The Pizza Huts of East Asia

Osutein-sensei's
Definitive Guide

A few years ago my family and I were perusing Blockbuster and came across a movie called The Accidental Tourist. We rented it, mainly because there was a picture of a Welsh corgi on the cover and we have a Welsh corgi and owning a Welsh corgi makes you do lame stuff like that. Contradicting Freud's theories about the existentially horrific idea of a doppleganger, Welsh corgi owners spend an unhealthy amount of time searching for images of other Welsh corgis that resemble their own, usually culminating in one shouting "it looks just like our dog!", much in the same way some Catholics keep finding the Virgin Mary hiding in breakfast pastries.

The Accidental Tourist turned out to be disappointing in this regard, as the dog in the movie didn’t appear to be an uncanny genetic duplicate of ours, after all. However, the movie proved entertaining nonetheless. William Hurt stars as the kind of overly cautious man only a free-spirited woman could love. Hurt makes his money by writing a series of travel guides called The Accidental Tourist, which serve as a kind of anti-Lonely Plant for the lazy and xenophobic. They detail all the McDonald's and Holiday Inns the world has to offer, so one can go to Paris, France, and feel you've never left Paris, Texas.

When I first watched the movie I reacted as I was supposed to: I thought a man who spends his time traveling abroad eating at American fast food joints is pathetic, and is indicative of his inability to truly experience life. However, after having lived on a remote island off the coast of Japan for nearly two years, and spending most of my meals eating variations of squid, suddenly the idea of a series like The Accidental Tourist seems like a great idea. But as no such books actually exist, I will have to invent them, much as Voltaire invented God simply so he could make pithy aphorisms about Him. As space is limited, I will begin with the Holy Grail of the Far East's Western offerings: Pizza Hut.

Now, those of you in the States may be wondering "Why Pizza Hut?" In America, Pizza Hut is passe, but then in America you can't walk ten feet without stumbling across a pizza restaurant that would never dream of putting corn and mayo on pizza. You don't ask a man crawling through the Sahara why he's drinking bilge water, nor should you ask an expat in Asia why he's eating Pizza Hut. They put corn and mayo on pizza here. Corn and mayo! If God doesn't exist, then we shall have to invent Him just so He can declare that to be an abomination in the face of Himself.

However, not all East Asian Pizza Huts are created equal. Surprisingly, communism seems to produce a better quality Pizza Hut than capitalism, or perhaps it's just repressive government. Either way, the best Pizza Huts are to be found in...

1.) The People's Republic of China

Clocking in at 6,000 years and still going strong, China makes all other civilizations look petty, what with its
4,000 mile-long walls and convenient white take-out cartons. China also has the world's best Pizza Huts. The menu is generally devoid of strange local experiments, interiors are cozy and nice, with wide booths and low lighting. It's almost pseudo-classy. Eating in a PRC Pizza Hut lets you live the way the rich European merchants in Shanghai in the 19th century lived: eating delicious food in a nice atmosphere identical to home while countless millions toil in obscene poverty so you can have this privilege you'll just take for granted anyway. Somehow, it just makes the double pepperoni tastier.

While Beijing and Xi'an have good Pizza Huts, Shanghai's are the crème de la crème, with the Pudong Pizza Hut, looking out over the Yanghtze River to the Bund, being to Pizza Huts what the Forbidden City is to houses.

2.) South Korea

Granted, I have only sampled the Pizza Hut in Pusan, but my sources tell me the Seoul Pizza Hut is equally as good. The interiors aren't as nice as your standard PRC Pizza Hut, but they're still quite pleasant, though a little too bright. The menu is somewhat limited, although the Koreans have slipped in a few surprises, like a Kimchee pizza. Normally, local variations are highly frowned upon, but Kimchee pizza is actually quite good, providing the extra kick without the Tabasco, and allows you to say you ate Korean food while in Korea without ever leaving the comforting confines of Pizza Hut.

3.) Hong Kong

The Kowloon Pizza Hut is much like the PRC branches, though whether its always been this way or has simply been updated since the handover in '97 remains unknown. Regardless, it's very nice inside. The problem comes with the menu, which has only one or two pizzas suitable to the average cheese-starved expat. Aside from the pepperoni and the supreme, most of the rest are horrific blends of pizza and Asian food, with corn, mayo, and seafood aplenty tossed in for good measure. Hong Kong may well be where East meets West, but that's no excuse for sweet-and-sour shrimp and corn pizza.

4.) Taiwan

Taiwan's Pizza Huts are much like American ones: somewhat ghetto, filled with children run-amok, and with a pizza buffet, which like declining morals and locusts usually signals a civilization in decay. Still, the menu is better than in Hong Kong. However, serious points are lost due to the staff's endless attempts to sell you on the buffet, even when you insist on a normal pizza. Also, they never refill your damn drinks. The Taipei Pizza Hut is nice enough, but the Hualien Pizza Hut makes me do something I almost never do: recommend you skip it. If Franz Kafka wrote a story about a Taiwanese Pizza Hut, it would be about the one in Hualien. I'd go into detail, but to do so would only bring me confusion, despair, and the sickness unto death.

5.) Japan

While there are rumors of actual Pizza Hut restaurants in Japan, thus far I have only encountered delivery shops, and only in major cities, and they don't deliver to street corners even when you approach the delivery drivers and tell them you'll wait for them. This, of course, puts Japan at the bottom of this list, though it's still number one in the world for vending machines that sell used school girl panties. And that's gotta count for something.

Anyway, I hope you will find this list helpful. As I travel more, I will update, so that whether you're trekking through the Himalayas or sunning on a beach in Thailand, you'll always know where to find that golden, doughy, cheesy slice of Americana known as Pizza Hut.

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Tales of Birthdays Past

In the upcoming fortnight, my dear editors will both be rocking in their 25th years. To celebrate this and the fact that birthdays aren't always what they're cracked up to be, Croft and Oline (who will be formally introduced during this same fortnight) are sharing their most traumatic, humiliating, humbling recollections of birthdays past. They invite you to do the same. Come on, it'll be cathartic!

Croft: The worst birthday party I ever went to was a sleepover party at a hotel in eighth grade. Most of the girls (including the birthday girl) went off in a car with some older guys in the middle of the night and left two of us (the sensible, "cowardly" ones) back in the hotel room with orders to provide a cover story to the b-day girl's parents (who were in the adjoining hotel room), should the need arise.

Oline: In the 5th grade, I had a sleep-over with a group of friends, none of whom liked each other (why this didn't seem ill-advised at the time, I have no idea). During the "party," there was some drama between opposing factions, which I tried to mediate. In the end, the factions joined forces and slept together in the living room, exiling me to the music room with the cats. In the course of the night, in a final humiliation, someone closed the french doors in between.

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REVIEW: Black Swan Green

Toe-Sock takes on the kunstlerroman

*Fine as a stolen pack of L & B ciggies*

You don’t need a roving band of gypsies to tell you that growing up means feeling out of place all the time, but David Mitchell’s excellent fourth novel has this and then some.

