I bring this up because I was one of those hapless applicants not too long ago when I got rejected from a certain super-selective post-grad opportunity. I thought I had prepared myself adequately for the possibility of rejection, but I still held out hope for the likelihood that I, too, could be accepted. When I found out that the former was my fate, I was pretty devastated. It didn’t help that some of my friends and classmates were accepted to the same opportunity, and were, understandably, overjoyed. Of course I was happy for them, but I also felt upset and alone in my ordeal. After all, it’s easy to connect and rejoice with friends when they’re accepted, but the people who were rejected aren’t gloating about it on Facebook unless they are that dedicated to their sense of self-deprecating humor.

“Rejection?” you may say, “Marissa, I go to Claremont McKenna College. I am not familiar with such a term.” To that, I say, GREAT. Good for you, Dear Reader. If that’s the case, just close this article and proceed with your perfect life. But if you’re someone who has been rejected, it can serve as a growing experience and a powerful lesson in Getting Over It. This may be my denial talking, but I feel like a more resilient and humble person after the fact. But how?! How, might you ask, does one triumph over rejection? The following is a candid, step-by-step guide taken from my own experience.

1. Congratulate. In the event that you know others who have been accepted for the same opportunity that you applied for, let them know that you’re happy for them. Had it been the other way around, wouldn’t you want them to congratulate you? Of course you would. So just suck it up and congratulate them. It may actually make you feel a little better.  Afterwards, you can calmly proceed to step two.
2. Let it out. Just cry. It is completely okay to do this. Maybe you don’t want to see anyone after said rejection, or maybe all you’ll want to do is sob into somebody’s arms. Either way, your actions are totally justified, in my opinion.
3. See if they’ll reconsider. In rare circumstances, you may be able to appeal the rejection. Do not appeal it just because you’re unhappy with the decision- that’s a given. Consult with the company/university before submitting an appeal.
4. Watch funny videos. They exist for a reason. Never underestimate the healing power of the Internet, especially YouTube. If you need a place to start, I can make plenty of suggestions.
5. Google everything that’s wrong with that company. I know, this sounds extremely bitter, but when rejection has taken everything out of you, Googling the worst things about a place can be so cathartic. Whether you’re reading horror stories from people who attended that school, or blogs critiquing everything that company stands for, nothing is more liberating than feeling like this opportunity is the best thing you never had. On a related note, listening to aforementioned song by Beyonce on repeat also works wonders.
6. Be grateful. Look at your life. Look at your choices. You are an intelligent individual in the prime of your youth. You are attending one of the premier colleges in America and you have a solid support system. You’re healthy. You’re fortunate. Keep this in mind, and pretty soon that rejection letter will seem so insignificant, you’ll start to wonder why you ever cried into your pillow to Adele’s “Someone Like You” in the first place.

This could be you in a week!

It may take a day, or it may take a week. Either way, you’ll look back on this experience a stronger person. Pretty soon you’ll find yourself even more revved up to do awesome things, just to show them what they’re missing. Don’t let rejection bring you down, or you’ll be missing out on a valuable opportunity for self-empowerment.

It’s especially interesting when you’re a girl (who is supposed to be the embodiment of innocence and chastity), you’re the first child, and your dad decides to give you a lecture on your future college conduct at the dinner table thanks to a letter he received from Claremont McKenna College (where freedom apparently awaits).

It’s even MORE interesting when this lecture happens to be about your supposed conduct around the opposite sex and your parents, who had an ARRANGED marriage and whose only romantic experience pre-marriage consisted of watching Bollywood movies, are giving you advice. The only advice I have received from my mother to attract men (besides “talk less”) is to wear higher shirts and study harder, because apparently I look most beautiful with no makeup and when my nose is in a book.
I know the basic rules: No boys. No drugs (including alcohol). No sex. And I plan to follow them (as of now). But just for fun I decided to play rebellious teenager and question my dad. Here’s the dialogue:
Me: Dad. I’m 18. I’m single. Therefore I am available.
Dad: No. You are not at all available.
Me: When will I be available?
Dad: When you get your degree. Sanjana, for god’s sake you are 18 stop acting like you are 38.

