During these harsh economic times, every dollar counts. With scholarship money slowly fading and tuition and transportation prices going up, students need to save whatever they can. Many websites are offering advice on how to save money in these hard times, so here's a few suggestions geared toward college students:
-Selling Books: We all know about buying books online, but what about selling them? Listing old textbooks, or other items you don’t need, online can prove to be a lucrative business decision.
-BYOC (Bring Your Own Coffee): Even if you only pay a dollar for your coffee (which we know is not the case) that is still $5 a week, $20 a month, and $240 a year you could be saving, not spending. (Same goes for lunch!)
-Don’t Be Late: Many credit card companies will charge you anywhere from $25 to $50 extra for being late on your payment. Being on time will help your wallet and your stress level.
-Cheap Beer is Good Beer: According to collegescholarships.com, college students spend $5.5 million on alcohol each year. So if you don’t want to stop drinking, find ways to drink for less: buy pitchers so everyone pays or go for less expensive brands of brew. Every hour is not happy hour, so the time you go out is just as important as the place.
Hopefully some of these suggestions are helpful. If you want to see the complete list of 118 ways to save money while in college, click here
Enjoy the Blog!
And don’t forget to submit your work for the Zine! The deadline is February 28! Submissions can be emailed to bczinesubmissions@gmail.com
It seems that we need to enlist scientists now to scientifically pinpoint Bin Laden’s location. According to ABC News, Geography Professors at the University of California, Los Angeles have used their geographic expertise to ascertain a guesstimate that Osama Bin Laden is hiding out somewhere in the Kurram region of Pakistan. They used the merging of their natural intellect with theoretic hypotheses of animal distribution to retroactively pinpoint his past locations while actively predicting his current location, which, according to Professors Thomas Gillespie and John Agnew, is adequately exacted to the city of Parachinar. The professors even go as far to say that they can assume the actual building he is hiding out in, by surmising that since Bin Laden must have many bodyguards on him, he must have at least a three-bedroom apartment.
One former member of the CIA, John Kiriakou reiterates that this is something the government agencies should look into. It should be noted that Kiriakou now works for ABC News. The current Agency suggests that we should take this information for what it is… and that they have had no real idea whether or not they could catch him the past seven years.
As a country we’ve experienced many embarrassments over the last eight years: the Enron scandal; Michael Jackson; Bernie Madoff; the New York Knicks; Hannah Montana; and yet our inability to prevent Bin Laden from his dreams of being a director is ridiculous – this bastard has made more films than Mickey Rourke these past eight years. It seems as if we have a lethargic attitude toward the man himself, and don’t consider him of much importance anymore. But consider how triumphant the country would feel if we could put our resources back into the intricacies of catching that bastard, and finally succeeding. What UCLA has to say might be worth looking at; if nothing else, it’s a start. Consider the positive effect it can have on the economy. It might even raise stock prices.
Even the most naive American citizen has some idea of the financial crisis facing America today. Many economists have compared today’s economy to that of the Great Depression of the 1930’s. How could this possibly happen, in one of the world’s greatest superpowers?
Every problem seems to be rooted in Wall Street’s heavy gambling on risky mortgages in recent years. The bigger the housing market grew, the more investment banks (such as Bear Stearns) bought securities. Because investment companies kept pushing the envelope on acceptable mortgages, people were buying mortgages that they couldn’t afford. As one reporter put it, “No one cared if they couldn’t afford the payments, because the act of buying the house meant that you were going to get rich!”
Then, on Monday, March 10 2008, a rumor sprouted that Bear Stearns was running out of money. At the time, this rumor was totally false, for B. Stearns actually held 18 billion dollars, just in reserve money. But once a rumor gets started, it gains momentum like an avalanche rushing down a mountain, especially when media like CNBC report the rumors to inform the people. Immediately, B. Stearns’ stocks plunged from 171 to 60. A news interview with B. Stearns’ CEO Alan Schwartz probably decreased confidence in the company more than increased, as the interviewer revealed that Goldman Sachs, longtime trader with B. Stearns, had cut off ties with the failing company.
By Thursday evening, B. Stearns’ reserves were dried up, preventing the company from opening the next day. Desperate, they approached the Federal Reserve System. Hank Paulson, a staunch republican and then-U.S. Secretary of Treasury, decided to bailout B. Stearns, using J.P. Morgan Chase as the legal conduit to pass the money from the government to the investment company. He reasoned that because Wall Street is so interconnected, if B. Stearns went down, countless other Wall St. businesses would go down with it. This was Paulson’s first mistake. His plan immediately backfired; singling out B. Stearns equaled signing the company’s death warrant. Seeing the major bailout of B. Stearns, stockholders pulled out of the company, which led to its ultimate buyout by Chase. Within one week, one of the world’s largest investment banks and securities firms had been forced to sell every last share for ten dollars apiece.
Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac were up next. These vast stockholder-owned corporations had been created by the government to promote affordable housing. Throughout the summer of 2008, those toxic mortgages spread through Wall St., and Paulson deemed it necessary to nationalize Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, an unprecedented move of government interference with the economy. This sent a huge shock-wave through the country, for now everybody saw that there was no company too large to escape the crashing housing market.
Next came Lehman Brothers, a truly worldwide financial-services firm. All along, they had assumed that if the government had bailed out B. Stearns, then surely it would not let an even larger company tank. But they underestimated Paulson’s rigidity. In the end, Paulson decided to let Lehman Brothers fall because of “moral hazard” (a form of “tough love” in finance). He couldn’t let companies think there would always be a way out. In hindsight, Paulson would realize that systemic risk outweighed moral hazard. His plan for Lehman Bros. to find a buyer failed, because the credit market was frozen and no one was willing to make such a risky deal. September 15, 2008, marked the largest bankruptcy in U.S. history.
With the growing financial meltdown, Paulson saw his depression nightmares come to life. So when AIG (a major American insurance corporation) turned to him for help, Paulson gave them 85 billion dollars, earning the government primary control of the company. Obviously, Paulson had thrown his rulebook out the window, and that scared many Americans. They felt as if the government had lost control over the economy, which is what spurred Congress to meet on September 18 to vote on a rushed bill: the now-infamous 700 billion dollar bailout plan. Conservatives were so outraged with the government’s blatant interference in the economy and the bill failed, against all expectations. The market crashed further than anyone could have imagined, thus inciting a reconsideration of the bill. This time, with an added section allowing “capital injection,” the bill passed.
By now, the government has directly infused hundreds of billions of dollars into the economy, in desperate efforts to restore consumer confidence. Is it all in vain? Or will America ultimately win back the hope of her citizens? Only time can tell. For now, all eyes are on President Barack Obama to turn the situation around. Let us hope he rises to the challenge, as American voters believe he can.
-Miriam Harari
Source: Frontline, “Inside the Meltdown” Reported by: Jim Gilmore Station: PBS Aired: Tuesday, February 17, 2009
For a month this past summer, I traveled throughout Japan with one of my best friends. Much of the trip was spent exploring the various and diverse neighborhoods that the city of Tokyo has to offer. Early on in the trip, during a lazy Sunday afternoon stroll through the trendy Harajuku district, my friend and I witnessed a rare site—something unfamiliar to our New York City-trained eyes. As we walked up and down the main drag, passing luxury boutiques, sneaker stores, restaurants and countless people, we also noticed an interspersing of teenage girls (and some boys) dressed in outlandish costumes.
This same phenomenon was present during our time spent in the electronics district of Akihabara. As we sat jamming on joysticks in the Sega arcade, we perceived a teenage girl beside us in a black corset and blood red gothic dress, with pewter chains woven across her legs and chest. Later that same day, my friend and I wove through stacks of comics in a Manga and Anime store and unto an escalator. As we approached the next floor, lined up against the left wall were life-sized mannequins arranged neatly in costumes.
Now, you may be asking yourself, what is going on here? Does Japan celebrate a perpetual version of Halloween? What you’re wondering about, and my friend and I witnessed, is called cosplay.