The story of a British child-poet’s emergence into adolescence during the early 1980’s, Black Swan Green belongs to a genre that English geeks call kunstlerroman, German for “Artist’s Novel.” This type of novel, epitomized by James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, follows a young person’s development into an artist through his curious rejection and infatuation with commonplace life. Within the belly of said beast, a reader will generally find the protagonist doing most of the following:

a) Protagonist comes to terms with himself in regards to others. This most often entails the child realizing he is a bit different than most other people. He is treated accordingly (i.e. rottenly).

b) Protagonist comes to terms with his society in regards to the world. Youth realizes Britain/Ireland/Mozambique is not the end all of humanity, that nationalism is well and good, but blind nationalism is fatal foolishness. (Incidentally, I use the masculine pronoun simply because Mitchell's protagonist is male. Not because I believe artists are more likely to be men, though it must be hard for the ladies to be artists, what with spending all their time in the kitchen fixing me sandwiches.)

c) Protagonist comes to terms with his sexuality.

d) Protagonist comes to terms with his art.

At some point in your own life, you’ve tackled points A-C. And if you— yes, you young pre-professional— are reading this article, then you’ve probably spent a great deal of time considering ‘D’ as well. Come to think of it, you probably really mucked up ‘C’ in the process. These familiar world experiences are what make the kunstlerroman such an engaging type of novel. It’s all about that bastard knight of empathy, what Adam Smith defined as “fellow-feeling.” I don't even know you, but I'm sure that growing up sucked for you. So when you read about some kid whose life isn't going so swimmingly, you will exclaim something akin to “Jiminy Cricket! That's very similar to what happened in the 5th grade only with more pantsing and fewer folk medleys!”

But herein also lies the problem¬—it can be deceptively easy to hook a reader with empathy. A hack need only make the trials and tribulations of his protagonist generic enough and everybody can relate. “We’ve read this story before” syndrome may also present itself. I don't know how many more times I can read about some tormented young writer wrestling with his muse where said muse turns out to be “Syphilitic Betty” the town streetwalker. The point is that, while engaging, the kunstlerroman’s stimulation of fellow-feeling in the reader can be both an easy out and a means toward Been-there-done-that-ville.

David Mitchell subverts these potential problems by making his narrative world realistically familiar *and* compellingly unique. You had many problems growing up— braces, coke bottle glasses, hand me down clothes, club foot, etc.—but I bet you didn’t stutter. And even if you did, you never had to deal with Hangman, an entity whose sole purpose in life is to mortify you at the most inappropriate moments by physically stealing away certain letters like ‘d’, ‘n’, or ‘s’. If it took you a week and a half to say “dinosaur,” you’d be miserable too. Hangman is one of several entities (a group rounded out by Maggot and Unborn Twin) that ‘speak’ to the protagonist, Jason Tyler, in his interior monologue. Though, in essence, all of these characters are Jason, they have a diabolically good time playing off of one another and making his life as miserable as possible.

Mitchell also escapes dull generality by setting his character’s uncomfortable growth in a vibrant, rich world of gypsies, Spooks, and undead ice-skaters. I would argue that it is the peculiarities of the narrative, the items which are so oddly unique, that are the most effective at enabling us to empathize with Jason. An excerpt of the latter’s confrontation with a not quite dead schoolmate:

The afternoon’d gone and the sky was turning to outerspace when I noticed another kid on the lake. This boy skated at my speed and followed my orbit, but always stayed on the far side of the lake… My first thought was that he was a kid from the village, just mucking about. I even thought he might be Nick Yew ‘cause he was sort of stocky. But the strange thing was, if I looked at this kid directly for more than a moment, dark spaces sorta swallowed him up. The first couple of times I thought he’d gone home. But after another half loop of the lake, he’d be back.
Go Home, urged the nervy Maggot in me. What if he’s a ghost?
My Unborn Twin can’t stand Maggot. What if he is a ghost?
“Nick?” I called out. My voice sounded indoors. “Nick Yew?”
The kid carried on skating.
I called out, “Ralph Bredon?”
His answer took a whole orbit to reach me.
Butcher’s Boy.

Readers of Mitchell will also find that he has more or less dumped his trademark playful narrative structuring. His previous novel Cloud Atlas reads like a set of Matryoshka nesting dolls, with one story framing another framing another, etc until we are literally 6 or 7 stories deep. The complex structure of Cloud Atlas has its strengths and weaknesses. Invariably you will find one or two of the threads more interesting than others, and it remains somewhat nebulous why this series of stories needs to be told in such an elaborate way. As a whole, though flawed, the work is undoubtedly ambitious. By contrast, the single, meticulously well crafted voice of Black Swan Green seems even more effective at telling such a personal story.

Has this story been told before? Yes. You may have even lived something like it. Is it necessary to tell it again? Absolutely.

**Recommended, but not necessary, pre-reading: Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce and Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell

If you enjoy this title I'd suggest: The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman

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Meet Croft & Oline

Croft ('krawpht) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something editor, playwright, novelist, JBB-overlord, karate master working in her field and living in Chicago’s Old Town district. A graduate of Boston Univ. and the Univ. of Chicago, Croft is JBB’s resident expert on poultry dishes, the Sedar, James Joyce, The Last Unicorn, Gilbert, and girl-stuff. She enjoys public intellectualism, tea, and kitties.

Oline (Oh!-'Lighn) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something editor, biographer, JBB-overlord, Jackie expert working in her field and living in Chicago's Lincoln Park district. A graduate of Mississippi State Univ. and the Univ. of Chicago, Oline is JBB's resident expert on movie mags, chocolate cupcakes, fashion, biographies, blogs, Anne, girl-stuff and animals of the feline persuasion. She enjoys 75-cent pretzels, H&M, and public intellectualism. She hates birds.

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In Which Christopher Castle Loses a Job and Acquires an Overcoat in the Same Evening

By The Croft

An unattractive man by nature, Mr. Walpole was not improved by anger. In fact, his acquaintances often commented that although he was ordinarily ugly, anger transformed him into a creature of the most repulsive sort. And he was often angry, to the great dismay of his wife who, like most other wives, would have preferred a handsome husband.

When Mr. Walpole was enraged, his chest expanded to twice its size, his face grew mottled, and a vein throbbed dangerously in his forehead. His fingers thickened, his eyes bugged out, his lips turned purple, his toes curled, and his buttocks clenched. On occasions of particular wrath, his knees locked and his throat swelled, rendering him mute and immobile. Like so, he boiled in impotent anger until someone came near enough for him to punch, which always calmed him somewhat.

Next to his temper, fashion was Mr. Walpole’s most extraordinary feature. He cleverly deflected attention from his ill-formed figure with silk shirts and striped suits. His hats were tilted just right, never crushed or crumpled, and his cufflinks gleamed. He wore the finest of overcoats and dinner jackets and business suits. Swathed in rich fabrics, Mr. Walpole was an appalling combination of ugliness and beauty, like a turkey in peacock feathers.

Mr. Walpole was well known around town as an eccentric and a distinguished patron of the symphony. He was loathed by the presidents and directors of this fine institution, and feared by the lower echelon of customer service representatives–the box office agents, ushers, and bartenders. He had been a subscriber for a number of years, which meant that, to the great dismay of these officials and representatives, a specific seat was reserved for him in the audience every week. And it was a very good seat.