So the moral I take away is: I’m only allowed to have fun when I’m 38 and already married.
Later in the conversation:
Me: So dad…you say you want me to tell you everything. Let’s say I go to a party and hook up with some guy…
Dad: Stop right there. First of all what is this hookup you speak of?
Me: It’s when you like kiss a guy but don’t plan to date him or see him again.
Dad: NO HOOKUPS. And as for parties…
Mom: Let her go to some parties once in a while. I’m sure there will be nice music concerts at Pitzer.
Dad: You know, if you want this ridiculous hookup thing we can just get you married off quickly.

It was a very productive, open-minded, honest discussion.

My dad is one of those fathers who, when I start talking about boys, starts talking about the benefits of arranged marriage. He strongly believes that if he had not met my mother through his parents, they would still have found each other (because obviously a guy living and working in Portland, Oregon is going to run into a beauty queen from Mumbai on his way to work) and get married (fat chance…if they tried a live-in relationship, it probably wouldn’t have lasted a week. Neat-freak Dad vs. Carefree Mom = fireworks in the kitchen of the non-romantic, blame the kids variety). My dad even tried to arrange my prom date. I distinctly remember telling my dad I asked a guy friend to prom: he proceeded to get very upset and offended, and told me that he had a lot of friends at work who had sons who he could ask for me. Oh, Daddy darling… how much you have to learn.

Despite the jokes and cultural exaggerations, my dad was right.  My dad gave me this advice because he knows me better than anyone else. In coming to college, I have been thrust into a place where I am treated like an adult and I have complete freedom. Still, college has many temptations. I have to make choices that are right for me – and not just do certain things that many of my peers are doing for the sake of fitting in or being “cool.” I have to be strong and keep my values through this journey. I have to maintain my integrity and make good choices so that after four years  I can look back and be proud of the person I was in college. Who knows? Maybe parents do have all the answers. Maybe they do know what they are talking about. Maybe we should all listen to them a little more often.

My dad is one of the few people in this world who knows who I am and what I stand for. I respect him and thank him for being firm and embarrassingly blunt.

And you thought your pre-college conduct lecture was bad. But I must say, although I resisted at the time, so far it’s worked out well: No boys. No drugs. No sex. And I’m still having fun. Dad would be proud.

Ke$ha (ke-shuh): proper noun: 1. An American pop superstar. Example: “Ke$ha wrote ‘Till the World Ends’ for Britney Spears since the latter was probably too busy in rehab.”

Ke$ha’s appeal may not be obvious to many. Mothers gasp in horror to see Ke$ha shaking her ass and preaching the glory of one-night stands.

But what she’s constantly criticized for is exactly what makes her alluring to the public. The messy hair, dirty clothes, and massive globs of glitter are all a part of the package deal. Her shameless image attracts her fans since she embodies what we all want to have for a day sometimes, and is completely unapologetic for her lifestyle. She provides an extreme from which we can compare ourselves to when trying to convince our parents we’re angels (“Sure I got a C in Astronomy, Mom, but at least I’m not brushing my teeth with a bottle of Jack!”). It’s all relative.

In fact, some admiration can be found in that she’s genuine—genuinely trashy. She actually lives her crazy beautiful life on the daily, rocking her rolled-out-of-a-stranger’s-bed look. Her songs are anthems to the partiers who live without consequences. And honestly, all the hate circulating around Ke$ha’s dirty image is quite silly. We all have a Ke$ha in our lives. Ke$ha’s that one fun friend of yours who drags you out of your room during midterm week and convinces you that the most reasonable thing for you to do at the moment is to go skinny dipping in the pool after competing in a round of Edward Forty-Hands. She’s that girl rolling around on the ground at Harvey Mudd’s foam party; she’s that girl who’s high as a kite at Reggae Fest; she’s that girl who left the porta-potty line to go piss in a corner at Scripps’ Harwood Halloween. When Ke-moneysign-ha smugly screams “We R Who We R,” she’s not kidding. Ke$ha may not be the best role model, but those who repeat the glib “Live like there’s no tomorrow” motto really can’t judge her. She’s no fake, she really is that girl. She walks the walk and pukes the puke. And that in itself is pretty respectable.

Katy Perry is a different story.

Katy (kay-tee): proper noun: 1. An American pop superstar. Example: “Katy Perry featured Ke$ha in her ‘I Kissed a Girl’ music video before Ke$ha was Ke$ha.”