Cosplay is the Japanese take on American costuming. Costuming is the practice of dressing up in the clothing of your favorite fantasy character at a comic book or science fiction convention. This tradition began with Forrest J. Ackerman and Myrtle R. Jones in New York in 1939, when they dressed up for the First World Science Fiction Convention. In 1984, a Japanese reporter named Nov Takahashi attended the Science Fiction Worldcon in Los Angeles, and was so inspired by the costuming that he proceeded to rave about it in Japanese science fiction magazines. This eventually sparked the cosplay movement in Japan. The word “cosplay” itself is merely an abbreviation of the English term “costume play” that Takahashi coined.
As they have done to many other American subcultures—such as sneaker culture in the 1990’s or Rockabilly—the Japanese took costuming and transformed it into something more intricate and involved. Instead of merely dressing in costume for conventions, Japanese teenagers have taken to dressing up as their favorite Manga, Anime, fantasy film, video game or even J-Pop or J-Rock characters on weekends. They do not simply slip into the shells of these characters, however, they try to become them; cosplayer’s spend time attempting to imitate the actions and behavior of characters, along with reenacting scenes from movies or Manga with like-minded friends.
It is no wonder the costume-clad teenagers were such an interesting sight for a couple of New Yorkers. We may have our Naked Cowboy in Times Square, but nothing in this city can compare to Japanese cosplay.
This week Joe Pugliesi shares a poem by fellow Brooklyn College Student, Michael Bronner.
The plan was for there to be a Kenneth Koch piece from New Addresses found in this week’s column. The plan has been changed. With the deadline to the Brooklyn College English Major’s Zine being so close, I figured I’d look through Zines past to showcase the skill of a Brooklyn College student. With his genie face paint and braces shining out of his mouth (I‘m referring to the picture above his piece—he doesn‘t normally wear genie face paint), Michael Bronner’s poem, “Do You Wanna Jump Children?” from the 2007-2008 volume was the one that stuck out most, mostly because it was the piece I was searching for.
“Do You Wanna Jump Children?”
We boxed ears after boxin’ the food. He threw fear and I threw rude. El Dorado bumpin’ the jungle rumble tune With two dudes jumpin’ Outside a greesy spoon.
Heads weaved in and fists shot out Doe passin’ by threw up a battle shout Crowd gather-in’ ‘cause they was in the mood To see two dudes jumpin’ Outside a greesy spoon.
Suit yells “get ‘em!” Trick yells “Right!” Whole town comin’ to see a free fight. And corneas stickin’ ‘cause they eyes was glued To these two dudes jumpin’ Outside a greesy spoon.
Sirens go up and the hammer come down Screws with orders from the king and his crown Now we in the pen ‘cause they called the blue crew On we two dudes jumpin’ Outside a greesy spoon.
This poem came about from an assignment he was given in his poetry class where he had to write in another dialect. The success that he has in this piece with the language and dialect is incredible. To help the language, Bronner has interesting punctuation that grabbed me from the start. Periods ending the first two lines, no commas throughout (causing enjambment all over), and a cleverly placed dash make parts of this piece not only sound good, but also pleasant to look at. The most beautiful part of the piece, visually, is the apostrophes’ backs facing each other with nothing between them but a space. If you stare at them long enough they start looking like eyes.
The repetition of the piece is worth mentioning as well. Ending each stanza with a variation of “the two dudes jumpin’ outside a greesy spoon” helped with the rhythm. There’s a very melodic/lyrical feel added with the rhyming as well. I remember listening to Bronner read it at last year’s Open Mic and it being one of those pieces that I said to myself, “Damn! I wish I wrote that.” It may be terrible to say, but I mean this in the most positive of ways: this poem makes me want to fight someone. I want to be one of “two dudes jumpin’ outside a greesy spoon.” I want to “throw rude.”
The assignment also deserves credit. To have students write poems in dialects they’re not familiar with is an innovative idea. I don’t remember how the quote goes, so I wont directly quote it, but Jim Henson said something about taking the unfamiliar and making it familiar to yourself being truly creativity—a quote that I feel sums up this piece rather nicely.
(Faulkner bored while tanning, writing and smoking)
The Sound and the Fury – Stream of Unconsciousness
There is very little else to say about a novel that has been talked about so frequently and vehemently, but I consider myself new to Faulkner – I just recently embraced him, converted to him, and yet sometimes am reluctant to mention him to casual readers. There are those who give me looks of disgust, almost as if I mentioned Gonorrhea to them. Then, ‘Ugh I hateeee Faulkner.’
Faulkner is kind of annoying. There is no denying that. He is incredibly time consuming and difficult to get through, someone you can’t sit down and read while in a moving vehicle, surrounded by noise, or in front of the television. Hemingway once said, “You have to wade through a lot of crap to get to [Faulkner’s] gold.” Though this has validity and merit, it is most likely attributed to his jealousy, since Hemingway also reiterated that Faulkner had more talent than any of them. But he was right in retrospect; you do have to get through it to find the catharsis, because the brilliance of William Faulkner is based upon us misunderstanding him.
I’ve just read “The Sound and the Fury” for the first time, a book that took me years to finally pick up. I would pass the Fa’s in Barnes and Noble trying to find the Fi’s, and I would pass it and stare at it and feel nothing. I never did care too much for southern novels, keeping up with my indifference toward Twain, and, Faulkner’s topics, “human cruelty in the south,” seemed just a little depressing to me. So I went on, eyes against the words – (my anathema to the last line in “Gatsby”) – and really didn’t know what the hell was going on in it. I had an incredibly difficult time trying to find out if one of the characters was male or female, finally having someone point out to me that there were two characters of the same name, one male and one female. And there were about twenty-seven Jason’s, and I was never really sure which one had the floor, and I would stare at my fingernails and feel wired and confused and tired. While reading, I just wanted to scream USE APOSTROPHES IN YOUR DAMN CONTRACTIONS!! And yet I got through it and realized that what I just read might have been the most amazing, albeit pretentious, written book in the history of literature.
So the stream of consciousness style is increasingly difficult to get into; Virginia Woolf was hard enough, and Faulkner progresses on our exhaustion, rubbing it in.“Caddy said, yes, Caddy said Benji no – Quentin - Benji, said said Caddy Caddy Caddy said Caddy Caddy,” (not an actual quote) was just a tad unclear; the broken sentences; a mentally retarded narrator; two people talking at once; the grammar; random italics; and how the novel goes into the past and the characters are seemingly older than they were sixteen years later. But once finished, one thing becomes clear, that the novel and prose is mixed with a genius that is beyond belief. The opacity of the words might be misconstrued, yet the artistry taken, and erudition of Southern life after the turn of the century, leaves you thinking long after you close the book, despite the fact that some people have little to no idea what happened. Yet the inability to change, incestuous feelings, and race divisions are all there beneath the illusion that Faulkner wryly creates.
When you read the rest of the Modernists you tell yourself, “I could do that;” when you read Faulkner and “The Sound and the Fury” you throw in the towel, and you feel embarrassed that you ever thought yourself good enough to write. At first I merely thought what Faulkner did was the same thing John Lennon did in “I Am The Walrus”-purposely write some nonsensical words that will be perceived as brilliance and let people have fun trying to decipher it. If nothing else, Faulkner nabbed human nature better than anyone before or since. But that’s neither here nor there, because no one should graduate without having read “Fury,” and made up his or her own mind about it.
You might say he’s burnt out, sold out, checked out, wiped out, and just plain out of it—but you can’t deny he still plays and writes amazing music. “Tell Tale Sings”, the eighth in Bob Dylan’s Bootleg Series, is just plain stellar. Dylan’s performances have always been known to be volatile, never playing one song the same way twice—always rewriting his music and himself. Tell Tale Sings is all of the songs he chose NOT to use in the last few albums he released. For some artists, they’re considered throwaways; for Dylan, they’re masterpieces. Each song on the album is either a version of a track Dylan rejected for the actual album, or a song he just decided couldn’t fit. This compilation of misfits rivals all the others—Dylan’s series 1-7, usually released long after they were recorded, delve far back into the musician’s past choices, and yet these are his current mental workings and the first of which he’s ever released.