It so happened that this seat was on the center aisle in the third row of the right section. This was the best seat in the house for many reasons. It was close to the musicians, but not so close that Mr. Walpole was wetted by the spittle that shook free from the saxophones. The third row on the aisle was also nice because there was more legroom. Mr. Walpole’s legs were long and thick, and it was difficult for him to fold these appendages neatly within the bounds of a normal seat. He liked to stretch his legs out into the aisle, and cross his ankles in a dignified manner.

All of these were perfectly good reasons for Mr. Walpole to prefer the third row, center aisle. Above them all, however, was the fact that his seat was directly in front of the flute section. And in the flute section, directly in front of his seat, was a particular flute player with long, golden hair and soft eyes. And for all of its obvious advantages, Mr. Walpole’s seat had only one disadvantage: it was directly next to the seat of a certain Mrs. Walpole. His wife did not enjoy the symphony, but attended only to watch her husband watching the flute player. This unnerved him a little, which was the reason that Mrs. Walpole preferred her seat.

One night, in the middle of the season, the curtain rose to Mr. Walpole’s intense displeasure, and Mrs. Walpole’s joy. The flute section had been moved to the left side of the orchestra for some odd reason or another that only conductors understand. Mr. Walpole stood up and strode off down the aisle; Mrs. Walpole stretched out her legs and enjoyed the symphony for the first time.

Despite Mr. Walpole’s angry phone calls to the director and the president, the conductor, and the governor, the orchestra remained settled in this new position, and the officials stood their ground. The flute section would not be moved, just for him, they said. So Mr. Walpole changed his tactics. If they would not move the orchestra, he stated, they must move him. And with a sigh of relief, the officials wiped their hands of Mr. Walpole, and deposited him in the laps of the customer service representatives.

“Call the box office,” they said, and laughed to themselves. So Mr. Walpole called the box office and demanded his subscribed seat be moved. He knew the seat he wanted– the third row, center aisle on the left side.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Said the young woman at the box office. “But that seat is subscribed.” It was, indeed, the seat of Mr. Marlin Archer, a gentle soul who had once played the saxophone in a blues band until he lost a hand to frostbite in a bird-watching expedition. He had attended every symphony performance for the last forty years– the first thirty-five of which he had attended with his wife, who loved Beethoven, until she passed away while hunting grouse in October. Everyone knows grouse hunting in the fall is a risky business. Now, alone, Mr. Archer continued to attend the symphony every week, in the very same seat. This seat had been passed on to him by his father, who had sat in the same spot for fifty years before him; it had originally been passed to Mr Archer’s father by his grandmother, who had sat there since the theater was built many, many years ago.

“That is not acceptable.” Said Mr. Walpole to the box office girl, when she explained the circumstances. “I am a subscriber, and I will have that seat.”

“I’m sorry, Sir, but you cannot have that seat.” Repeated the girl. She explained again, eternally patient as customer service representatives are wont to be. She offered him other seats, all very nice seats on the left side, all available. But to each, he replied,

“Is it the third row, center aisle, left side?”

“No, but it is the fourth row, three seats in from the center aisle.”

“Unacceptable.” There was no legroom there, you see.

“Fifth row, center aisle.”

“Too far away.”

“Second row, center aisle.”

“Too close.” By now, Mr. Walpole was shouting and the patient girl was crying. When she was no longer intelligible through her sobs, she was replaced by a fresh, patient voice.

“How may I help you, Sir?” The same conversation was repeated until the second patient voice was hoarse.

“Let me speak to your superior!” Mr. Walpole shouted at the third box office girl, who handed the telephone to the manager.
“How may I help you, Sir?” Asked the manager as he passed a box of tissues around the office. Mr. Walpole shouted his demands.

“That is simply impossible, Sir.” The manager said politely. After much explaining and repeating, Mr. Walpole threatened to remove his patronage from the symphony. Box office people and other people of little authority are much distressed by this sort of threat, for they imagine their great cultural institution crumbling into dust all because they angered an ill-tempered patron. Box office people are always the first to be blamed for such catastrophes.

The manager did not know what to do. He worried and pondered, and kept Mr. Walpole on hold for a very long time, which just made him angrier. And then, the manager had an idea.

“Hello, Sir? We have pulled some strings here and I’m happy to say you may have that seat.”

“It’s about time.” Mr. Walpole barked, and hung up. The manager ordered the first box office girl to make a phone call. He told her what to say and, at last free of the affair, laughed at his brilliance. Still sniffling, the box office girl sighed and dialed Mr. Archer’s number. When he answered, she forced her voice to sound cheerful.

“Hello, Mr. Archer? Congratulations! I’m calling to inform you that because of your long and magnificent patronage to the symphony, your seat has been upgraded to the second row.”

Christopher Castle was, at this time, employed by the symphony orchestra in the coat-check room. He stood behind a counter every evening and took people’s coats. He hung them up on numbered hangers and gave each patron a slip of paper printed with a matching number. For this task he received a modest salary, plus tips, if he was lucky. He had learned through experience that the placement of the tip jar had a lot to do with how full it would be by the end of the night. In his early days, the tip jar embarrassed him somewhat, and he tried to make it inconspicuous, yet to encourage tips by smiling and handling coats with a delicate touch. He had placed the jar off to the side, partially hidden behind a little framed sign that read “Don’t Forget Your Overcoat.” Since no one could forget their overcoat in December, no one read the sign; therefore, his tip jar went unnoticed.

When his first paycheck barely covered his rent, Christopher decided that pride and honor would have to be less conspicuous than the tip jar. He placed it in the center of the counter and stood behind it so that patrons had to hand their coats over the jar. He made a few tips this time, but noticed that those who dropped coins into the jar did so with a hunted, almost hostile glance up at him.

Intimidation seemed to work moderately well, but Christopher Castle was not entirely comfortable being intimidating He moved the jar a little to the right, and stood a little to the left. When people handed him their coats, they furtively dropped some change in the jar when Christopher swept their cloaks into the back room– except Mr. Clark from the first row, who took change out of the jar to use at poker night.

This was by far the most effective placement for a tip jar. Christopher shared his discovery with the girl who worked at the gift shop, the bartenders, and the cookie-seller, all of whom tried it to their immense satisfaction. Christopher became very popular at the symphony.

All in all, Christopher enjoyed his job. He was allowed to attend concerts for free on his off-nights. He sat high up in the balcony and closed his eyes, learning to appreciate the booming grandeur of Beethoven, the pips and squeaks of Bartok, and the fanciful stories of Stravinksy. Perched above the orchestra in the magnificent domed hall, he felt that even he, in his own small way, was supporting the musicians; helping to create the glorious music they produced, night after night.
Until one night when their music was gloriously interrupted. Mr. Walpole arrived triumphant at the symphony, his wife walking eagerly beside him. She was looking forward to the concert, for he had not told her about the new seat. Mrs. Walpole was much dismayed a short time later to discover that, while her husband had changed his seat, hers was very much in the same place.