Now Perry has always baffled me. She may have kissed a girl, but this diva has religious roots. Her parents were both evangelical pastors, and her first studio disc was a self-titled gospel album. A mere year after that flopped, she had a life-shattering revelation that Christian music isn’t on the Top 40, so she flipped a 180 and released “Ur So Gay.” Really? Yet she tells interviewers that she’s still very religious. So why the creepy and slightly demonic “E.T.” music video?

Her celebrity image is far from concrete (and every celebrity needs a label since they’re not real people, after all). I guess I’ll just never understand her (or how she can make love to her hubby Russell Brand without asking him to shampoo his hair first). It’s undeniable that she consciously went for the shock factor with “Ur So Gay,” “I Kissed a Girl,” and “Hot ’n Cold,” which were the songs that got her famous. But she’s insisted on multiple occasions that she doesn’t participate in the party scene. Then is “Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)” just another image stunt? She never danced on table tops or went skinny dipping in the dark… or had that menage-a-trois? That’s a hippo from Crete if I’ve ever seen one.

From chapel choir to scandalous popstar in less than a year… Maybe she’s actually religiously devout and the whole skank thing is an act. Maybe the faith thing is an act. Maybe she’s a ninja. Who knows. I just don’t get her. Maybe I just can’t relate since I’ve never felt “like a plastic bag.”

So Ke$ha wins the first round for keepin’ it real. But I guess Katy Perry wins the second round since she named her cat Kitty Purry. You gotta give her props for that.

Anna Pan has unfortunately left Pitzer College and transferred to the University of Pennsylvania. This will most likely be her last article writing for the Forum. Anna, thank you for everything and we wish you all the best. We know everyone will look back on all of her other articles and laugh. Remember Rebecca Black? How about her 500 Ways to Summer? And who could forget her article on the invasion of the hipsters? Good luck!

Want more Letters to Freshmen? Check out James Havlicek’s rap to freshmen, Nora Studholme’s advice on healthy living even during crunch time and Mark Munro’s article on the taking on too much in college.

"Haha! See! Braces can be fun, right?!" No, never. But ordering drinks can be!

Unwilling to settle for my paltry knowledge of alcoholic beverages—which was limited to knowing to never drink red wine after that mortifying teeth-stain incident—I decided I’d do some field research to remedy my lack of wisdom. Let’s face it: nursing a red Solo cupful of Natty Light only gets you so far in life… and that place is usually tasteless.

By no means do I intend this to be a comprehensive guide to every type of drink.  For both of our sakes, this article only serves as the most basic overview to choosing your next beer, specifically of the craft variety.

I began my research at Delray Beach, Florida’s Coffee District. With 18 draft selections and over 150 types of bottles, it’s hard to find a craft beer selection in South Florida that can match this joint’s. I couldn’t have chosen a better, more open environment to learn about craft brews.  In fact, I’d give Coffee District a 0 PBV (0 pretension by volume). With the assistance of Chung, the bartender and my personal sensei for the afternoon, I tasted my way to enlightenment.

Chung indicated the beers on tap listed on the nearby chalkboard. Boasting curious names like Blue Point RastafaRye and Sweaty Betty Blond Wheat, the list was a far cry from the usual TNC selection. I read a few of the menu descriptions and settled on Anderson Valley Summer Solstice, a beer advertised as a creamy, refreshing summer drink with notes of caramel. “I’m going to warn you,” Chung began, “it’s a very tart beer.” He pulled me a sample from the tap, and was spot-on with his warning. No way could I have consumed a full glass of that. “Some people like tart beers, but I’m not one of them,” he said with a grin. I decided that Chung was just the bartender to educate me.

So, when your bartender hands you an intimidatingly extensive beer list, what’s your first step? Do you inquire as to what they recommend, like at a restaurant? Really, don’t do this. The beer that he or she prefers may be too bitter, too fruity, or too heavy for your taste. Bartenders recognize this unsavory possibility, so they’ll likely answer with another question: “What beers do you like?”

Since no one wants to end up  with 12 oz of a beer you hate, tell the  bartender the types of beers you have enjoyed. Since beer menus are usually organized by type, Chung recommends to begin by assessing which style of beer you like best. Don’t be afraid to ask for clarification, or a brief description of each variety.  These include (but are definitely not limited to) ales (India Pale Ale, stout, Lambic, and wheat beer) and lagers (including Pilsner, Bock, Dunkel, etc.).