While some of the recordings are just live versions or tracks with different musical backings, some of the songs are brand new, or so manipulated from their original form that they broach on being unrecognizable. Dylan’s “Mississippi,” recorded for “Time out of Mind,” but deemed too upbeat for the album and was released on “Love and Theft” a few years later, appears three times in this series, each stranger and more foreign than the next. He also included takes from his latest album “Modern Times,” which includes an amazing version of “Someday Baby,” which in juxtaposition to the album’s cocky, fast-rock-blues tone, came out slower—more of a breaking lament then anything else. “Ain’t Talkin’” the last track on “Modern Times,” is also featured here, but takes on the form of a battle march in contrast to the chosen, slow-paced track on the originally featured album.
There also appear a few shout outs—Dylan’s favorite songs that he chose to cover, and with Dylan’s multiplicity of his own personal songs to pick from, these come out as quite a large compliment. The second disk of Tell Tale Sings features a take of the blues master Robert Johnson’s 32-20 Blues, which Dylan copies strikingly well. There is also a version of his infamous “Duncan & Brady,” an old country song that he adapted for his tastes which becomes dangerously addicting after the second time you listen to it.
A few songs written primarily for movie soundtracks are also here, including songs from “North Country” (Tell Ol’ Bill) and “From Gods and Generals” (‘Cross the Green Mountain.) But one in particular that stands out is from the credits of the movie “Lucky You.” “Huck’s Tune” reaches the heights of Dylan’s classics, such as “Like a Rolling Stone,” and “Blowing in the Wind.” “Huck’s Tune” is beyond a masterpiece; soulful, deep, it seems to capture all of Dylan’s aging yet potent energy—the perfect ballad for his current voice and sound. The artist’s years have done him well, and while some argue he’s over the hill and past his prime as he sings one of his latest songs “Spirit on the Water,” he sings “let me see what you got—we could have a whoppin’ good time.” If you don’t believe me, or can’t handle Bob Dylan’s new Muddy Waters-esque voice, read “Huck’s Tune” as if it’s a poem. Even on paper it rings true to Dylan’s legacy and longevity. Keep rolling, Bob.
Well I wandered alone, Through a desert of stone, And I dreamt of my future wife. My sword's in my hand, And I'm next in command, In this version of Death called Life. My plate and my cup, Are right straight up, I took a rose from the hand of a child. When I kiss your lips, The honey drips, I'm gonna have to put you down for a while.
Every day we meet, On any old street, And you're in your girlish prime. The short and the tall, Are coming to the ball, I go there all the time. Behind every tree, There’s something to see, The river is wider than a mile. I tried you twice, You can't be nice, I'm gonna have to put you down for a while.
Here come the nurse, With money in her purse, Here come the ladies and men. You push it all in, And you've no chance to win, You play 'em on down to the end. I'm laying in the sand, getting a sunshine tan, Moving along, riding in style. From my toes to my head, You knock me dead, I'm gonna have to put you down for a while.
I count the years, And I shed no tears, I'm blinded to what might have been. Nature's voice, Makes my heart rejoice, Play me the wild song of the wind. I found hopeless love, In the room above, When the sun and the weather were riled. You're as fine as wine, I ain't handing you no line, I'm gonna have to put you down for a while.
All the merry little elves, Can go hang themselves, My faith is as cold as can be. I'm stacked high to the roof, And I'm not without proof, If you don't believe me, come see. You think I'm blue, I think so, too, In my words you'll find no guile. The game's gotten old, The deck's gone cold, And I'm gonna have to put you down for a while.
The game's gotten old, The deck's gone cold, And I'm gonna have to put you down for a while.
This week, Ingrid Feeney and Ariana Costakes asked Brooklyn College: "In this abysmal economy, what little things do you find yourself doing to save cash?"
“I've been recycling my toothpaste. In a Ziplock bag.” --Marcel
“Yesterday when I ordered ‘Seinfeld - The complete series’ from Amazon.com, I did not select ‘Expedited shipping.’” --Gilberto
“I have given up food in favor of alcohol and cigarettes.” --Carolyn
“I've been using my own waste as fertilizer to grow my food. I also only date imaginary women... cheap dates, and I always get lucky...” --Grog House Man
“I make "prison wine" in my bathroom using grape juice and an old sock.” --Tito
“I started dating again. Lemme tell ya, you can get a lot of free dinners off of that racket.” --Aisha
“I eat breakfast at home, so I'm only suckered into paying inhumane prices for food at BC once a day.” --Meaghan
“I wait until I need a lot of products, such as books, and order massive loads of them on Amazon at once. Working at a grocery store, there's no need to pay for such things as Twix bars, Rice Krispie treats, and toilet paper. I also get people to buy things for me. That always helps.” --Joe
“I have bought less than half of the assigned books for my classes this semester. I check them out from the library, and when the library doesn't have them, I simply don't read them. I should add however that I suffered from this form of cheapness long before the recession hit.” --Dan
“I hide a duck in my house for the eggs...she is against the law here...” --Grace
“I deliberately sleep until 3pm, so as to only have to eat once a day.” --Brunhilde
“The only change I have endured is a one of convenience. When anything goes wrong, I have a fail-safe excuse: ‘It's the economy.’” --Brooke
England In Norfolk young children await (some even fear) “Jack” Valentine, who leaves presents and candy on their doorsteps. In Wales, they also celebrate a similar holiday called Saint Dwynwen’s Day on January 25th to honor the patron saint of Welsh lovers.
Slovenia Their real “day of love” is March 12th, also known as Saint Gregory’s Day. Many citizens consider February 14th the start of plant growth; some even mark this date as the start of spring. It is also known as the day birds propose to one another.
Brazil Although Brazilians celebrate a similar holiday called “Dia dos Namorados” (lit. "Day of the Enamored", or "Boyfriends'/Girlfriends' Day") they do so on June 12th not Feb 14th.
Japan I have to say, arguably the most interesting. On February 14th female office workers are expected to give chocolates to their male coworkers. On “White Day,” March 14th, the men return the favor. Popularity is decided by who receives the most chocolates.
South Korea Much like Japan, candies are given between men and women a month apart, except in South Korea they extend the holiday to April 14th, known as “Black Day,” where everyone who did not receive candy goes out to drink their sorrows away.
Even if you don't like Valentine's Day, at least it came with a long weekend and some well deserved relaxation time.
And so writing about Valentine’s Day proves not to be as painful, or corny, as I thought.
Enjoy the Blog!
-Meaghan Keeler
P.S. If you want anymore info on the history of Valentine's Day
A German bartender is currently on trial in Berlin for allegedly serving a 16-year-old boy 45 tequila shots, resulting in the boy’s death. The bartender, a 28 -year-old man identified as Aytac G, and the boy had a drinking bet, but while the boy continued to down shots, Mr. G poured himself mostly water. Two young men who egged the boy on throughout this deadly drinking game were sentenced to "complete a compulsory social training course" in November as punishment for their part in this tragedy. After the boy finished the 45 shots he fell into a coma, eventually dying four weeks later. Mr. G is also accused of serving alcohol to underage drinkers in 173 different instances from 2005-2007.
The story has caused an outrage in Germany, sparking a fiery debate about the binge drinking of teenagers. I think everyone expects underage drinkers to occasionally find their way into a bar, but the sheer irresponsibility and idiocy of this bartender in serving a 16-year-old 45 shots boggles my mind. What bothers me the most, however, is that I see slightly subdued versions of this story every weekend. It seems that somehow “excess” and “fun” have become synonymous. What ever happened to moderation and a little common sense?
Boys, do you like your boys? Well then, next time, consider passing on the weed.
According to an American study conducted at the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle, smoking marijuana may lead to a significant increase in a man’s risk for developing the most aggressive type of testicular cancer. The study, published in the journal Cancer, quizzed 369 men diagnosed with the disease, aged 18 to 44, about their marijuana habits. When compared with nearly 1,000 healthy men, the results found that just being a marijuana smoker led to a dramatic 70% additional risk of developing nonseminoma, a type of testicular cancer that accounts for approximately 40% of all cases. Nonseminoma typically occurs in younger men, and is a dangerous, rapidly growing form of the disease.
