power” and “boys are mean!” from my memory. However, the one thing that could make me go back to that time happily has happened: The Spice Girls are having an 11 concert reunion tour next winter.
I am finally coming out of the closet and admitting it – I love Gossip Girl. What I hated was the whole set of crap-elitist-fantasy-novels that wanted to cash in on Cecily Von Zegeizer’s glory. But I have finally found one that I will say I am not ashamed to promote – Secret Society Girl, an Ivy League novel. It’s basically Gossip Girl style (except only in first person) but relocated in the hallowed halls of Yale, with a bit of Joshua Jackson’s The Skulls thrown in. It’s trash, but it’s fun, uber-pretentious trash – throwing out references to the hallowed Ivy League and literature that the author obviously feels her readers should know in the same way the Gossip Girl genre throws out references to the rich and famous.
It was love at first site for my Mac and me. I discovered it one day while waiting for my iPod to be fixed, again (if that wasn’t a clue for future marital unbliss, then I don’t know what is), and could not get its beautiful silver exterior out of my head. Our first few months together were the perfect honeymoon — there was nothing I loved better than my G4 (that’s right, I’m “old school.”)
That of course, wore out quickly, when she began to have problems that I hadn’t caused. She died a few times, and I died too – what could I do without my baby? Not that I’ve treated her so well myself – she has the scratches, dents and dust to prove it. But love hurts, right? But like most relationships, I got bored with her slowness, her largeness, and my eye started roaming, to newer, shinier and lighter weight models.
Today was the great quest for black ballerina flats of summer 2007. Though unsuccessful, I realized a few things that I wanted to share with the world. And by things, I mean tacky accessories that should not exist, or at least not be sold in overpriced department stores.
1.Why do shoes with clear plastic heels exist? They might be fun for Halloween or Tacky Formal, but these things were going for 300 dollars a pop, and were made by classy designers. I’ve finally accepted that silver shoes and accessories can be classy, if done right, but silver and plastic, together? That’s the worst of resort wear.
2. I will never, ever understand why people insist on buying bags where the label is as big as the bag itself. If a person has enough money to buy a 1000 dollar bag, then shouldn’t they be secure enough in their social class to not need to display a big, gaudy Gucci or Chanel emblem on it? It makes the bag look like it’s only worth about a 10th of its cost, if that. And this doesn’t apply only to bags there is no need for the label to be dominantly displayed across any item of clothing or accessory. It should be beautiful enough on its own (especially if you’re paying a fortune for it) to not need a big ol’, look-how-much-money-I-spent tag. Seriously, you might as well take a __ from rappers and just leave the tag on.
In my humblest of opinions, the best part of summer is catching up on the television that you missed or just never saw. My recent favorite: Skins. Take the trashiest, most oversexed American teen TV show, remove the censors and multiply by a million. Skins is about a group of friends in a public college (basically high school) in London who are completely open with each other about sex, drugs and whatever else comes along. Whether it’s a testament to British culture being more openly raunchy (some of the dialogue was so blunt that I even blanched) than America, or proving once again that America is a country that was formed by prudes, I don’t know. But it’s definitely one of the more amusing shows to pick up for the summer — and its non-apologetic, honest tone is a refreshing change from the crap that’s left over on the CW after they cancelled their good shows.
I like boys who sing. (What? I do. ) So understandably, I was quite excited to come to college and be surrounded by not one, but three all-male a cappella groups.
Over time, however, the allure wore off and was replaced with a burning question. Why do girls love all male a cappella? Why, when about a dozen or so guys get together and dance around somewhat flamboyantly to “My Girl,” I lose all ability to think rationally, my cynicism abandons me, and I have to restrain myself from squealing like a school girl?
It is only fair to warn you that I was predisposed to liking The Namesake before I even saw it. Between my love for the novel and the crush I’ve had on Kal Penn since Van Wilder, in my eyes The Namesake never had a chance to fail. However, even with two large hurdles to overcome — the adaptation of a slow-moving story to film and that the title role actor’s past experience was limited to frat-style comedies — Mira Nair’s adaptation of the beloved novel manages to capture the saga of an Indian family’s induction and assimilation into America while trying to retain their own cultural identity with a simple, unaffected grace.
Beauty comes in a variety of forms. Sometimes it is merely pretty: simple, aesthetically pleasing and easy to understand. At other times though, it can be frightening: jarring, mysterious and captivating, it forces its way under your skin and doesn’t let go. N2 Da Fu Cha Cha: Dance Concert 2007 was the latter.
I am a hypocrite.
A dirty, stinkin’ hypocrite.
Throughout my life, there have been certain principles I have held near and dear to my heart, things that I have hated with great pride. Inevitably, each of these principles — usually in regard to some aspect of popular culture — was discarded when I realized I was being stupid and/or stopped caring. In middle school it was boy bands, freshman/sophomore year of high school the color pink, junior year, Pink, senior year, Juicy sweatsuits, and, until this year, text messaging. It’s been Joey Fatone, Rent the movie, popped collars, leggings and the “Milkshake” song. Invariably, all of these fell to the wayside of hypocrisy as I have had to face my own fickleness time and time again.
I’ve never been much of a documentary watcher. When I go to see films, I prefer a personal narrative amidst the social commentary. I feel that quite often, documentaries lose site of the individual in their search for overarching truth. However, I was fortunate enough to have my earlier prejudice corrected after I saw a unique view into humanity by Lynne Sachs at her presentation, “I am Not a War Photographer.”