But how do you know which style you like best? Experiment! Start by trying each of the basics, which usually includes the beers we’re most familiar with, such as Bud Light (pale lager), Blue Moon (Belgian wheat beer), and Corona (pale lager). Tip: Many craft beer beginners start with the wheat/lager/Pilsner beers.  Consider these the gateway beers that will eventually lead you to connoisseur status. Soon you’ll be indulging in more obscure ales, like brews made by monks (for real: Trappist beers).

Chung encourages everyone to explore, keep an open mind, and “find your palate” in the process. (Didn’t I say he was a sensei?) He assured me that there is a beer for everyone, even for those self-professed beer-haters. For them, he recommends the lesser carbonated fruity ales, Lambics, and Framboise. If you’re a whiskey-lover, there are even beers that have hints of whiskey. Which leads me to my next point.

It’s important, Chung informed me, to talk to your bartender and to tell them what beers you like and what you don’t like.  The odds are favorable that he or she will let you sample a few beers before your make a final choice. Don’t be afraid to speak up; this will make their job easier, and your experience better.

Before I left Coffee District, Chung handed me the check, along with a sample of Belgian Tripel. “I think you’ll like this one,” he said coyly, as he slid the glass towards me. And the beer-sensei was right.  Apparently I wasn’t the only one learning about my drinking tastes that day. When it comes to deciding on your next craft beer, your bartender is your friend.

If you enjoyed this piece, you should also read Alcohol Policy Controversy, Circa 1992, Eureka!: Watch Out Back Abbey or With Alcohol Policy, Tradition Succumbs to Ebb and Flow.

1) Deny the friend request on Facebook you’ve been ignoring for months (or confirm, wait a day, then delete).

2) Give out hugs but charge 10 cents apiece (J. Lo’s love might not cost a thing, but I ain’t no cheap broad). Charge 50 cents if it’s a creepy old man.

3) Visit an exotic country you’ve never been to before. If you’re on a tight budget, just go to Canada… Montreal is the bee’s knees.

4) Have a water balloon fight with your grade school nemesis.

5) Apply for social media marketing jobs so you have an excuse to be on Facebook and Twitter constantly.

6) Dress like a Jehovah’s Witness, go door-to-door, and pass out soundtracks to the The Book of Mormon musical (written by the co-creators of South Park).

7) Find a couple kids with a lemonade stand. Offer to be their agent. Social Network their asses and take the majority of the profit.

8) Host a Slutty Harry Potter theme party.

9) Go on a family vacation. Invite the awkward uncle that nobody likes.

10) Go to Taco Bell.

11) Try to bring back Farmville.

12) Reenact the Atonement library scene in a public library.

13) Petition to change the sign that says “Slow Children Crossing” to “Slow!!!!!!!! … Children Crossing.”  Who thinks mobs of angry, PC-obsessed moms deserve CHANGE!

14) Egg the Commies.

15) Go to a dumpster, pick up a copy of Twilight, and highlight the 282 times Stephenie Meyer uses the adjective “perfect” to describe the cold and clammy Edward. (Side note: if there is no blood running through his veins, how does he get erections? Get at me if you know the answer.)

16) Reactivate your old Myspace. Catch a predator.

17) Stay inside. Not only are you avoiding injuries that only jocks and active people would get, but you’re also avoiding skin cancer.

18) Start a blog. Be as offensive as possible.

19) Nab a pair of Uggs from Goodwill. Feel bad, bring it back, and take a pair of Bearpaws instead.

20) Feed the birds.

21) Go to a Maroon 5 concert. Buy yourself an ice cream afterward as a reward for not getting trampled on by rabid teen girl groupies.

22) Mess with the ‘rents: bake them special brownies for dessert, video record the aftermath, and blackmail them to buy you that iPad you’ve always wanted and never needed.

23) Babysit your neighbor’s kid. Not Justin Bieber, the other one.

24) Stalk a reality star for a week (camp outside his/her house, take pictures of him/her at the beach, etc.) to make him/her feel like an actual celebrity.