Because nonseminoma tends to strike when a man is younger, those who have smoked marijuana from a young age, especially before age 18, are at an even greater danger—having twice the risk of developing the cancer when compared to those who have never smoked it before. Statistics are similar for those who are regular marijuana users.
It is acknowledged, however, that this study was done with a very small sampling group, and may very well turn out to hold no weight. According to Henry Scowcroft from Cancer Research UK, “As the researchers themselves point out, this is the first inkling that there is any association between chronic marijuana use and testicular cancer.… before we can reach any firm conclusions about whether this is a cause-and-effect relationship, rather than a statistical blip, the result needs to be replicated in a much larger study.”
All I can say is, Michael Phelps better watch out or he’ll be selling Swim Strong bracelets real soon.
Erotic Symbiotic Relationships (Bizarre & Unexpected Unions in the Animal Kingdom)
As we flow gracefully into the denouement and aftermath of Saint Valentine’s Day, we get a chance to look back on all the love we’ve shared during the previous years. Either reciprocated or unrequited, this palate of romance forms and shapes the living-beings we are today. We seem to assume though, that this love is only acknowledged in humans and our species is the soul recipient. This is not true in the slightest.
We see animals bond all the time, both in our homes and in the wild. Many pet owners can attest to their cats, dogs, or birds adoring one another—taking care of their companions and exhibiting classic signs of love. Animals do this in the wild too; they tend to each other and sometimes develop beneficial symbiotic relationships—such as clownfish and sea anemones, or the Egyptian plover and the Nile crocodile. One could easily argue that all of these relationships are on the basis of survival, and have nothing to do with love, platonic or otherwise. Sometimes though, these bonds supercede instinct, species, and even logic.
There was a rather peculiar development in a Tokyo zoo, when the handlers of a yard-long rat snake delivered a 3.5-inch dwarf hamster to its cage for dinner. Instead of gulping down the little guy, as would naturally be assumed, the snake outright refused to eat the rodent. The two-year-old male Japanese rat snake seemingly fell in love with his supper, and they have lived together in the same cage ever since. The handlers say they now play together, sleep together, and that the snake only eats frozen rodents. The zoo decided to keep the two united, as a symbol of peace.
There was an equally bizarre development in Hohenwald, Tennessee on an elephant sanctuary. It is in the nature of elephants, once they reach the sanctuary, to seek out another of their kind to spend their time with—a sort of partnership. One elephant, though, an 8,700 pound Asian elephant named Tarra—developed this unbreakable bond with a dog on the property named Bella. The staff at the sanctuary was unaware of the depth the relationship between Tarra and Bella until the dog became sick. Tarra waited outside the office and held vigil, until the dog regained her health. They both seemingly displayed ecstatic joy when reunited. They can still be seen roaming around the sanctuary today—closer then ever.
These are just a few of the many extreme examples that can be found throughout the world, where different species live in harmony with one another. The only way we can interpret this, is love. Let this be an example to all of us, that if a snake can love a rodent and an elephant a dog, maybe we can all learn to love each other too.
The Madonna is one of the most easily-identifiable and ubiquitous images in modern Western cultural tradition. Most depictions of the Madonna being reflections of the presiding aesthetic ideal of the era in which they were created, involve an extremely fair and somewhat portly European woman cradling an equally pasty little tadpole of a Christ Child. The mother and child's ample folds of soft, uncalloused flesh radiate with the luminous, unnatural whiteness so prized by the Western European aristocracy as an indicator of elevated social status.
If she did indeed exist, Mary, mother of Jesus Christ, was Semitic and most likely of a fairly dark complexion. This notion did nothing to inform the renderings of myriad European artists, however, and Madonnas rendered in the image of those commissioning them continued to proliferate throughout the ages.
Peppering the immense body of white Madonnas are the relatively rare and sometimes controversial black Madonnas. From the Black Madonna of Częstochowa , to Our Lady of Montserrat , Black Madonnas have been perplexing scholars for hundreds of years.
Of the numerous explanations proposed for the origins of the Black Madonnas, the most salient seems to be that of Stephen Benko, which states that "the Black Madonna is the ancient earth-goddess converted to Christianity." Benko, and other supporters of this hypothesis note that many goddesses were pictured as black, among them Artemis of Ephesus, Isis, Ceres, and others. Ceres, the Roman goddess of agricultural fertility is particularly important. Her Greek equivalent, Demeter, derives from Ge-meter or Earth Mother. The best fertile soil is black in color and the blacker it is, the more suited it is for agriculture.
Supportive of the earth goddess hypothesis is the fact that many Black Madonnas have particular festivals associated with them--festivals that in many cases contain traditions and rituals that resemble aspects of the pre-Christian worship of various goddesses of creation.
Twice a year, in late May and mid-October, Roma people from across Europe make a pilgrimage to this small town to celebrate "Sara la Kali" (Sara the Black). Sara la Kali is the patron saint of the Roma, and the presence of her relics in Sainte-Maries de la Mer remains a much-speculated-upon mystery.
The ceremony in Saintes-Maries closely resembles the annual processions in India, the country in which the Romani originated. During the Indian pilgrimage celebrations, statues of the Indian goddess Durga (also named Kali) are immersed into water. Durga, a consort of Shiva, is usually represented with a black face, as is Saint Sara. The Indian goddess Durga or Kali is the goddess of creation, sickness and death.
What do you think? Spend a little time browsing Black Madonnas from around the globe. Is she the manifestation of the Goddess that is so notably missing from Abrahamic religions? Whatever conclusion you come to, you are sure to enjoy looking upon her many beautiful and varied renderings. We welcome your thoughts and comments.
Below is the full-length version of “Telegram” that appears on Williams’ second self-titled album. The video above is a live performance of the poem—and therefore does not include the instrumentals or some of the sung lyrics that appear on the album.
Telegram -Saul Williams
I'm fallin' up flights of stairs Scrapin' myself from the sidewalk Jumpin' from rivers to bridges Drownin' in pure air
Hip hop is lyin' on the side of the road Half dead to itself Blood scrawled over it's mangled flesh like jazz Stuffed into an over sized record bag
Tuba lips swollen beyond recognition Diamond-studded teeth strewn like rice at Karma's wedding The ring bearer bore bad news Minister of Information wrote the wrong proclamation
An' now everyone's singin' the wrong song Dissonant chords find necks like nooses That nigga kicked the chair from under my feet Harlem shakin' from a rope but still on beat
Damn, that loop is tight That nigga found a way to sample the way the truth the light Can't wait to play myself at the party tonight Niggas are gonna die
Cop car swerves to the side of the road Hip hop takes its last breath The cop scrawls vernacular manslaughter on a yellow pad Then balls the paper into his hand decidin' he'd rather freestyle
"You have the right to remain silent" "You have the right to remain silent" An' maybe you should have, maybe you should have Before your bullshit manifested
These thugs can't fuck with me, they're too thugged out Niggas think I'm bugged out 'cause I ain't Sean John or Lugged out This ain't hip hop no more, son, it's bigger than that This ain't ghetto no more, black, it's bigger than black
So where my aliens at? Girl, we all illegal This system ain't for us, it's for rich people An' you ain't rich, dawg, you just got money But you can't buy shit to not get hungry
Telegram to Hip Hop Dear Hip Hop, stop This shit has gone too far, stop Please see that turntables an' mixer are returned to Kool Herc, stop
The ghettos are dancin' off beat, stop The master of ceremonies have forgotten That they were once slaves and have neglected The occasion of this ceremony, stop
Perhaps we should not have encouraged them To use cordless microphones For they have walked too far from the source An' are emittin' a lesser frequency, stop
Please inform all interested parties That cash nor murder have been included to list of elements, stop We are discontinuin' our line of braggadocio In light of the current trend in 'Realness', stop
As an alternative, we will be confiscatin' weed supplies An' replacin' them with magic mushrooms In hopes of helpin' niggas see beyond their reality, stop Give my regards to Brooklyn
These thugs can't fuck with me, they're too thugged out Niggas think I'm bugged out 'cause I ain't Sean John or Lugged out This ain't hip hop no more, son, it's bigger than that This ain't ghetto no more, black, it's bigger than black
So where my aliens at? Girl, we all illegal This system ain't for us, it's for rich people An' you ain't rich, dawg, you just got money But you can't buy shit to not get hungry
These cats can't fuck with me, I purr purple Sold, increased, toe shell like a turtle I walk the streets like the lie that I'm tellin' One listener grips me and starts yellin'
I see through speakers, I speak what's seen I eat and shed, I sleep and dream I walk the streets of London like, "'Know what I mean?" An' chillin' rack a momma, eatin' crib soy beans
It’s like that.