Mr. Walpole carried in his arms a large package; so large, in fact, that he had difficulty getting it through the lobby doors, which made him angry. The bartenders sighed, the gift store girl took a deep breath, and the cookie person threw a napkin over the cookies, for Mr. Walpole always touched each one and never bought anything. Christopher Castle took out his finest coat hanger and straightened his tip cup. He never received a tip despite the extra care he took of Mr. Walpole’s coat, but he never stopped hoping for one.

People stood aside for Mr. Walpole as he passed, and looked after him as he carried his colossal box across the lobby. It slipped and tilted in his arms, pulling him off kilter and into ladies and gentlemen that leapt gingerly out of his path. In this awkward manner, Mr. Walpole made his way to the coat-check counter. He placed the box at his feet, and swept his overcoat from his shoulders. It was long and black and fine. The gold buttons shone and the collar stood stiff at attention. His cufflinks were anchors and the hem was clean. It was the coat of a duke. If it had been red, it would have been the coat of a king.

The coat rippled richly as he tossed it over the counter, into Christopher’s waiting arms. While Christopher hung the overcoat in the back room, Mr. Walpole took his box into his arms with much groaning and puffing. His frustration grew. He was angry with the saleswoman who had enclosed the gift in such an awkward box, forgetting that he had asked for the gift to be wrapped as grandly as possible, so as to be more impressive upon its presentation to the flutist later that evening.

As Mr. Walpole struggled with the package, patrons lined up behind him to check their coats. Men coughed meaningfully and ladies tapped their shoes. Mr. Walpole became angrier and angrier as important people grew increasingly frustrated at his struggle. Finally, he heaved a corner of the package onto the counter. Christopher disappeared behind it.

“Sir…” his voice piped from the other side of the package, “I don’t think it will fit.” Mr. Walpole growled dangerously.

“It damn well will.” He barked, and shoved the box with both hands. It creaked and wedged above the counter. From the other side of the package, Christopher suggested,

“Perhaps you might keep this in your car.”

“I certainly will not.” Mr. Walpole leaned against he package and shoved with his shoulder. “This is the coat-check and you are to stow my belongings. Now pull!” He shouted. The patrons in line muttered to themselves. The lady behind him fanned herself with a program and took off her mink coat, draping it over her arm. She tapped Mr. Walpole on the shoulder. Without turning, he shouted something extremely rude to the tapper.

“Well, goodness!” She huffed. Her husband handed her his glass of red wine and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

“Now see here…” The husband growled. Mr. Walpole stepped back with a determined grunt and the line stumbled behind him. With a roar, he threw himself forward and rammed the entire side of his hefty body against the package. With a tremendous crunch, the package jumped across the counter, into Christopher Castle’s chest, and knocked him flat. The counter caught Mr. Walpole in the stomach and sent him sprawling backwards just as the man with rolled shirtsleeves swung his fist. He missed, however, for Mr. Walpole scattered the patrons with flailing limbs, and knocked the wine glass from the lady’s hand. Red wine poured over her white mink coat. Amidst screeches and spills, Mr. Walpole picked himself up and planted both fists on the counter, his face turning a startling shade of purple, the vein above his eye pulsing, his knees locked, his throat swollen, he could only bark, “Argh! Argh!”

And to Christopher Castle, who looked up, startled, from the floor, Mr. Walpole was the Devil’s very likeness. Other angry faces rose up around Mr. Walpole. Weeping, the lady held up her ruined mink. For a full minute, no one spoke. They all watched Mr. Walpole’s mouth working soundlessly and his eyes twitching.

“You!” He shouted finally, pointing at Christopher, who struggled to stand up. “You pushed me.” The angry faces all turned to Christopher.

“You.” The lady moaned, “You ruined my mink.” The miserable scene that followed was not a highlight in Christopher Castle’s young life. The manager was summoned, apologies were skillfully executed, and coats were at last hung on their hangers. In his own heart, the manager could not blame Christopher Castle, for he had his own experience with Mr. Walpole’s foibles. He was wise enough to know, however, that it would be the end of the symphony if he blamed a patron for such a catastrophe, so he publicly berated Christopher and took away his tip jar. The manager promised the patrons that Christopher would never work at the symphony again– after this evening, of course, because they were short-staffed.

Humiliated, Christopher handed Mr. Walpole a numbered ticket. He snatched the slip of paper, grunted loudly, and, still purple, strode away followed by his wife, who never checked her coat, or indeed removed it at all. As the rest of the patrons filed into the theater, the manager winked at Christopher and promised him a good reference. Christopher found himself both disgraced and unemployed. He sat miserably on the stool behind the counter, and waited in agony for the end of the evening.

Christopher’s night was ruined, but the patrons settled calmly into their seats. No one had been injured, after all, the lady had another three minks at home, and Mr. Walpole had his new seat. There were only two unhappy concertgoers that night, and both of their eyes were on Mr. Walpole. Mrs. Walpole sat on the right side of the room, watching her husband smiling up at the flutist from the left. Mr. Archer huddled in his second row seat, gazing sadly back at the seat his family had warmed for generations.

From the coatroom, Christopher could hear the concert begin. He shuddered to think of how close he had come to single-handedly ruining the symphony. Instead, it had ruined him. No longer would he sit high up in the balcony under the great dome, for his musical education had ended here among the overcoats. Inside the hall, the trumpets sounded in mourning, the clarinets wailed, the French horns moaned; they all seemed to grieve for Christopher Castle. He leaned back, hugged by empty sleeves, and closed his eyes.

Many patrons prefer to close their eyes at the symphony– to block out distractions, they say. Mr. Walpole was not one of them. He enjoyed the music as much as the next person, but it was not Beethoven or Mozart who drew him back, week after week. The music had become mere background to his true pleasure– catching the furtive glances of the soft-eyed flutist. While others rested sightlessly beside him, Mr. Walpole hardly dared blink. He particularly enjoyed the pauses between overtures. In these few, silent moments, as the patrons rubbed their eyes and rustled and coughed, the flutist could devote to him the full attention of her magnificent gaze. He leaned forward as the first overture came to a close with a single high, unwavering note.

Mr. Walpole watched as the flutist smiled out into the audience. It was a coy and intimate smile– a smile he knew all too well. But she was not smiling at him. Mr. Walpole followed her flirtation to a young man sitting a few chairs down from him. The young man’s eyes were fastened on the little flutist and, as Mr. Walpole watched, he blew her a kiss. She giggled and began to play, her eyes still caressing the young man, who gazed back at her. Mr. Walpole scowled from one to the other, as his wife glowered from across the room, and Mr. Archer shot him moist glances from the second row.

Only Mrs. Walpole and Mr. Archer noticed that something strange was happening to Mr. Walpole in the center aisle, left section seat. His face turned pink, then red, and then purple. A very deep purple. His eyes grew large and seemed to stand out from his head; the vein crawled in his forehead, his knees locked. Mr. Walpole’s thick fingers gripped the arms of his seat until his knuckles turned white. His mouth began opening and closing furiously. Mrs. Walpole half stood, then sat, then stood. The flutist smiled and lowered her flute. She mouthed something very naughty to the young man down the row. Mr. Walpole’s chest expanded horribly and his mouth opened wide, and did not close.

