So it may just be me, but is anyone else in that awkward “limbo” between being up to your ears in work and having literally nothing to do? Every single friend of mine that’s home on break has the same things to say: “Oh, no job has called back to hire me.” “I’m sleeping all day because I’ve already watched seventeen seasons of Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix.” And the ever popular “Get me the fuck out of this house, I’m going to scream, everything in this town closes at 9 PM.”
It seems that although we wait impatiently for spring semester to come to a close and our ever-so-precious “free time” to be restored to us, once we actually get home for the summer we really just don’t know what to do with ourselves. Sure, we all have plans to work and play and do a million and one things, but ultimately things never seem to go according to plan. First, the job you wanted doesn’t want temporary employees. Then, you get a job working for minimum wage scooping up dog shit and you’re forced to either quit it or perpetually smell like ass. And of course, since all of your friends are in the same boat, it becomes impossible to schedule times to hang out and do all those “awesome plans” you anticipated while working around twenty shitty work schedules and the obvious lack of things to do after a certain time of night.
Let’s face it: college summers are rough. We love having the time off but hate it just as much. We love the comforts of home and old familiar faces but hate being so far away from college life and all that it affords us. And right now, we’re stuck in a “limbo” during which we’re getting ourselves situated and our schedules in order, all the while dreading that warm summer day when we legitimately have to get out of bed at a reasonable time of day and go be “real people.”
So take it day-by-day, appreciate the limbo (to continue with the metaphor), and enjoy the free time before it’s inevitably sucked away from you (likely in the next few weeks or sooner). And once that free time is taken away by menial labor and, if you’re me, hours behind a bar and watching various people’s pets and children, I can almost guarantee that a little part of you, no matter how tiny it may be, will be wishing and hoping that the state of limbo could return again.
Oh, and make sure you catch up on Grey’s. Netflix is calling your name.
-Amanda Matteo
As it often goes after the first week of being home for the summer, I miss being in New Brunswick. But in the last few weeks of residing at school, all I wanted was to be in my house with my family. There’s a certain something about each place that makes me feel at home. And, strangely enough, it’s a little disturbing in a way that it shouldn’t be.
Unfortunately, I have developed a sort of home identity crisis. A home-dentity crisis, for lack of better words. I can’t accept the way my mother got upset every time I told her that I was heading back “home,” rather than to my dorm room. Rutgers truly has become a second home for me. A welcoming meal from Brower, occasionally brown tap water, a roof that might cause me cancer over my head – I’ve got the basics at Rutgers, albeit sketchy. I know my way around New Brunswick just as well as I know my way around the roads of my town. I can probably recommend more eateries to the average tourist in “Little Manhattan” than I can in Plainsboro. (But, let’s be honest, nobody comes to Plainsboro anyway. Only a handful of people know where the place is, I can’t be expected to be prepared for tourists.)
But I’m not so Harry Potter-esque in my feelings towards Rutgers, as I’m quite fond of my “actual” home. It’s a cute little piece of the rash known as suburbia that is found blotchily spread through New Jersey. I love the wide-laned roads, the adorable strip malls with lovely local restaurants to spare, the neatly organized abundance of green lawns, and of course, my house and everyone in it. This place is where I’ve spent exactly ten years of my life – a most crucial ten years. It would be a shame to not consider it my home, just because something exciting and different comes along.
Harry Potter had it easy; the Dursleys treated him like shit. I am lucky enough to be surrounded by people who love me and care about me in both places. I like to see myself, and maybe many other students, as more of a Hermione Granger. I love my parents and my quiet little suburban lifestyle, but I also always look forward to the adventures and this new life that being at school naturally brings to me. Although, I admittedly don’t want to have to erase my parents’ memories, so I won’t take this analogy that far.
In the end, this polygamous and slightly tumultuous relationship with Rutgers and Plainsboro got me thinking that I’ll always have two homes. I’ll just have to embrace the fact that I get to be a part of two worlds. Wherever my family is, that’s home. But wherever I build a life of my own, that’s home, too.