Along with his poem “Fearless,” “Telegram” was my first introduction to the genius of Saul Williams. I actually hesitated using it for “Poem of the Week” for fear of not doing it justice. In the poem, Williams’ expresses the growing frustration that many fans feel with the recent direction Hip-Hop has taken. This is a rather common sentiment, especially within the spoken word realm, and therefore you can find an abundance of poems on the same subject (although “Telegram” is one of the earlier poems to address the topic).
The brilliance of the poem, then, does not reside in its subject matter, but in the way in which Williams implements it. Instead of creating a rant or overly didactic poem, Williams uses a telegram: a formerly powerful, but now outmoded, form of communication—much like Hip-Hop—to address his audience. To be perfectly honest, I’ve read and listened to this poem over twenty times, but this is the first time I realized the parallel between the medium and subject matter.
Williams does not simply stop at this beautiful idea, but surrounds it with chilling descriptions filled with painfully contorted Hip-Hop imagery to describe the genre’s current state. Williams describes the music as if it were a murder victim in order to show how dire the situation has become. He reports: “Blood scrawled over it's mangled flesh like jazz/Stuffed into an over sized record bag” and “Tuba lips swollen beyond recognition/ Diamond-studded teeth strewn like rice at Karma's wedding.”
Mind-blowing imagery like the aforementioned illustrations runs throughout “Telegram,” but for concern of overanalyzing a poem that needs no examination to punctuate it’s power, I will leave you with this last example:
An' now everyone's singin' the wrong song Dissonant chords find necks like nooses That nigga kicked the chair from under my feet Harlem shakin' from a rope but still on beat
Williams plays on the double meaning of the word “chord” to wrap the out of tune notes everyone is singing like a rope around Hip-Hop’s throat. He then parallels the struggle of a hanging victim to a dancer Harlem Shaking—disturbingly similar body movements—to describe Hip-Hop’s suicide—an unintentional and clueless death considering it’s still dancing on beat even as it gasps for its last breath.
Over our short break, I tried to read all the books that have been accumulating dust on my bookshelves. Although I didn’t end up reading as many new books as I would’ve liked, I found myself plunging back into those that left an impact on me, searching for exactly what it was that made me place them on my “good books from school” shelf. When my eyes hit the mustard yellow cover of Black Water, I knew I found what I was looking for. Black Water not only exemplifies Joyce Carol Oates’ skill of cramming a profound struggle into a quick read, but her knack of making that short time from start to end feel like an eternity.
From the first page of Black Water, Oates taunts us to invest in her novella as we are thrust off the side of a dirt road, crashing into the water below. We are only left with the echoing question of our protagonist, Kelly Kelleher: “Am I going to die?--like this?" From here, we are taken to the beginning of the story where we find out who is in this car and how they got there. The structure of this book is part of what makes it so hard to get through, yet it’s also what pulls us into a story that we know from the start is not going to end well.
Before anyone gets upset that I spoiled the ending, I must mention that Black Water is a story based on a real life event that took place on Chappaquiddick Island in MA. In July of 1969, Senator Ted Kennedy and a female friend, Mary Jo Kopechne, were in a car accident; Kennedy survived but Kopechne was killed. Although Kennedy claimed he tried to rescue his friend, many people wondered if he did everything he could, or if his reputation was the only thing he was trying to save.
Although it seems like there would be little to gain from such a depressing book, I think there are things Oates tries to tell us through Kelley’s experience. As students, and people, we work hard so that one day we can make a good life for ourselves. This book is a cold reminder that, at any moment, everything can be ripped out from under you. Sadly, this lesson of making the most out of life is not the only thing this book tries to show us. Kelley has played the careful planner role, and throughout the story we see that she was starting to take chances, beginning with her adventure with the Senator. Yet she still finds herself sucking on an air bubble under the steering wheel of a car sitting at the bottom of a lake, trying to stay alive. So are we ever safe? Oates wants us to think not. In the end life is a game of chance, so try to make the most of it while you can.
Kurt Cobain is haunting me. Again. The first time it happened I was in third grade. My older brother had Nirvana’s Unplugged in New York, which I became totally obsessed with. When the chorus of “About a Girl” came around,
“If I can’t see you every niiiggghhhttt…”
I’d get swept up in this feeling like an overcast sky that’s about to turn into night: eerie, melancholy, and subtly beautiful. Kurt’s strained, wavering tenor was my introduction to the power of voice; his mumbled lyrics, incomprehensible at times, were my first taste of poetry.
Fifteen years later, as a songwriter and performer trying to establish myself in New York City, I’ve gotten into the unproductive habit of ruminating over such questions as, “why am I doing this? Am I wasting my time? Why aren’t more people responding to my music?” Over the last month or so, that chain of doubt has led to images of a twig-skinny twenty-something with long pink and blond hair, ripped up jeans and runaway eyes. Kurt is back, kicking around between my ears, but in no way encouraging me to hang on to my dreams of “making it.” He’s just there, being himself, and that’s enough to keep me going.
I started listening to Unplugged again in early January of this year. I remembered to turn down the volume on my iPod right at the beginning to save my ears from the thunderous applause of Nirvana’s New York City audience. When the clapping dies away, Kurt humbly says, “Good evening. This song is off our first record, most people don’t own it,” and the band kicks off “About a Girl.”
“I need an easy friend I do----with an ear to lend I do think you fit this shoe I do----but you have a clue
Take advantage while You hang me out to dry If I can’t see you every night----free”
Kurt’s poetry, like the music, is simple, immediate and humble, but never boring. And though he sings with the kind of throaty technique that will eventually destroy a voice, every note comes from the heart----a lifetime of vocal training can never teach a singer how to do that.
Re-living the album that so inspired me as a child has grounded me in a new sense of purpose: to write and perform songs out of a feeling of sheer gratitude for the artists I’ve always looked up to; artists who express themselves with honesty and integrity. “Being yourself” in music is a kind of tradition. Keeping Kurt Cobain in mind is, for my money, the best way to keep it going strong.
This week, Joe Pugliesi and Christina Squitieri asked the Brooklyn College Community: "Who is your favorite Disney Character and why?"
"Tinkerbell because she's small and fierce." - Tiffany
"I always liked Pocahontas. I know the movie sucked, but I always liked the character because I always wanted to be an Indian. I have moccasins. She didn't care what people thought either and wasn't a typical princess. Oh and she talked to trees, did the other princesses talk to trees? Let me answer that one for you-No! No they didn't." - Lisa
"Beast. He's misunderstood and really funny." - Andrew
"Eeyore because he is adorable and realistic. Like when he goes 'Oh bother' I love him.." - Dominique
"Belle because she lived in France, she has brown hair, her name means beauty, she likes to read books, her yellow dress, and she's a loner. - Jesse
"Jasmine, because she’s hot and has a tiger." -Anonymous
"Wall-e, because he embodies the love and selflessness we all carry in ourselves but never have the courage to show." -Anonymous
"The brooms from Fantasia because they’re masters of genetic engineering and don’t take no for an answer." -Victor
"Captain Jack Sparrow. Hands. fucking. down. Because he's just the epitome of spastic flailyness and win." -Sean
"Mickey Mouse...