Mrs. Walpole opened her thin little mouth and produced the loudest noise she had ever made. At that moment, the cymbals clashed and the second overture came to a screeching halt among stray trumpet blasts and cacophonous high notes. The ushers flocked down the aisle, coat tails flapping behind them, and struggled to lift Mr. Walpole from his subscribed seat. Even in his unconscious state, he gripped the arms of his seat and clung to them with the bitter grasp of death. The ushers labored in vain to pry his fingers from the velvet and were forced finally to wrench him, seat and all, from the aisle. Held aloft in his velvet chair, head lolling from side to side, heart fluttering ever more faintly, Mr. Walpole was borne down the aisle and out into the lobby.

Mrs. Walpole scampered beneath her husband, catching the change that spilled from his pockets, clasping the hat that jumped from his head, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief that had floated from his shirtsleeve. Mr. Walpole was swept past the lobby attendants, past Christopher Castle who sat in the coatroom and watched the whole thing from between silk coats, and through the doors to the waiting ambulance. In the silent, stunned hall, the orchestra took up where they left off, and the patrons settled back and closed their eyes against any further distraction.

The ushers, the bartenders, the gift store girl, and Christopher convened in the corner, chattering excitedly. Nothing this wonderful had happened since the choking incident of 1953, in which Mrs. Carmel had chocked on a beer nut in the lobby and been administered the Heimlich by the visiting Irish step dancer. The thrilled group fell silent when the lobby door opened some time later and Mrs. Walpole appeared, shrunken and wet from the rain. She hesitated a moment by the door and the attendants hurried back to their posts. Her eyes swept over the bar, the gift shop, and the cookie girl, and finally came to rest on the coat-check. Christopher straightened his uniform. Mrs. Walpole shuffled to the counter and produced a slip of paper with a number on it.

“The package, please.” She whispered. Christopher hauled the unwieldy, crumpled box onto the counter and Mrs. Walpole sighed. She heaved it up and clasped it to her chest. Pink tissue paper poked out from one corner. Tilting precariously from side to side, she started for the door. Christopher cleared this throat.

“Ma-am,” he said, “there’s an overcoat.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Walpole turned, “He won’t be needing that anymore.” And she smiled.

And that is how Christopher Castle lost a job and acquired an overcoat in the same evening.

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Stars, Tabloids, and Sex Taboggons

Oline on Warhol’s “Jackie” & “Liz”

That great connoisseur of success, sex, celebrity, and culture, Mr. Andy Warhol, once wrote, “The red lobster’s beauty only comes out when it is dropped into the boiling water.” It’s a line that neatly sums up Warhol’s own fixation with the extremes of “Stars, Death, and Disasters,” all three of which are currently explored in a retrospective at the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art. Among Warhol’s most interesting canvases are portraits of two stars whom death and disaster stalked throughout their bizarrely intertwined tabloid lives: Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis and Elizabeth Taylor.

According to Warhol, the best reason to be famous is being able to “read all the big magazines and know everybody in all the stories. Page after page it’s just all people you’ve met.” Among the tabloid players with whom Warhol was personally acquainted was “Jackie” Kennedy, the most profitable cover girl of the 1960s and 70s movie magazines. A special breed of tabloid and the forerunner of today’s US Weekly, the movie magazines were devised by the film studios as a publicity tool. Since readers held little loyalty for individual publications and based their purchases almost exclusively on subject matter, the industry depended upon newsstand sales to an extraordinary extent. Readers were drawn primarily to magazines with naughty headlines and provocative cover photographs; to this end, editors rushed to find public figures that exercised broad appeal and kept readers interested over long periods of time. Much as popcorn kept movie theaters afloat after the advent of television, so “Jackie” stories salvaged the movie magazines: The prevailing editorial policy was to regularly feature the First Lady alongside “any lady or gentleman of the screen and television who misbehaved.”

Among the contemporary misbehaving ladies and gentlemen, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton reigned supreme and, despite the absence of any legitimate connection, the movie magazines desperately tried to link “Jackie” with the Burtons, her “magazine relatives.” During “Jackie’s” Kennedy years, the couples served as foils for one another; the Burtons’ racy exploits emphasized the Kennedys’ elegance while “Jack” and “Jackie’s” élan exaggerated “Burton” and “Liz’s” indulgence. Photoplay even devoted major coverage to an examination of the Kennedys’ “Marriage & Taste” versus the Burtons’ “Passion & Waste.” With the death of “Jack,” the tabloids featured the remaining threesome under headlines insinuating romantic intrigues, clandestine meetings, and unorthodox sexual proclivities. There were ostensibly benevolent intentions; the tabloids sought to unite “Jackie” and the Burtons because “It would truly be a new, fun, fun world for Jackie– for the Burtons are fun, fun people.” Consequently, “Jackie”-“Burton”-“Liz,” which persisted as a tabloid phenomenon well into the late 1970s, pervaded the national consciousness. According to sociologist Irving Schulman:

If new photographs worthy of inclusion at deadline were not to be had, art directors arranged jigsaw cutouts for Jackie-Burton-Liz, and in a very short time indeed a national conditioned response was established. Purchasers who saw a photograph of Jacqueline Kennedy would think immediately of Elizabeth Taylor and what she was doing; conversely a photograph of [ . . . ] Elizabeth Taylor would conjure up an image of Mrs. Kennedy.

The “Jackie”-“Liz” connection would become so integrated into the popular culture that in the Hollywood treatment of the “Jackie” story, The Greek Tycoon, the lead female character was named “Liz.”

Women loved to hate “Liz,” an actress who seemed constantly on the brink of personal disaster; they simply loved Mrs. Kennedy. In the words of pop-philosopher Wayne Koestenbaum, “Liz was trash; Jackie was royalty.” “Jackie” and “Liz” themselves held antithetical positions in the American consciousness, as exemplified in the 1962 magazine, JACKIE and LIZ. The one-shot commemorative opened with a page that explained “Why We Are Comparing JACKIE and LIZ.” “They shine in completely different constellations and exert a completely different emotional and moral effect upon us,” the editors wrote. “To compare them [ . . . is] a way for us to examine the natures of the stars we create, and in the process discover something about ourselves.” What we, the reader, should discover was clarified in a simple headline on the same page: “LIZ TAYLOR: A Warning To American Women; JACKIE KENNEDY: An Inspiration to American Youth.” “Jackie” was “WOMAN OF THE YEAR,” “Mistress of the Washington Merry Go-Round,” and “First in the Hearts of Her Countrymen.” She “KEEPS HER MAN HAPPY,” is “SURROUNDED BY LOVE” and only “Leaves Her Home For Service.” In very stark contrast, “Liz” was the “SENSATION OF THE YEAR” and “STAR OF THE ROMAN SCANDALS.” “A Woman Without a Country” who was “Caught in the mad Marriage-Go-Round” and “SURROUNDED BY FEAR,” she faced “A THREATENING TOMORROW.”