- Pooja Kolluri
by Amanda Matteo
When I first heard about this event, I couldn’t help but be extremely confused: opening ceremonies for what? What the hell is “Gaypril”? And who are these performers that I’ve never even heard of? However, the 2012 Gaypril Opening Ceremonies proved to be an experience that was not only memorable, but also immensely entertaining and inspiring to all in attendance. Held in the DCC’s own Trayes Hall last Thursday night, the ceremonies were a free event sponsored by the Center for Social Justice Education and LGBT Communities and The Queer Student Alliance of Rutgers University. “Gaypril,” I learned, is the name affectionately provided for the month of April, during which the queer-friendly organizations on campus sponsor a multitude of fantastic events all around the Rutgers campuses. This event served as an introduction into what the month of April would provide, and a fantastic introduction it was: performers Lady Marisa and Alexis Milian stole the spotlight, New Millennium Butch inspired us all, and student leaders made it flow like magic.
The ceremonies began with a brief introduction, through which the main goals of Gaypril were explained: to empower the queer community and its members, raise awareness and educate others, and, most importantly, promote inclusivity within and without the queer community. The goals are not only admirable but reflective of the “safe space” atmosphere promoted by these queer-friendly organizations – anyone is welcome, everyone is safe here, there is no shame in being “you” while with these individuals. Rainbow decorations and round tables around Trayes Hall created an environment in which one immediately felt “at home” amongst good friends. Periodically throughout the evening, student leaders provided introductions into their organizations and their respective Gaypril events, emphasizing the fact that there is literally a group for everyone and an event at which anyone would feel comfortable attending. Organizations include QSA (formerly BiGLARU), Delta Lambda Phi, and LLEGO, among many others. The acceptance was a beautiful feeling that was palpable throughout the room.
Yet this was not just a night of explanation and “warm fuzzies”: this was a night of drag, a night of hilarity, and a night of fashion! The show began with female impersonator Lady Marisa, Miss Den 2012, who looked fierce in a neon tiger print dress, stiletto boots, a rockin’ afro, and fishnet tights. Her performance involved crown interaction and some pretty fierce dancing as well: her cartwheel into a split received a resounding “gasp” from the entire audience! Next up was female impersonator Alexis Milian, a comedian and Den MC, whose glitter-studded pumps, tight one-piece outfit, long curly locks, and gaudy earrings proved that she was a totally saucy diva. Her moves were sexy and she knew it, and she completely owned the stage! Not to mention, these female impersonators were absolutely hysterical, claiming that they were “like P. Diddy up in this mother!” – they had the entire room doubled over in laughter and sad to see them go. They did return, however, for a grand finale performance which topped the first. Alexis Milian returned to the stage in a black corset and tutu with strappy pumps, performing to the likes of Miley Cyrus’ “I Can’t Be Tamed.” Lady Marisa closed the show, wearing an (extremely) shiny one armed dress and even bigger hair than before, channeling her inner Adele while pop-n-locking on someone’s lap. This was my first experience watching drag queens perform, and I can safely say it was one of the most entertaining performances of my life. However, it also opened my eyes and allowed me to gain even more understanding and open-mindedness than I had before.
The open-mindedness continued even further through the video presentation of fashion collective New Millennium Butch. Peggie Miller, the founder of the collective, calls the organization a modeling/mentoring troupe, whose goal is to prove that “aggressive women look good too!” The clothing line is specifically for lesbian (or straight) women who identify as “butch” or do not feel comfortable conforming to typical gender norms in terms of how they dress. The video, to the tune of Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful,” presented photos of African-American models dressed in such snazzy attire that anyone on the street would want to double-take. Following the presentation was a short introduction by Peggie Miller herself, who emphasized that they are actively recruiting and trying to expand the collective even further, specifically through the inclusion of women from all demographics. The entire concept of this clothing line blew my mind at its bold take on the inclusivity so strongly promoted throughout the queer community. It also opened my mind to the fact that something like this had never before existed: this, for me, is innovation and progression at its finest. Miller’s take-home message was simply the following: “This is safety. You can clap for safety.”