Psych! That would be such a cliche, uninspired choice. I would have to say Aladdin. He's kind of a G, and he gets the girl in the end--Jasmine, who I used to have a crush on when I was younger (yes, I know she's a cartoon character). Who am I kidding. I still have a crush on her. I would say the entire caste of "Ducktales" comes in a distant second." -Jacob
"Mulan, because she's the first gender-bending Disney heroine" -Elanor
"Honestly, Disney was cool, but I grew up on Hans Christian Anderson and my favorite of favorites was Thumbelina, because she had this crazy ridiculous journey and I was fascinated that any heroine could do all that at about 2 inches tall." -Sasha
"Mulan! She had a freakin’ sword and was badass" -Laura
"Snow White is a definite fave. I don't care who you are; she kicks ass on the tale of true love." -Kimberly
Wrapped in a giant scarf and thick coat, I walked out of my house Sunday morning expecting some form of wintry resistance, and instead met an eerily humid and hazy breeze. All the snow was gone. That half-sweet wet concrete smell swirled in the air. Some guy was wearing sandals.
I never know what to make of February. He's rather deficient in the day department, with all this, "sometimes I'm twenty-eight, but every once in a while I'm twenty-nine," business. When is the next Leap Year anyway? Furthermore what is Leap Year? See, I'm confused already and we're only nine days deep.
He's sorta disconnected from reality too. The whole Groundhog thing? Come on. Some fat celebrity rodent freezing his ass off in a box at 7 a.m foresees one thing and one thing only: that the gloved forefinger of the Mayor of Puxatony is about to get itself bit off. But googly-eyed February allows such madness to ensue year in and year out.
Maybe I'm being too hard on March's dorky little brother. After all, he does make a nice home for Valentine's Day. And, and, let's not forget his vague associations with presidents and black history. They most certainly legitimize his place in the pack, even if it's way in the back where the others can keep an eye on him.
A list of 83 militants has been produced by Saudi Arabia requesting that they return home from overseas. Many have been released from Guantanamo Bay or Iraqi rehabilitation programs. The government wants these men to come back and reunite with their families, but there is the problem of them reuniting with their old friends in al-Qaeda. So far two Saudis released from Guantanamo have become high commanders of the terrorist network.
The goal is to reunite the recently released militants with their families and have them live a normal life. Though this may seem like a stretch, they think rehabilitation will cure these men’s minds of their distorted ideology. One of the men on the list is Saleh al-Qaraawi, who is the leader of al-Qaeda in Saudi Arabia. There were fifteen other men who went back to their families and are living “normal lives” now.
The question is- Do men who have been suspected and/or proven to be enemies of ours deserve a second chance at reuniting with their families to lead a normal life?
Thanks to advancements in modern medicine, we have developed new ways to make surgeries less invasive, and thus speed up the recovery process. It should be no surprise that, according to a recent BBC article, doctors have developed a new way to extract organs like the kidney, leaving patients with little to no scarring. What makes this procedure, that's essentially pain free compared to previous methods, so unique is how they remove the organs. Dr Robert Montgomery, chief of the transplant division at Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine, extracted a woman's kidney using this method, leaving only 3 small scars on her abdomen. How did they do it? They pulled the kidney out through her vagina of course!
This new method involves a few small incisions on the stomach—one for a camera and one for a small pair of scissors. Doctors then place an instrument (with a plastic bag attached to it) into the vagina, making a small incision inside to get to the kidney. The small scissors detach the kidney from the body and put it into the bag, which is closed with a string and pulled out the same way it went it. Many people who have learned about this new method (including some of my friends, who were quickly informed when I became aware of it) are uncomfortable with the idea of "birthing" a kidney. Doctors say the vaginal method is mostly a cosmetic advancement, reducing the amount of visible scarring. But others argue that this new method allows doctors to safely enter the body in one of its most natural ways. Similar surgeries have been done, removing organs like the gallbladder or the appendix through the mouth. Now all doctors need to do is convince people that pulling a kidney out of a vagina is no magic trick.
At this point, mostly everyone is aware of the fact that increased levels of CO2 (carbon dioxide) in the Earth's atmosphere are directly responsible for climate change. Moreover, most people acknowledge that said increased levels of CO2 are present in the atmosphere because of human beings' unmitigated consumption of fossil fuels and other resources. There is another dire implication of the ever-increasing levels of carbon dioxide on our planet however, that has until recently gone unrecognized.
The Earth's oceans absorb roughly one-third of all carbon dioxide released into the atmosphere by human activities. Once dissolved in seawater, CO2 forms carbonic acid, the same substance found in carbonated soft drinks. New research indicates that seawater is becoming acidic approximately ten times faster than predicted by climate simulations.
What is wrong with an acidic ocean? Highly acidic water is deadly to marine life, particularly those forms with calcium-based shells or skeletons. In a 2006 study published in the December 2 Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences USA by Timothy Wootton of the University of Chicago, it was discovered that acidic water dissolves the calcium carbonate found in seashells and coral reefs. In their eight years of observation on Tatoosh Island off the northwestern tip of Washington State, Wootton and his team found that due to higher levels of acidity in sea water, the balance of marine ecosystems shifted: populations of large-shelled animals such as mussels and stalked barnacles dropped, whereas smaller-shelled species and noncalcareous algae (species that lack calcium-based skeletons) became more abundant. Wootton adds that, although the changes he observed seem to be parallel with increasing levels of atmospheric carbon dioxide, it is possible that they might be attributable to a nearby upwelling of carbon-heavy water from the deep ocean.
The matrilineal family structure of the Mosuo people of Southwest China is a widely-studied phenomenon in the West. An often overlooked but equally remarkable aspect of their culture is the absence of binding legal contracts between men and women. In lieu of traditional monogamous marriages, the Mosuo have a courtship tradition in which women are free to carry on love affairs in private without scandal or condemnation and without being bound indefinitely to any one partner. The system emphasizes respect and freedom for the woman, as well as the lack of obligations for the man, even when a child is born to the couple.
While conventional marriage is practiced among urban Mosuo, rural members of the tribe observe the ancient Axia system in which adult women remain in their mother’s home but also maintain their own Azhu house where they congregate with their lovers. These relationships are also referred to as “walk-in marriages” because the men can come and go in the night, provided they leave early the next morning. There are no legal or social pressures on the relationship and any children brought forth from the union belong to the mother’s side. Children are brought up by their mothers and uncles and are not introduced to their fathers until a coming-of-age ceremony at age thirteen. Young Mosuo benefit from the stable, extended-family environment, far removed from the romantic escapades of their parents, while adults have the freedom to enter and leave relationships at will. Special respect is paid to the woman’s freedom of choice; if she desires to end a relationship, she can simply shut the door to her Azhu house and her lover will get the message.
The Axia system is often misrepresented as ritualized promiscuity, but while a woman is not expected to limit herself to one lover at a time, she usually does. These relationships, if not binding, are usually lasting, and without the imposition of family and neighbors, truly fulfilling. Two people are drawn together out of love and the rest is taken care of by the tight-knit clan. It is no surprise that without the economic and social burdens heaped upon conventional marriages, Axia unions usually last decades.
The Mosuo captured the imagination of historians and anthropologists the world over when a former member of the tribe published her memoirs in 1997. Yang Erche Namu left behind her clan at the age of 13 to join a traveling music and dance troupe. She went on to study music in Shanghai and became a renowned lounge singer. In her immensely successful book Leaving the Kingdom of Daughters, she wrote explicitly about her unique culture as well as her love life. The book was especially controversial in China where, according to the Han ethnic majority, it is taboo for a woman to openly discuss her sexual exploits.
The world’s fascination with the Mosuo has led to a bourgeoning tourist industry in the villages surrounding the Lugu Lake as well as ongoing research of the people. Mosuo activists try to utilize this international attention to assert themselves within Chinese culture, earning recognition as a legitimate ethnic group (the Mosuo are often lumped together with the Naxi people from whom they are quite distinct). Their special status as one of the only contemporary examples of a marriage-free society is also used to their advantage; the more attention is drawn to their distinctive ways, the greater the effort is to preserve and protect them.
-Ariana Costakes
Sunday, February 08, 2009
*Editor's Note: the following poem is presented without the author's original margins and breaks.
My Madonna by Edvard Munch (64)
He sat with an arm around her waist— her head was so close to his—how marvelous it was to have her eyes—her mouth her breast close to him— He looked at each eyelash—saw the greenish pools in her eyes—there was a lucidity in her hair—her pupils were large in the half darkness He touched her mouth with his fingers— her soft flesh gave with the contact— and her lips formed into a smile—while he felt the large blue gray eyes rest on him He searched her brooch—which glittered with red light— he felt it with shaking fingers He lay his head on her breast—he heard her heart beat—felt the blood run in her veins—and he knew two burning lips on his neck—it gave him a shudder through his body—a chilling spasm so that he convulsively pressed her to him
An excerpt from: “The Private Journals of Edvard Munch, We Are Flames Which Pour Out Of The Earth.”