To gossip columnist Fanny Hurst, “Jackie’s” place in people’s affections was a barometer of the national well-being. “Jackie’s” “high standards of dignity” and “family life” had won the admiration of the nation’s women, whereas “Liz” had “steered her sex toboggan down a dangerous run.” Despite the onslaught of “unsavory Taylor-Burton headlines, the shabby stories of shabby lies, of multiple marriages, infidelities, divorces, broken homes, displaced children,” Americans still recognized and craved the family values that “Jackie” represented. In their disparagement of Elizabeth Taylor, the movie magazines sent a valuable message to readers whose own marriages might be lacking “the fire of passion” and who might be tempted to follow “Liz’s” less traditionally feminine example by steering their own “sex toboggans” along her perilous path.

Collectively, the tabloid narrative implies a rivalry between “Liz” and “Jackie,” which was most often cast in terms of the women’s sexuality. When “Jackie,” supposedly rankled by “Liz’s” libidinous activities on the Cleopatra set, did not attend the movie’s Washington premier, TV Radio Mirror declared it: THE DAY JACKIE ‘SLAPPED’ LIZ! In the article, prudish “Jackie” frowned upon “Liz’s” amorous exploits and “Liz’s” doings appeared magnified in contrast to “Jackie’s” extreme restraint. “Liz’s” indiscretions were genuinely startling by contemporary standards, but she appears even more depraved when considered alongside “Jackie’s” pristine morality. In later years, with “Jackie’s” slide toward Greek decadance, the rivalry would continue to dominate the headlines: AMERICA’S TWO FALLEN QUEENS; ONE NIGHT WITH JACKIE’S HUSBAND MAKES LIZ’ DREAM COME TRUE; THE NIGHT ONASSIS TURNED TO LIZ; JACKIE DISGRACED AS ARI BOOZES IT UP WITH LIZ IN PUBLIC BAR; TWO DESPERATE WOMEN GAMBLE ALL; LIZ’ PREMARITAL HONEYMOON PLANS INVOLVE JACKIE’S HUSBAND!

“Jackie’s” very appearance in the movie magazines suggested a fundamental shift from their original role as an advertising vehicle for motion picture stars. It is obvious that readers were intrigued with “Jackie” and “Liz” for entirely different reasons. Both were exaggerated icons– “Liz” the voluptuous vixen and “Jackie” the aloof patrician. However, “Liz,” an actress, was in fact selling a product– herself and her movies. Because “Jackie” had nothing to hawk, her life itself was turned into a movie, “a lifie,” for the public’s entertainment. By the early-1960s, “the tabloid newspaper was almost exactly analogous to a movie theater,” and “Jackie’s” life was the feature presentation, played out on newsstands across the country.

In time, the differences in the unique relationships readers developed with both women would become more apparent. “Liz’s” connection to the public derived from total revelation. In Life the Movie, film and culture commentator Neal Gabler succinctly catalogues “Liz’s” shifting societal role:

Taylor’s early appeal as a life performer was her willingness to expose her private sexuality, first with [Eddie] Fisher and then with [Richard] Burton, and to provide a voyeuristic charge for those who read about her. Her later appeal, when she was no longer a sex symbol, was her willingness to expose her dysfunctions as melodramatic entertainment: her ballooning weight and subsequent diets, her drug problems, her vexed marriages and romances, her various illnesses.

In contrast, “Jackie’s” audience was tantalized by what she withheld. Her adamant refusal to reveal herself or her private life created a vast expanse of ignorance, which proved fertile ground for wildly speculative assertions and implausible fantasies. Because “Jackie” refused to participate in the tabloid pageant, the magazines reached out to readers—inviting them to select a wedding dress for “Jackie’s” remarriage, to suggest a hairstyle, and to pass judgment upon her hem lengths. In a manner eerily evocative of American Idol, the movie magazines fostered the public’s sense of interactivity in Mrs. Kennedy’s life. After her remarriage in 1968, Motion Picture even invited readers to vote to “BACK JACKIE,” as if their support would have a real effect upon the new Mrs. Onassis. (And this was not just a wacky 60s phenomenon. Following Mrs. Onassis’ death in 1994, the National Enquirer invited readers to send sympathy cards, which the magazine thoughtfully promised to bundle and ship to the Kennedy family.)

In American culture, “Jackie” acted as a tabula rasa, onto which everyone from little girls to frustrated housewives could project their fantasies of glamour and romance. As an Onassis acquaintance once said: “Jackie was nothing; an ordinary American woman with average tastes and some money. She was a creation of the American imagination.” Yet, within the tabloid culture, “Jackie” heralded a new age, in which “an ordinary housewife writ large” could become a star. And as Warhol admited, “More than anything people just want stars.”

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Tango Boot Camp

Jack Black’s Bombshell: Queen of the Dance

Last weekend I took my first steps of Tango.

I am in the midst of a ridiculously passionate love affair with a profoundly romantic young man. This poetic soul believes dance is a crucial manifestation of the relationship between man and woman, and therefore an essential part of courtship and love. In our initial conversation on this topic he told me that he believes the Tango is the apex of this experience; the intense intimacy of the embrace, the intricacy of the steps, the outrageously plaintive lyrics. Every other dance pales in comparison.

We quickly identified Tango as a metaphor for the kind of sustained, unapologetically consuming love that so many of us want and so few of us have yet achieved. He looked into my eyes, shyly but steadily. “It may be that you and I will Tango. Maybe we can learn this, together.” The words were very simple, the message was subtle, the invitation immense.

Some weeks later on a Friday afternoon this young man and I met downtown for the first night of “The Chicago Tango Mini-Festival,” or “Tango Boot Camp” as we came to call it; three days of back-to-back classes followed by a Milonga (dance) each evening until the wee hours of the morning. We were a little puzzled by the rigorousness of the schedule. I suppose I envisioned a Tango festival with a lot of dim lighting, black clothing, and roses clamped between gleaming teeth. Perhaps some temperamental man would rant in an indiscernible Argentinean accent for half an hour on the beauty and pain that is Tango, and then we’d learn some swishy turn and have an espresso. The schedule I held in my hand looked more like my last semester of college.

In retrospect, I learned a lot about myself and my beloved at Tango Boot Camp. Firstly, it was revealed that I have disturbing soccer-mom tendencies. Other women showed up with dancing shoes and blithe smiles. I had an enormous bag stuffed with granola bars, band-aids, hair ties, aspirin, and back-up batteries for the digital camera. I shudder to think of what I would have been brought had a mini-van been at my compulsive disposal.

The first class began and I was amazed that despite the many other couples present, we two were the youngest people there. Given the stunning sexuality of a well-executed and heartfelt Tango, one would think that hungry twenty-somethings would be flocking to Milongas everywhere. Not so. There are very few young people, mostly couples, mostly married.

Our instructor, Robert, had us begin by simply leaning chests and shoulders together to form a sort of pyramid. “Lean close enough to each other to feel your partner’s heart beat, yet keep yourself centered enough so that if your partner stumbles, you will not fall.” The music began.