In all, this was an evening of great entertainment, food, and company. Yet to an even greater extent, it was an introduction into the fabulous queer community that Rutgers has, as well as into grander aspects of society through which the ideals of inclusivity and empowerment are clearly evident. This may be my first Gaypril event, but it certainly will not be my last. Not to mention, I need to find out where I can buy myself a pair of those glitter-studded pumps!
For more information about queer-friendly communities around campus or Gaypril events, please visit:
Kseniya Nadtochiy
I’m not saying that every OWS protestor is an idiot. There are people who cannot retire because their 401ks have been wiped out; there are people who are without insurance and desperately need it, and there are those need who government assistance. I deeply sympathize with those people, truly. However, I do not sympathize with the socialist, counterproductive and overall destructive imbeciles who vandalize streets, and pollute it with their dirt. The idea behind the “Occupy” movement is great: punish the amoral CEO’s and the “too big to fail” corporations who took irresponsible risks that ultimately drove our economy to the ground. However, the actions of the movement have not been so great. In fact, the movement has been just stagnant.
The movement has appealed to the younger set, namely college graduates who are unable to find a job, and have plenty of time to kill. Time to camp out, yell profanities, take shits on cop cars, and prevent actual working people from getting to their jobs. Getting into fights with the NYPD isn’t accomplishing anything, neither is writing out those 13 ridiculous demands. Take this one for example: “Guaranteed living wage income regardless of employment.” Where is the government going to get this money from? By increasing taxes even higher? Or maybe by printing more money, which will in turn increase prices, and create hyperinflation. Which, by the way, is also bad for the economy. How about this one: “free college education.” College is a money making corporation, and not an entitlement.
Some of these protestors think they’re entitled to debt relief because they were financially irresponsible, took out private loans with high interest rates, and cannot find a job to pay back those loans. Maybe it’s because you majored in basket weaving. There is no such a thing as free money, especially in a capitalist system. Change will not happen with these protests, no matter how many people join in. Change will only happen if we hit these corporations where it hurts most: their wallets. Take Chase Bank for example. It is one of six banks that control 60 percent of the US’s gross national product. That’s a lot of power for just one bank. It’s also one of four banks that control 70 percent of the oil commodity. Investing in a local bank, instead of JPMorgan Chase, would shift the power hold and at least lighten executive pay. Also, in the long run, it would allow for less oil speculation, and more stable and affordable gas prices. Decrying corporations and Wall Street will accomplish absolutely nothing; being financially educated and responsible will. So toss those communist demands in the trash, and remember: money makes the world go round.
Here’s a funny scenario for you. You know how frats and sororities set up those booths outside Brower, trying to get you to care about this cause or that community? Don’t you always have the same thought, like yeah, I guess it’s a good cause but I just really don’t like the way I’m being targeted right now? And you know why. Because they’re playing techno music at difficult volumes. Because they’re all wearing the same exact outfit. Because you can’t shake off the feeling that they were looking at you on your way up the steps, laughing and saying “Look at this faggot!” Well, maybe that’s just me. But today I witnessed one of the oddest displays of frat-lanthropy likely to have ever been seen. Bear in mind that this anecdote is completely of a third-party perspective. No interviews were given, no prior information gathered. I mean, shit, I didn’t even go up to the Brower Steps to see what all the dang hubbub was about. That being said, the story I’m about to relay to you has value in its pure aesthetic presentation, hearkening back to an age-old, fully proven theory that all the world is a stage.