This passionate little encryption lies dormant towards the end of Edvard Munch’s private journal, a small memento of his unknown literary legacy. Munch is more commonly known as a painter, sketch artist and print maker—not a poet. Deeply disturbed, Munch’s life was marked with a great deal of trauma, loss and suffering—a motif that surfaces in all of his work, regardless of the form or medium.
Munch was born in Løten, Norway on December 12th, 1863. He was one of five children, and lost his mother and favorite sister to consumption at an early age—much of his family followed suit rather quickly. His love life was caustic, and he endured severe anxiety, suffering multiple mental breakdowns that led him to be institutionalized. This madness, though, was etched into his brush and pencil, guiding him. His mania was what made his art amazing; his pain was what gave us such iconic imagery as “The Scream,” and “The Madonna.”
This poem is much like his paintings—passionate, expressive, and almost carnal—to a point where you can feel the heat making its way through the work. His descriptions are very visual, and seem to be from a painter’s eyes—from the “greenish pools in her eyes,” to the “lucidity in her hair” all a mesh and dilated in the “half-darkness.” The sense of touch seems linked here as well, a quality that is also visible in Munch’s paintings, via his thick layers of paint and expressive lines. He is able to take pigments and shapes (and in this case, words) and flush them with life and blood, making them beat on their own.
Let the Madonna’s heart, lips and passion welcome in Saint Valentine’s Day—and to all those who don’t consider poetry their main medium, or lack one to begin with—don’t let that be a hinder. Take something you love and write with all the fire and brimstone of the body. Take it from Munch, and regardless of how you go about it—express, express, express!
I like to think of myself as an avid reader, which is why I happily volunteered to write for this section of the blog. Contemplating what book to dissect, however, it dawned on me that I could not recall the last good book I read outside of school. I enjoy fun, easy reads from time to time, but nothing truly worthwhile of discussion. So I settled for a book I am actually currently reading- The Tipping Point, by Malcolm Gladwell.
Since discovering Gladwell’s first groundbreaking book Blink in my High School library, I’ve been fascinated with his subject matter and methods for explaining those matters. So when I saw The Tipping Point on sale at Borders, I couldn’t resist. Though not as flashy and obviously entertaining as Blink, The Tipping Point holds a number of outstanding theories amongst its unassuming 280 pages.
Gladwell’s theories may seem a bit convoluted at times, but thankfully, his writing is clear and well organized. Another of Gladwell’s techniques that I appreciate is his use of case studies (they’re the reason Blink hooked me in the first place). Each case study Gladwell brings in to back up a point is analyzed in such an intelligent and intriguing way that I couldn’t help but be amazed by his discoveries.
The Tipping Point does not require its readers to read every chapter in numerical order. So long as you read Chapter 1, “The Three Rules of Epidemics,” for a general idea of Gladwell’s subsequent arguments, you can skip pages, even chapters at a time and still understand what you’re reading. For instance, knowing all about the First Rule of Epidemics will certainly help you grasp Rule Two, but Rule Two makes good sense on its own. This can be useful for readers who get bored easily. If Chapter Three seems to be dragging on and on needlessly, then by all means, flip ahead! Personally, I would advise reading each chapter in its entirety before moving on because Gladwell continuously builds upon his ideas one case study after another. Part of Gladwell’s genius is his ability to string seemingly unrelated ideas together and bind them to make an astounding whole. Astounding in its connection to our daily lives; astounding in its appeal to all sorts of personalities; astounding in its subtle yet sagacious truths. To get a better idea of what I’m talking about, I suggest you read the book. It will not disappoint.
I have never been a Kanye West fan per se, but I was urged by a friend (who will be held financially responsible for my purchase of this album) to acquire his 2008 release 808s and Heartbreak. The fact that I had to google the term “808” was an early indicator that my experience with Kanye's latest work was going to be frustrating. “808” refers to a drum machine called a Roland TR-808 that, according to Urban Dictionary, was introduced in 1981 and used heavily in 80's tunes. This analog synthesizer, “when not processed by other equipment, produces a trademark hollow/tinny sound.” “808” is also a reference to the penal code for disturbing the peace, as well as the sound of bass from stereos. Kanye’s album possesses all of the aforementioned definitions for “808.” There's plenty of hollowness, tinniness, bass, and disturbing of the peace.
Track 1, “Say You Will,” actually turned out to be one of the less torturous tracks on this album for me. The beat attached to this song is eerily reminiscent of a heart monitor, which at first I found entirely too morbid for hip-hop, but grew to find it almost hypnotic and calming----a reminder that I was breathing, my heart was beating and I was alive. The pain Kanye poured forth on the track seriously tugged at my heartstrings, especially since I knew of his unfortunate experiences prior to the album being recorded. The track begins with Kanye singing, (yes, I said singing. Did I mention he SINGS on this entire album? More on that later.) Why would she make calls out the blue? Now I’m awake sleep isn’t new. Hey, hey, hey, hey don’t say you will unless you will.
This last line captured me immediately, not because it was lyrically impressive (that it isn’t), but because one does not expect such honest and bare expressions of emotion from Kanye West of all people.
While I wasn’t entirely fond of the construction of the track, I thought it might suggest something promising for the rest of the album. That was, of course, until I got to Track number 2: Kanye's woe-is-me declaration, “Welcome to Heartbreak.” This track begins with a beat sounding strangely like a xylophone being played by a two-year-old while Kanye, or some other inept producer, messily plays around with his grand ole 808. Already NOT impressed by the beat, I held my breath for the lyrics and was greeted by the lines, My friend showed me pictures of his kids And all I could show him was pictures of my cribs He said his daughter got a brand new report card And all I got was a brand new sports car.
Okay, I get it. I get that Kanye has all this wonderful money but no love. Don't get me wrong, I’m not a heartless b****, it’s just, these sentimental declarations don’t end with Track 2. The entire album consists of Kanye warbling, not singing, over leftover beats from WHAM! recording sessions about his lost love and heartbreak. While great subject matter for a couple songs, it was a bit much for FOURTEEN TRACKS on a hip-hop album.
So, on and on this warbling continued, and then, thankfully, I hit Track 10, “See you in my Nightmares,” featuring Lil Wayne. Sadly enough, this track is the only one on the album that brought some lyrical and musical verve. While Kanye’s synthesized warbling and 808 was still very much present, Lil Wayne’s gritty, slurring rhyming perked me up and reminded me that I wasn’t undergoing Chinese Water Torture, but was listening to music. He sounded, God forgive me, somewhat sensual, leaning slowly and tantalizingly into the lyrics,
I got the right to put up a fight But not quite ‘cause you cut off my light But my sight is better tonight And I might see you in my nightmare Well, how did you get there? Cuz we were once a fairytale But this is farewell, yeah.
There were a few other bright spots on the album. The two singles, “Love Lockdown” and “Heartless” hit hard. The former's hypnotic drumbeat and latter's wrenching vocals combined with Kanye actually rhyming, remind the listener of the Kanye that could be. If this album had more of that Kanye, and less of the recycled 80’s beats and uninspired lyrics, he definitely would have had a hit.
The album ends with “Pinocchio,” a freestyle Kanye spit at a concert. Sadly forgettable, this freestyle is featured twice on the album, with one version including a video. Oh Kanye, why, WHY? You could have ended the album on a relatively strong note with “See you in my Nightmares,” and the almost-there-but-not-quite “Coldest Winter,” but instead we get more mediocrity, this time, with visuals. While I applaud Kanye for taking a risk and sharing emotions so many male hip-hop artists may opt to stay away from, while experimenting with different beats, this album sorely lacks the lyrical vivacity and variety that many have come to expect from Kanye and hip-hop in general. Oh Kanye, how could you be so useless?