We swayed back and forth a little. My young man looked me in the eye, and we took our first step together. It was more a balancing act than anything else as we tried to move with the correct posture; dignified, steady and mercilessly personal. It was bliss. Clumsy, hesitant bliss.

By the end of the first evening, we were able to move forward around the floor and execute a turn or two with surprising ease. We had also learned a fast, choppy little Tango-esque dance that has the virtue of being very easy to do while looking quite complicated and impressive to the viewer. I was psyched.

At the first Milonga, we encountered the wildest, most dangerous and elusive breed of Tango-er: Crazy Tango Stallion Man. He burst in exactly like Antonio Banderas in “Desperado.” The women, as if of one mind, turned wide, fearful eyes on him. He snatched up one woman. I didn’t envy her as he executed a series of appallingly erotic and painful looking lifts, turns, and holds with her. When he released her and she crawled away, I watched as he asked and was refused by woman after woman. Some turned their backs on him. Some pretended not to notice his approach and scuttled quickly towards the chips and soda. Apparently, Crazy Tango Stallion Man has a reputation. Ladies, beware.

By the end of the second evening, my young man and I were tripping over intermediate moves and feeling the intense urge to slap each other. We were hungry, tired, and our feet felt like they’d been dipped in acid. We’d been under the instruction of two women from Argentina, both stars on the Buenos Aires dance scene. These women were beautiful, mysterious, and intensely cold. They had very little patience for the all-American crowd and watched with thinly veiled contempt as we attempted to repeat the slinky little combination they had demonstrated. We bowed our heads and shuffled off towards the train with the intention of hitting the “Hard-Core All-Night Milonga” that evening and perfecting the step. Instead we went home, ate many, many tacos and fell asleep in our clothes.

The third and final day delivered us back into Robert’s capable hands. After the combination-step craze of the day before, he brought us back to keel with the slow, balanced art of feeling your partner’s movement. We ambled, then swayed, then spun around the beautiful, baroque hall while thunder rumbled outside and the music lilted on the wind.

At the final Milonga I found myself again standing across from my young man. Here we were, three days, six classes and many, many tacos later. He leaned into me, put his arms around me, and began to lead me across the floor. Having danced with so many partners over the weekend, I had actually only danced with him a few times and his embrace felt almost foreign to me. I was surprised by the level of grace and ease he had reached over these three short days. We stumbled once or twice, but they were neat little rhythmic stumbles and no one fell down or sprained anything. We were still fairly remedial in our Tango, but we were Tangoing nonetheless.

Each time we dance, we must find that balance first. I move my hair to one side so my femininity doesn’t asphyxiate him. We must take equal strides so as not to step on each other’s feet. We hold one another close, but do not cling. I cannot attempt to anticipate his next move, as doing so will only tangle our feet. I have to provide him enough resistance to move me forward, but not so much tension that I become heavy.

He always kisses my cheek, once, just before we begin.

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Jack Black's Body on Jack White's Baby

SCORE!

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Meet Osutein-sensei

Osutein-sensei (Aus-tin sen-say) is a post-collegiate, pre-professional twenty-something educator, corrupter of youths, novelist living on the remote Japanese island of Tsushima. A graduate of the College of William & Mary and the Univ. of Chicago, Osutein-sensei is JBB’s resident expert on calligraphy, eating inedible things, freak gasoline fights, and boy-stuff. He’ll always be our Cruise King.

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SPITE

Osutein-sensei on How to Motivate Your American

We Americans often regard ourselves as being without a culture, despite the intense nationalistic self-love in which we so often indulge. Part of this is castle-envy¬– the realization that Europe has, and will always have, more castles than we do, no matter how many Disneylands or Medieval Times we build. And of course, that is the main criticism we level against ourselves: our culture is fake, derivative, the cultural equivalent of a "Cucci" bag bought for $3.76 on the streets of Beijing.

Living in Japan has taught me many lessons, like that there are myriad ways to cook sea urchin, but it will always taste the same (horrible), how to use the bathroom while squatting, and how to say "your mother is doing perverted things to sheep" in Japanese. But most importantly, it has shown me what American culture is, something I couldn't recognize when I was surrounded by and living fully in it. (If you'd like, you may now allude yourself to The Matrix).

America does have a culture. It’s just hard to see until you’re out of it, because true culture is more than just stops on the sightseeing bus. When I was in Himeji, site of Japan's grandest castle, the Japanese were just as enthralled with the soaring fortress and the elaborately dressed geisha in the train station as I was. Those are cultural artifacts, little niches that insiders and outsiders can both marvel at. One doesn't need to be Irish to enjoy Joyce, though being drunk certainly helps. I think culture as we experience and live in it on a daily level is something informed by those niches, but not composed of them. It’s the world before our eyes.

In Japan there is nothing rude about asking someone's age or how much money he makes. When I explained to my adult English class that these things were rude questions in the West, they were shocked and kept asking why. And I started to wonder why myself, especially about the age question. It does seem rather silly to be offended by someone asking you a basic question about yourself. But then, we've decided that our Culture decided that old age is bad, a viewpoint primarily reinforced by people being offended when asked their age as a reaction against the Culture deciding old age is bad.

This kind of weird inverse logic is abundant in American culture and gets me to my main point. In looking at American culture in contrast to Japan’s, I now see what lies at the center of our culture. Indeed, the very pillars of our civilization are constructed from one simple, immutable, omnipresent quality... spite.

When my Japanese co-workers want me to do something unpleasant, like sing a stupid song when I'm sober, or run in a marathon, or teach English, they will usually say, “It's expected of you.” This reasoning works on my co-workers and students, since they generally want to fit into their assigned social roles and avoid being ostracized. It does nothing for me, however.

In fact, when people tell me they "expect me" to do something, I generally refuse to do it, even if I want to. (Though I might change my mind if for some reason a co-worker suddenly decided it’d be very important for me to eat cheesecake or sleep with his hot, nympho-inclined cousin.)

I realized, however, that if my co-worker put the suggestion another way, I'd absolutely do it. For instance, if they told me I couldn't run the marathon, I'd make a concentrated effort not only to run the marathon, but also to beat them all so badly they'd cry. And I hate running. I make it a rule that I only run from things: the police, tigers, my past. But yes, I'd run just to spite them.

I'm not the only one. Watch any American movie that makes grown men cry (it will be about someone overcoming adversity to achieve something or other) and there will always be a scene where someone tells the protagonist that he can't do whatever it is he set out to do. And this is the great motivator for the protagonist. So much so that the following line will always, ALWAYS be, “All my life, people told me I couldn't (whatever). I wanna prove 'em wrong.” Indeed, the single greatest motivational word in the English-speaking world, the word that above all others can make men move mountains or soar to the heavens, is... "wussy" (or it's more vulgar, genitalia-derived cousin)

Unfortunately for my co-workers, they haven't figured out this little secret yet. They continue to ask me to do things because they expect them of me, little knowing that the true way to get me to do anything is to tell me I can't do it. It's strange and doesn't really make a lot of sense when you think about it, but it's true: Americans are motivated primarily by spite, by the desire to do something simply because we've been told we can't. It's certainly led to many great achievements, like landing on the moon, but then it’s also led to quite a few Darwin Awards as well.