You know what it’s like to walk down College Avenue. It’s the Julian Forum to New Brunswick’s Rome. Clowns and professors and artisans all engage in multi-cultural non-communication, as they go to their next class or get a coffee at Au Bon Pain or buy pot from the chicks at Sigma Delta Tau. I happened to be a part of this procession, right as a major demonstration was being enacted. Slip into my point of view for a second. I’m standing outside Au Bon Pain, smoking a cigarette because I’m cool like that. Brower is in front of me, that brick-red edifice giving me stomach pains just looking at you but you’re still hot. On my right, and also your right because you’re me right now, is a group of Palestinian peace organizers. They’ve got a big, gray tower next a small table. On the tower, painted in red is the slogan, “Germany 1961-1989, Palestine 2003-?” Now for those of you who aren’t deriving any meaning from this, I will break it down for you very tersely. Check it. Germany was split in half by the Berlin wall for almost thirty years. Apparently, Israel is building a similar structure at it’s borders with their Palestinian neighbors. Any other political history beyond that is beyond the point of this story, because like I said, I just want to paint this picture for you and then you can be on your way and think about whatever it is that you think about and I can go back to whatever it is that I think about (pussy/drugs). From what I observed, it seemed like a bunch of “chill” Palestinians who were all like, “Dude, Israel, like chill. I know it’s bad but we need to be more chill about this.”
Now picture me across the street. I’m like, alright, I can get down with this; a little Palestinian rep going on, don’t see much of that these days, okay. But what’s going on to my left, on the very same Brower steps; that omnipresent, blood-stained rostrum where gathers our University’s most public minds? Pro-Israel people, likely deployed from the nearby Jewish centers of Chabad and Hillel. They’ve got a similar thing going. It’s all chill. They’re like, “Dude, Palestine, you know we’re here to stay, so why don’t you just chill, okay?” Everything is chill. Now, I’m a little cynical about this side of the story. You know cynicism? That totally useless cop-out; that criminally benign state of mind? Yeah, that’s me. Anyway, I’m cynical and I’m Jewish, or maybe because I’m Jewish, and I’m all like, “Man, how can I care? Like, how can I really care? It’s so far away from me in every sense of the trope. I’m so disenchanted, wah.” But I want to make it clear that this is not a political essay. We’re talking about aesthetics, here, like I’ve told you probably a million times. Aesthetics, like when you see a homeless guy playing an instrument with a respectable level of talent and enthusiasm, or when you see a child doing something that portrays an adult sentiment. Strictly surface-level stuff, okay? It means nothing.
So, let’s see if you managed to keep up with me. You’ve got Palestinians on one side and Israelis on the other, each demonstrating a relatively moderate view on a nothing short of incendiary fucking topic. These guys deserve a damn medal. They’re out there in the early March chill, just hanging out, voicing their opinions, inspiring dialogue. But wait a second! Dialogue! There’s no dialogue, here! There’s no Israelis in Palestine. There’s no Palestinians in Israel, at least in the sphere of the steps at Brower and at the all-seeing/all-hearing Forum of College Avenue at Rutgers University there is only one sphere and that is that sweet, sensual poison of the rostrum at the Brower steps. And there’s no fucking dialogue here and it’s a tragedy because the situation is rife—literally rife with opportunities for such an event. And picture what great PR we’d get from it! Especially for a school who’s PR department is basically a trivial, but less demonic counterpart to the American government in Dr. Strangelove. These guys dodge bullets like Neo from fucking The Matrix. Wouldn’t it be nice if they could snap one picture, just one fucking picture of a Pro-Israeli student and a Pro-Palestinian student engaged in a productive dialogue? But nooo, they don’t have that photo opportunity, that precious Kodak moment which would have made our community look so wholesome and productive. And you wanna know why?
Fucking frats.