-Aisha Douglas *Editor's Note: Universal Music Group won't let us embed the video on this site, but you can check out Heartless on Youtube.
We at the Boylan Blog are celebrating Valentine's Day by helping you conjure up sparkly memories of your first kiss. Why, you ask? To read them on Saturday evening as we sob gently into our pillows, dateless and alone. Hahahahah (sigh).
Describe your first kiss. (Asked via Facebook week of February 1st to Brooklyn College's sexiest.)
I'm fairly certain that the first tongue kiss I got was from a sea lion. It was pretty cool, but also very scratchy. -Ingrid L.
It was in the back of a movie theater during the credits of “Armageddon.” Nothing gets the adolescent libido going like explosives on an asteroid. Or pretty much anything at all. On the whole, I would describe it as wet and awkward. -Carolyn S.
I’m going to have to agree with Carolyn about the adolescent libido loving explosives. My first kiss was at a movie theater after that horrible movie “Triple X” (or “XXX”). It was clumsy and wet and just not all that great. -Tiffany
My first kiss was right outside the Louvre in Paris with a French girl that had approached me with her friends inside the Louvre. She was a couple years older than me. -Mark
My first kiss was in the Tea Lounge in park slope. The guy (now my boyfriend of three and half years) leaned in to kiss me and I, like, freaked out and said I had never kissed anyone and he simply reached down, took my chin in his hand and said, "you're cute." And THEN he kissed me. It was awfully sweet. -Nicole
In a "boyfriend’s" kitchen. I only did it because he said I wouldn't. He smoked and I didn't (yet) so it was more like licking an ashtray while being sprayed with a garden hose. -Meaghan
My first kiss ever was at my eighth grade prom. We had liked each other, did the "dating" thing in seventh grade, silly break up and all. Yet we started dancing together at the prom. When it was over and I was walking away, all of a sudden he grabs me and kisses me. It was actually perfect. It wasn't wet or sloppy. It was kind of romantic and dramatic for eighth grade but neither one of us was the normal teen we should have been. -Christina
Someone I hung out with, who was under no circumstances my friend, was putting the moves on my girlfriend at the time. I thought I was going to have to get my ass beat, but she took care of it. Good going Joe, letting the lady do the work. Then to go along with the gracefulness of my smooth ways, I sat her on a dumpster and got my first kiss. It was a new dumpster with no garbage ever being thrown in it, but a dumpster nonetheless. It was situated in the schoolyard I use to play football in. -Joe
Father Michael was always a bit friendlier to me than the other little altar boys at the rectory. I used to think his hugs and candy were because I behaved myself and always said my prayers, but then one day, after my great gramps died and he was staying by my house to comfort my ailing family, I went to bed early, but I didn't sleep early. I heard the door open very slowly. "Shhhh," he said. I was scared.
This is why I abuse trashcans. -Zev
I took the 2 train home one day in junior year and there was this guy named Rico I went to school with and we kind of liked each other. WE were standing in the stair rail and the wind was pulling at our hair and he kissed me. Mostly I remember the wind. -Irene
It sucked. -Aisha
I told this story to my sister the other day and she didn't believe me, but it's true I tells ya! I was four years old and at preschool we played this game called "Kissy Boy" where the girls chased the boys around with puckered lips and the boys ran around in circles, blushed and giggling. It was like a Norman Rockwell painting. Anyway, one day, just as everybody lost interest in the game and started crushing bugs or something, me and this girl----can't remember her name now for the life of me----decided that we were going to actually kiss instead of just threatening. We sneaked away into a green plastic tube with little windows in it, sat facing each other Indian-style, closed our eyes and leaned in. I remember quite vividly feeling the strangest, most awful, amazing, ickiest lips-sensation of my entire long life, and I was so traumatized by the experience I didn't try to kiss another girl until I was twelve during spin-the-bottle.
On Sunday, January 25th, I received an email reminding me of a meeting I had to attend for class at Brooklyn College the very next day. "That's odd," I thought, "why is the professor asking us to meet a whole week before the first day of school?"
I paid little mind to this point, and, after checking the rest of my emails, proceeded to act in accordance with my usual "vacation behavior," i.e, drinking heavily, staying out until 4 a.m, sleeping all day, etc. Late Monday afternoon----that's Monday, January 26th, 2009----as I cruised down Bedford Avenue in the ole' B6, thinking about all the fun stuff I might do between now and next Monday, when school actually started, I couldn't help but notice hundreds of students pouring in and out of the gates of Brooklyn College. "Hmm! Interesting," thought I, "there sure are a lot of people on campus a whole week before the semester begins. I guess they all have pre-class meetings too. Cool."
Climbing the stone steps of Boylan Hall, I spotted a familiar professor smoking his between-classes cigarette and the light-bulb finally went on. Make that two light-bulbs actually. The first, obviously, illuminated the fact that I had just missed the first day of classes, and the second, lit brilliantly the fact that I am stupid.
-Dan A.
P.S --- ENJOY THE BLOG!
Edge by Sylvia Plath
The woman is perfected. Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment, The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga, Her bare
Feet seem to be saying: We have come so far, it is over.
Each dead child coiled, a white serpent, One at each little
Pitcher of milk, now empty. She has folded
Them back into her body as petals Of a rose close when the garden
Stiffens and odors bleed From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.
The moon has nothing to be sad about, Staring from her hood of bone.
She is used to this sort of thing. Her blacks cackle and drag.
-February 5, 1963
----
“Edge” lies on the very last page of writer Sylvia Plath’s life, written on February 5, 1963, just six days before her suicide at the age of 30. There is an eerie calm that presides over her words, a stillness that swirls with the unique beauty she perceives death holds. The world of her nervous-breakdown is not filled with monsters or tortured-soul evils, but Grecian women in flows of fabric, more sculpture than human. What fascinates me about “Edge,” especially since it is the last poem Plath ever penned, is the white silence she paints throughout her descriptions. For a poem about death there is hardly any darkness, and the words are dominated by a whitewashed glow, a hall of mirrors, a holy land. We are given the images of togas, “white serpent[s]” of dead children, empty pitchers of milk and the moon in “her hood of bone” as opposed to black souls, dark nights or slit wrists. Plath sees peace in death, perfection in the paleness of a corpse as opposed to the messiness that living holds, the pure physical beauty of a sculpture frozen in marble.
Yet at the same time, Plath does not consider death a great phenomenon, but as natural as the setting sun. The moon, the wise spectator of the world, “has nothing to be sad about,” after all and “is used to this sort of thing.” While the main focus of “Edge” is dying, sorrow isn’t attached to it and the words seem more healing than wounding. I often turn to this poem when someone dies, or when I’m missing someone who has passed. It allows me to believe they’re happy, at peace; that we are all forgiven in the end. Despite the fact that these are the last written words of a seriously depressed young woman, for me there is a comfort that they bring, a flawed human-nature comfort that makes even the greatest loss easier to grasp—whether that is a death, a fight, a break-up or a job loss. Anything. Read it when you fail a chemistry test. The moon won’t mind. After all, she’s used to that sort of thing.
It's never too early to submit to the Junction! Send in your poetry, short stories, and artwork to bczinesubmissions@gmail.com and bring a hard copy to 3416 Boylan.
The Poetry Club meets from 12:15 pm to 2:15 pm every Tuesday in room 2307 Boylan. Poetry Club is open to all creative writers, so stop on by!
Stop by 3416 Boylan during the week to pick up a copy of the latest Junction and information about majors, publishing opportunities, internships, and more!
Created by Dr. Roni Natov's English Majors' Counseling Office Executive Editor: Dr. Roni Natov
Editors: Kerri Byam, Katherine Conte, Joel Cruz, Nora Curry, Kerry Gertner, Sarah Gonsalves, Tumpa Mira, Margaret Sarsfield, Ryan Skrabalak, Ocean Vuong
News Brief Editors: Kerri Byam, Nora Curry, Ocean Vuong
Culture Corner Editor:
Ryan Skrabalak
Poem of the Week Editor: Joel Cruz
Currently Reading Editor: Sarah Gonsalves
Currently Listening Editor: Nora Curry
Currently Watching Editor: Katherine Conte
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