Also, there’s no way you could have possibly read this entire post. Wussy.

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Meet Bernanation

Bernanation (Burn·a'nA-sh&n) is a collegiate, pre-pre-professional, barely twenty-something actress, writer, film snob, and Samurai sword collector studying an entirely useful combination of theater/English/film at Northwestern University. Bern is JBB's honored intern (really a feature writer, but JB relishes the idea of having an intern) who enjoys Holden Caulfield, salads, concerts, and finding really ugly clothes that magically look good on her.

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Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

The Berninator on Why College Ain’t that Great
Question:
How many times recently have I heard this oh so pitiful lament from the lips of today’s Lost Generation (a.k.a. the post-collegiate pre-professional masses o’ humanity): “Waaaa! I miss college!”

Answer:
Wait… let me get my abacus out. I haven’t done long multiplication in three years.

I know college was grand, the best years of your life, a four-year-long orgy of sex, drugs, and whiny emo rock, but come on! You’re recalling your past like a family vacation: remembering the joy, the fun, the seasons in the sun... and somehow managing to block how Mom got a migraine, Dad yelled at everyone to shut up, and Junior spilled lemonade all over the front of your white shorts (yes, white shorts, it was the 80’s. You blocked that too, huh?).

Well, as a twenty-something currently ensnared by college’s coddling clutches, I am here to remind you of all the things that made you call Mommy every day just to hear her voice. Here they are: the top ten parts of college life that make your post-collegiate pre-professional limbo seem like paradise city.

10. Kids who say that they “never watch TV.”
Although not the most annoying part of college, this kid ranks pretty high on my list of irritating creatures. Granted, we don’t all have hours and hours to park in front of “Oprah” every morning, but this brand of culture snob claims that never in his life has he seen an episode of say, “Gilmore Girls.” Let me tell you something about this snarky pain in the you-know-what: He’s LYING! With the exception of Amish people, everyone watches TV. Undoubtedly, this liar has seen more episodes of “Elimidate” than he cares to admit. Therefore, out of his overwhelming shame bursts forth the urge to lie. Why does he lie? To belittle you. Be happy that the people you work with kick back in front of the tube like it’s their job. Some of them may be as dumb as the actual contestants on “Elimidate,” but at least they’re not cowardly liars.

9. Cell Phones.
I’m a hypocrite. I love my cell phone. It’s something to study while standing awkwardly in the elevator, you can take pictures of your friends, and with one flip of a button you can look popular (even if you are only calling Dial-a-Weather). BUT when people forsake real human communication to talk to their childhood friends in Maine for the few seconds it takes to get from Class A to Class B, I kind of feel like crying. No longer do we see clusters of students, arms linked, chattering away about clambakes and Frisbee (as in college brochures the world over). Now all that remains are hunched and shifty-eyed shells clutching their little cellular “friends” to their half-deaf ears.

8. The Professor’s Pet.
This kid always has his hand raised. He comes into the room with it raised.
He sits down with it raised. It remains raised, the elbow cradled in the other hand to beat fatigue while the professor speaks. Then, when the professor finally decides that this kid will not, in fact, go away, and he is called on, he comes out with a gem like, “Well, when I was reading MARX yesterday, after reading JOYCE’S collected works, I decided that Communism was probably a true elucidation of the metaphysical entities that people are carbon-based juxtaposition of society and consumer-driven paradigms.” Yes. They say something that, albeit peppered with big words and big names, makes NO sense. Be aware: every time one these pompous parasites opens his mouth, someone throws a ferret in a fire pit, a’ la “Beast Master” (Which you have seen. Don’t lie. You saw it on Spike TV last week with the rest of us.) These people never leave the collegiate realm; they just collect degree after degree, saving the rest of the world from their inane babbling.

7. Staying up unnecessarily late.
You have an 8 a.m. class you have to be awake for.... but everyone else is up and you’ll look like a loser if you go to bed early (which is, in college world, any time up until 1 a.m.). So... you stay up. You don’t really do anything. You move stuff around in your room, you talk to someone on IM, you watch an episode of “Arrested Development” on DVD, or you stare at Facebook for awhile. Then you fall triumphantly into bed around 1:15 a.m., only to be dragged from your deep slumber barely six hours later. College kids are stupid. Sleep is goo…… Sorry, just dozed off for a minute there.

6. Parties.
You always think you’ll like them. You look forward to them. Then you stand awkwardly in a room crammed with slightly smelly, not particularly attractive people all attempting to rub against each other whilst clutching their huge red cups of cheap beer. Inevitably, someone will spill said cheap beer on you. You will be pushed into someone with whom you do not wish to make contact, and you will see some girl’s thong tha-thong thong as she gyrates in a drunken (and embarrassing) manner in her tiny denim skirt and Uggs. Be thankful that you are now legal, all of your friends are legal, and ding-dong! the clandestine apartment party is dead.

5. Uggs.
Ok... why? WHY do people still insist on killing sheep and wrapping them around their feet? If you’re gonna wear slippers, at least wear ones with bunny ears and please, for the love of all that is holy, do NOT tuck your ratty sweatpants into your sheep-carcass shoes. If you insist on looking like a refugee, do so in the privacy of your own home. Uggs, while they are the dress code on college campuses, are far less prevalent in the “real world.”

4. Bad emo music.
For some reason we all start listening to it, applying it to our lives, and subsequently crying.

3. Freshmen.
Do I even need to elaborate? They’re small, they’re overeager, they scavenge for food in the garbage... Wait, those are squirrels. You get what I mean.

2. Frats and Sororities.
Alphas and Thetas and Betas and Deltas and Zetas. Why dress it up with fancy Greek words? You bought your friends, you sing stupid “secret” songs, and if you’re a girl you MUST wear pointy shoes. Need I even mention hazing? No thanks, I’d rather make my friends the old-fashioned way: by offering to do their homework.

Drum-roll please... Here’s the number one worst thing about college.

1. It’s a freaking small world after all.
College campuses, even if they boast a 2,000 person surplus, are tiny. So, you constantly run into people you’d rather not see: that friend from freshman year who you decided you didn’t like, that guy you turned down once, that guy who turned you down, someone you made out with in a drunken haze, a professor who flunked you, an ex, the list goes on. One day you’ll be walking to class and minding your own business, and you’ll see (insert undesirable person here) strolling towards you. Here comes the moment of truth: do you…
A. Say “Hi” and keep walking.
B. Stop and catch up with (insert undesirable person here) because your martyr complex is acting up.
C. Cough and, in that brief moment, pretend you don’t see said person.
D. Look at said person and don’t say “Hi.”
E. Start to say “Hi” and realize said person is purposely ignoring you, so go home, listen to emo music and cry whilst mulling over what you could have done to hurt said person.
At least in the real world people come and go. In college there’s no escape.

I hope I have alleviated some of the depression you all must feel when looking back at your collegiate glory days. Any time you feel the icy grip of reminiscence taking hold of your little hearts, I advise you to drop the Elliot Smith CD, step away from the Proust, and sit down in front of your dear friend the television. Because, damn it all, now you can.

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