Come back to my vision line for just a second. I told you that the Palestinians are on my right, and the Israelis are on my left. Who do you think is between these two booths, blasting techno music and partaking in a general sense of jolly, belligerent authority? Who do you think is standing there, arms crossed, hair spiked, chillin—seemingly unaware of the cross-cultural dialogue they are obstructing like a toxic cesspool that the public works department had to block off because they didn’t want anybody to get retarded? If you’re looking for the answer, I already said it in the tiny preceding paragraph. It’s the fucking frats, man! The fucking frats! There’s no dialogue because of the fucking frats! They’re not playing “Give Peace a Chance,” over there, man. They’re playing Skrillex, and while I do admit that the he is a Grammy-winning entertainer, the guy’s music is just not conducive to anything besides ecstasy pills, seizures and 4-am Burger King. Sorry, dude. So while this maniacal womp-womp garbage is infecting the entire Forum, and people are giving other people they pass on the street that they don’t know these looks that say, like “Well, the fuck is really going on right now?” there are two groups maintaining low tones, sustaining their positions, and basically just chilling next to this voraciously loud, exclusively abrasive music. They can’t move they’re so startled and confused. Actually a few people were dancing on the Israel side but I think it might have been ironic.
So I come to my refrain. I’m not making a statement of any kind. Do I think that frats are a major impediment to dialogues between Israelis and Palestinians? Pretty much not really. It’s the fucking aesthetic that I can’t get out of my head. How do these things look so meaningful but actually mean nothing? What is this benign symbolism that’s plaguing the rostrum? Can we eat it? Can we play with it? This is where the maze ends, here, in my world, and I’m encouraging you all to cover it with gas and set it on fire.
Peace,
Michael
Sometimes, the world of social media is mundane and depressing. All strangers are “friends” and all things are “liked.” Everyone is beautiful and fun. The newsfeed scrolls down and down and down and somehow, at some vacant hour of the night, you might find yourself sensually touching your laptop keys, its heat in your lap, as pictures of your friend’s roommate’s 2008 family vacation flash before your eyes. Your profound boredom turns erotic. Don’t blush; it’s the tide of the times. We’re all guilty.
An episode like this adds a strange, nearly invisible film to the world of social relations. Facebook is one of those 21st century innovations that complicates the way we view the world and ourselves. Like any other social space, Facebook is filled with funny nuances that are worthy of meditation. One of these beautifully accidental performances resides in the infamous Facebook Status Hack. (FSH)
The FSH can take on many forms, and varies from what I will call the “generic” hack to the “meaningful” hack. A generic hack only typically takes on one form: “I’m gay” and its manifold variations, like “I like men” or the more lewd “I like dicks in my mouth.” No matter the language, the ultimate aim of the generic status hack is meant to look like the afterglow of sexual catharsis. “Hello world, I’ve found myself, I’m finally me, I love men and I love you!”
While this generic FSH is uncreative, the FSH can also take on a higher form. An artful FSH disrupts the character of any Facebook user’s internet avatar, or their online personality. (Does my Facebook profile imitate me or do I imitate my Facebook profile?) Proper execution requires a working knowledge of the victim. It’s like sarcasm but better because it looks so real to the untrained eye. The typical Facebook user knows a good FSH when he or she sees one. You know…LOL.
Some people know the art form. My friend Pablo is infamous for great FSHs, and I know from first-hand experience. On my Facebook profile, there’s a song from skinhead punk band Skrewdriver sandwiched in between Beyonce’s Love on Top video and a tagged photo of me holding a Pabst tall can. One of these things is not like the other. The status attached to the Skrewdriver link reads, “there’s still hope for white America.” Pablo, nooooooooo! I’m no skinhead! Adoring fans! Can’t you tell this isn’t me?? The glass through which I am window-shopped is tarnished.If I were to mourn, I’d have to weep all the way to therapy. Instead, I laugh. I “like.” Good job, Pablo.
Pablo’s FSH inspired me to explore the FSH because I was shocked that I found it funny at all. Further, I found it strange that I was mostly laughing at myself. Even generic FSHs are funny, albeit mildly offensive. But how can this be? Humor is a tricky type of art. Have we lost our way?