25) Watch the Bruno Mars’ “Lazy Song” music video on repeat. But don’t learn the choreography, which is far more complicated than the title suggests.

26) Place a bet with your friends to see whether people cared more about Michael Jackson’s or Heath Ledger’s death.  Scour the Net for statistics.

27) Teach someone on the street how to Dougie.

28) Teach someone on the street how to Snuggie.

29) Stand on the side of the road and hold up a sign that says “HONK IF OSAMA IS DEAD”

30) Pour your heart out in a letter to a childhood friend that you haven’t spoken to in years. Include pictures of your family, pets, and significant other. Go in depth with your battle with body odor and ablutophobia. Send it to a random address. Wait for their letter (if they have a conscience, they’ll respond to tell you that you got the wrong address). Now you have a new pen pal!

If you go through this list and still need something to do… well, props to you, man. You can try to solve climate change. That should keep you occupied.

Enjoy this article? You may also be interested in Anna’s other witty contributions: Invasion of the Hip$ters and Rebecca Black’s Amazing Success.

Anna’s also written more serious pieces on CMC’s Potential Semester in SiliconValley, Pomona’s Move to Ditch Flex Dollars and Pitzer’s $31 million construction plans.

How many hipsters does it take to screw in a light bulb? Some obscure number you’ve never heard of.

You see them everywhere. These warm-blooded mammals dwell in both urban and rural areas. They reside in regions of New York, Los Angeles, and Oregon, and they evolve into different species as they migrate from these areas.  They are easy to spot since they do not camouflage into their surroundings. Their mating behavior? Unpredictable.

Surprisingly, they are not as rare a breed as you’d expect.  Extinction is not imminent, for the population is rapidly increasing. They are usually quiet animals and their life span is usually shortened as their diet mostly consists of cigarettes. These hipsters, scientifically known as Hipsteria Catus, suffer from a natural predator: mainstream society.

What defines a hipster? I use the term “hipster” loosely; I know true hipsters are 30 and unemployed, continuously taking years off before college “to travel around the world” and “discover themselves” (essentially, doing nothing). I am not referring to the chain-smokers that attend anarchy meetings in the backs of run-down Chinese restaurants. Rather, I am addressing the young hipster population that often breeds in liberal arts colleges and is devoted to criticizing every aspect of mainstream culture for the sake of being hip.

Some hipsters at Coachella Music Festival - featured photo by Hannah Adelstein

Some key words of being a college hipster are old and poor. They love everything vintage—old cars, old bikes, old clothes. The more damaged, the better. Their desire to look poor is apparent through their clothes and scent. They prefer the homeless-man-that-can’t-afford-showers-or-razors look.

Hipsters can be seen with leather messenger bags, large glasses that belong on the stereotypical pedophile, and ugly oversized sweaters. But those patterned knits are hideous and impossible to pull off unless you’re a Weasley.

“Hipsters used to actually do something,” says Pitzer freshman Darby Barton. “Formerly known as hepcats, hipsters were musicians and artists primarily concerned with exploring the self and using art as a tool to do so. I see the new hipsters as just groups linked by eclectic assortments of vintage styles, often paired with marijuana.”

Sylvie Froncek, PZ ’11, states that “hipsters don’t need to talk because their laissez-faire attitude speaks for itself. They are usually happy to spend money on overpriced coffee, and they are very fond of stimulants.”

Hipsters are truly devoted to their drug habits – because of their passionate belief that substance abuse inspires intelligence and true art. If Coleridge did it, why can’t they?

They feed on irony. Deadpan? They eat it up. But not The Office, that’s on the air. They reminisce about the canceled show Arrested Development and bitterly update their Facebook statuses on how Ron Howard’s 3-season success is so sadly under-appreciated.

Music is another defining feature of hipsters. Experimental art that sounds like a pencil hitting a tin can is music to their ears. They attend concerts but fold their arms and refuse to sing along, making you want to yell at them – “Being quiet doesn’t make you deep. It makes you quiet!” They have a love-hate relationship with their indie music.  They blast the music of their favorite bands, but they don’t want them to do well, because that would mean the bands have become sell-outs. All they want is for their favorite bands to avoid success and the radio. Is that so much to ask?

Regina Spektor, who fills her songs with moans and sporadic “UHN!”s, has become a household name to the dismay of many hipsters. The fact that Vampire Weekend songs are now played in films has thrown the hipsters into a deeper depression. They claim to not know the Top 40 songs, but if you play Katy Perry’s “California Gurls,” you can probably catch them mouthing the words.

But as pretentious as these hipsters may be, we might need to ask ourselves: who isn’t a hipster nowadays? Despite society’s constant disgust with hipsters, we all secretly crave to be showered with compliments on our own fashion or taste in music. “Hipster culture is like racism. There’s a little bit of it in everyone,” Kymberli Corprue PZ ’13 muses. “Our hatred towards them spans from an imbedded jealousy and desire to be a hipster. Pitzer kids should look around,” Sarah Schuster-Johnson PZ ’14 states.

Pitzer undoubtedly contains the largest percentage of the hipsters out of the five Claremont Colleges. When I emailed Pitzer student-talk trying to sell an LMFAO ticket, I received no responses. My email asking for opinions about hipsters, however, was a hit. That surely says something about the Pitzer population. But the Pitzer hipsters tend to blend in with the hippies that don’t shave their armPitzers. The overlap can be confusing to the untrained eye. At Pitzer, the freshman class is usually pretty diverse. But by their senior year, many of the guys look like identical clones with their unwashed flannel and Evan Almighty beards.

Let’s call these the hypocritical hipster-haters, or HHH, for short. Here are some signs that you’re an HHH:

1. You got a ukulele for Christmas. And you pronounce it “oo-koo-lay-lay.”

2. You own more than two flannel shirts.

3. You have at least one artsy Facebook profile picture that’s set in a field of flowers and is heavily Photoshopped.

4. You use the Polaroid app on your iPhone to give off the impression that you own a Polaroid camera.

5. You wear more than one scarf at the same time.

6. You’re infuriated at the Motley for eliminating its $1 to-go-cup fine.  Now the Earth will suffer.

7. You’ve bragged about an indie French film that you just saw but didn’t actually understand.

8. You replace ! marks with 1s and s’s with $ signs. But you do it ironically, of course. (Sadly, the hipsters had to let go of their $ copyright after Ke$ha claimed it. And she’s too mainstream to share).

9. You have a “Support local businesses!” sticker on your Mac laptop.

10. You wear glasses with clear/no lenses (free 3D movie theater glasses, anyone?).

“They are conforming to the hipster culture, which is becoming more mainstream everyday,” Megan Hazen PZ ’14 says. In fact, the typical hipster actually shares a lot of similarities with the stereotypical high-profile celebrity.  Both are anorexic and frighteningly skinny, and have drug issues that probably stem from daddy issues.  The only prominent difference is that paparazzi snap a million pictures of celebrities, and hipsters take a million pictures of themselves.

These hipsters are undeniably amusing. If you ever want to study the species, just stop by any Urban Outfitters and you’ll see one scavenging for clothing made to look vintage and books that shout, “Kill the corporations!” How ironic.

You know that new “Plans” section on the Forum? Well, looking at it makes me extremely insecure. There is a lot of pressure here to have something impressive for this list and most of my friends are on it…but I don’t have a job. Tell me it’s all going to be okay as long as I’m doing me or livin’ my life or something else that Drake or Rihanna tells me to do.

Thanks,
Painfully Unemployed

Dear Future Vagabond,

I assume you are referencing the 35 people with jobs on the Forum “Plans” page? Of which two are freshman and one is John Faranda? Not to mention Brittany Taylor’s double clicked Oxford twin. I know what you mean though. Folks around here are skewing the post-grad unemployment rate like Scripps does 5C alcohol poisoning numbers.

I feel the same way pretty much daily. I ask myself, why can’t I get a job? I have some goodies. I’m bringing boys to the yard. Scary thoughts consume me. Will I just work at a nail salon my whole life in pink slippers and a silk kimono? I don’t know. Then the hyperventilating begins. I generally grab a plastic bag and put it over my head until I pass out like they taught us in middle school.

In the dream state of near death asphyxiation, the world begins to grow clearer. The clouds rise and there is CMC. Except, instead of Scripps standing beautifully across Ninth Street, large cement walls close us into a small fortress where everything is always perfect. I think, maybe kicking it around this joint a little longer wouldn’t be so shabby a life to live; a paper here, some drama there, the sun and Captain Getyoudrunk. But then the squirrels come. Remember this is a dream. A metaphorical dream, with squirrels.