I don’t think so. This vein of humor is self-reflexive; we like to be the butt of our own jokes because we are funny creatures. We do funny things like hang out on the Internet all day and update our statuses for no one in particular and everyone at large. The FSH is funny because it is self-aware. When a person updates their Facebook status, we generally assume it to be genuine. The status is living and breathing because we trust that it is. The FSH challenges our deepest assumptions about Facebook by poking fun at them.
The FSH disrupts the flow, at least momentarily, and allows its captive audience to laugh with the victim and tip a hat to the hacker. But by laughing at a hacked status, Facebook users are also laughing at themselves. The FSH reminds us that Facebook is neither life nor death; it’s just virtual reality.
Tumulty’s Pub
361 George Street
New Brunswick, NJ
Grade: A
Before starting in on my second Burger Review I should reveal that I am a regular patron of Tumulty’s Pub. From decent drink specials to quality food and a relaxed atmosphere, I think it’s a fine establishment and a great, cozy place to drink and/or eat with your fellow man. But nobody’s perfect, I’ve probably caused more damage to my knees going in and out of their wooden booths than I ever did in all my years of missing cartoons to play rec sports.
Held between crunchy lightly toasted buns, made with Certified Angus Beef and topped with cheddar cheese, bacon, lettuce, tomato and red onion, the Black Angus Burger is a force to be reckoned with. The individual ingredients blend together to create a burger that is flavorful, filling, interesting and absolutely delicious. My patty had the perfect amount of crunch without tasting burnt, greasy or smoky. The lettuce and onion were crisp and the melted cheddar and bacon really ties the burger together. You get quite a burger for your $8.50.
Served with fantastic golden brown fries and their signature lettuce wedge, you can be almost certain to leave Tumulty’s feeling satisfied, warm and possibly fuzzy*. If you can, I also highly recommend pairing your burger with their IPA.
*I’d like to apologize for the use of the words fuzzy and cozy in this review. If you didn’t enjoy my Big Lebowski joke we can’t ever hang out. Also while most everything else I’ve tried has been delightful, I don’t recommend ordering the Stir Fry.
Some Christians only go to Church on Christmas. For one time a year they are enthusiastic followers of Christ and the rest of the time leave their faith to be ignored. Some other people, like me, are only football fans for the Super Bowl. For two to three games a year, I become a perfect Giants fan: I wear blue, I eat subs and drink beer, and I stare wide-eyed as Eli Manning darts across the screen. When the Giants won the Super Bowl, I thought that I might die of ecstasy (while wishing I could explain first and ten…).
“Go Giants!” I yelled before running around the house. I knew immediately what a pseudo fan’s next move would be; I needed to go the Giants parade. If for nothing else, than to stare at Victor Cruz’s slammin’ body. Getting up at six and dragging my ass to the city by 8:30 was all going to be worth it, I told myself, when I got to feast my eyes on some athletic man-candy. I ended up shocked at how many packed subways and streets there were two and a half hours before the parade even started. By 9:30 access to the parade was blocked and all late sleepers would be shit out of luck. Dammit, we all thought as we saw police officers closing street after street with heavy metal gates. After jumping around a substantial barricade and finding an ideal location, 2 of my friends joined the diehard fans in the cold, cheering and throwing toilet paper at each other until we could hear the sound of a band playing in the distance.
Some of the high school bands (and their outfits) left something to be desired, but it was impossible not to join in the thrill of the crowd when the NY Giants MVP waved in our direction.
“Oh, my God there he is!” People cried over the old men playing bagpipes. I was entangled in a mess of arms, reaching out from the crowd, trying to get one millimeter closer to the great Eli Manning, while he grinned goofily at his adoring fans. When the parade ended I reflected on how quickly it all passed by - one big blur of gorgeous men and a bunch of other people that I didn’t really know. I was proud of my boys for bringing home another trophy. I was thrilled to be dressed un-blue. I vowed to actually watch a full season next year…and to not be too distracted by their bodies.
By Alysia Slocum