They nibble at first, annoyingly, and then start fully attacking us. Then we’re running, grappling for solidarity. Some are lucky, they have their own ropes and pull themselves swiftly over walls and into employment. Career Services comes to help. They let us use their trampoline to bounce over into the workplace. Yet when I get close to jumping I read a sign that says, “FINANCE AND CONSULTING ONLY.” I sigh and turn away, then kick a squirrel out of frustration.

The dream ends there. I wake up and hypothesize the ending: I bazooka the wall down and walk silently into an unpaid internship. Which some people might say is not the CMC way to move into the job market. True. I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to work 80-hour weeks and have an army cot in my own office for overnights, it’s just that I don’t have the same skill set. Fair enough.

So now, dreamless in Realityville, I’m writing this response to a good friend, and feeling like there are more people out there who have this stress resting on their shoulders – job or summer internship. Expectations seem to be the fear.

Many of us at this college are so used to having plans. We’ve had them our whole lives: do good in high school, get into a top college, perform with quality, snatch up a job easier than Foam Party diseases… and when that anticipation fails us, like anything one depends on, anxiety creeps quickly. Many of our lives have been built on the equation working hard = reaching goals, and within reason, I think this often holds true. Job competition is just tougher than what we’ve faced thus far.

You might have had a 15% chance of getting into CMC. Jobs and internships employ only one or a few people at a time for each position. Then add a fat recession and a nation of qualified applicants and your opportunities dwindle like virginities at TNC. I don’t doubt you are good at what you do and are working your ass off for the fruits of success. So are a lot of people, probably with more experience.

Even if you disagree with everything I’ve said in this article, hold onto this last point. We ourselves are our hardest critics. It’s easy to get flustered when what we expect doesn’t come with ease. We’re okay, though. These next few months, this summer, will not define our lives. We are not screwing up big time because we don’t have a job or an internship, whatever. Finish thesis, finals, college, chill the fuck out. Spend the summer looking for a job, or doing something fun that doesn’t involve becoming a slave to some shit hole just because the squirrels are biting. Make decisions based on their potential to make you happy. Believe it or not, we are still young.

I know I often tell you to change your emotions like some lame ass article on the Forum will relieve your worries. I wish you all knew how much I was writing this for myself, as well. It’s not a simple adjustment. But if you are confident in what you are capable of, then be confident that something good will come along. I assume you’ll be working hard in the meantime.

Love,

A Mitch

Some of us have considered cutting Rebecca Black some slack. “Why all the criticism?” our consciences ask. “Are you against weekends? Are you against partying? Are you against fun, fun, fun?!” And although her voice is undoubtedly auto-tuned and nasally, the tune is undeniably catchy.  This explains why the single received more than $1 million through iTunes sales alone, not to mention the amount of covers that exist. Even Stephen Colbert and Jimmy Fallon created their own hilarious rendition of the pop song. After all, imitation is the best form of flattery, right?

Let’s also keep in mind that Black is still very young and therefore very fragile. I’m sure she has led an excruciatingly challenging thirteen years. Why, you ask? Well, just put yourself in her Sketchers for a second. She’s constantly being bombarded with impossibly difficult questions. Which kind of cereal should she eat? School bus or friend’s car? Which day comes after Thursday? Front or back seat?!

Featured photo from Youtube

Indeed, being a teenager is harder than you think. “Partying partying” and having “fun fun fun” isn’t easy when you’re underage and can’t drink. Black’s parents popped some veins when they found out their daughter was “gettin’ down on Friday” in the backseat. One minute she’s grounded for those questionable actions, the next she’s being pulled over for riding in a car with a minor driving. Life’s so unfair.

Thankfully, it wasn’t a complete sob story. Once she finally got her braces off, her parents paid $2,000 for her to make a music video and voila!—she’s America’s sweetheart. Now she can use the proceeds to watch as many PG-13 movies as she wants! Take that, Mom and Dad!

Of course it’s unfair that this little fame monster bought her celebrity – but that’s just how the world is. Look at Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian. Those so-called celebrities wouldn’t be anywhere today if it were not for their dad’s money. It doesn’t take talent to be famous nowadays. With Auto-Tune as the spell check of singing, you just might be a Daddy’s check away from hitting superstardom. But Auto-Tune isn’t anything to be ashamed of. Even Lea Michele—a Broadway actress—relies on Auto-Tune on Glee. When it comes to singing live, Amber Riley (Mercedes on Glee) gets all the solos.

But even though Black is just a kid, if she wants to survive in the entertainment industry, she needs to grow thick skin. If she’s destined to be the next Justin Bieber—which she hopes—then she needs to learn to take some Youtube comment criticism without having her mom doling out death threats. Teasing her online isn’t really cyber-bullying. We’re not taking her lunch money. In fact, we’re giving her money. Plus, schadenfreude might not be moral, but it’s definitely normal. That’s why we have Youtube videos of electrocuted animals, off-key singers, and fat people falling on their faces.

If she wants to drive, she wants to be treated like an adult. So we should treat her like one. Insult away. Compliment away. After all, if she thinks she’s mature enough to be hanging out at the Ark Music Factory with sketchy forty-year-old men and other naïve pre-teens, then she should definitely be mature enough to take the criticism.

Let’s just hope that she doesn’t go so far as to write an autobiography that will most likely end up on the “50% off” sale rack at Barnes & Noble. If that ends up on Oprah’s Book Club list, I might cry.

It’s just another day in the life of poor Justin Halpern. Like usual, your father, Sam Halpern, is once again annoyed with your childish behavior. But wait, aren’t you just a child? He doesn’t care. In his house of discipline, you learn to be a man, even if that means enduring relentless insults and tirades of demoralizing comments. No problem. You’ll mature, and the respect will follow, right? Well, let’s see what he thinks about you “growing up.”

“You want your independence, huh? Every time you tell me about your independence, I just replace that word with the word money. Then it’s easy to say no.”

Crap. Looks like you’re just going to have to accept the fact that this bourbon-sippin, quick-tempered, Kentuckian of a hoot is the man whose roof you’ll have to live under.  Here’s one consolation prize: at least your misery is hysterical for everyone else to hear!

Having originally shared his father’s rants on his twitter page at the suggestions of his friends, Justin Halpern wrote Sh*t My Dad Says as a tribute to the man who used his painfully frank, tough-love attitude to teach him life’s most important lessons. The book itself is about two-hour’s worth of real, shockingly insightful rants and bitterly heartwarming anecdotes that Justin, his mother, and two half-brothers put together to show everyone that you have to hear Sam Halpern’s words to truly appreciate his greatness.

The book starts with Justin’s childhood and his inevitable tendency to light his father’s short fuse. We see how the methodical mindset of a Radiologist does not mix well with the catastrophic naiveté of your typical, mischievous boy, especially when talking to him like one of your drinking buddies. The book follows Justin through his adolescence, where his father explains the birds and the bees while sitting in a Denny’s next to a group of laughing frat boys, and ultimately, to his years as a college student who never gets paternal advice without a heavy helping of scathing criticism.

Mind you, through all of this, Justin reminds us that his father, like any good parent, worries about his children’s happiness and wants them to be the best people they can be. Along the way, we learn the importance of appreciating your mom’s cooking, not tolerating angry little-league parents, sitting still through lectures on thyroid cancer, and having some respect for yourself during your blind date with a supermodel neurosurgeon, even if you work at Hooters.

While the book may be too much of an extended father-son conversation on how life is sometimes shit, it’s good to laugh when Halpern shows us that sometimes lemons just refuse to become lemonade. At the very least, the book portrays a different way to teach kids some important life lessons and could serve as a“what not to do” guide to parenting for us.

The book’s mainstream success eventually led to a pitiful sitcom starring William Shatner. My advice, read the book, and don’t watch the show.

Either way, Sh*t My Dad Says does a good job of showing those of us lucky enough to have loving fathers that sometimes we just have to accept them for who they are, even if they won’t let us come home to do laundry on the weekends.

Read it, it’s hysterical. To conclude, here’s my favorite quote:

“We’re having fish for dinner… Fine, let’s take a vote. Who wants fish for dinner?… Yeah, democracy ain’t so fun when it f*cks you, huh?”

Genius.