FirstCallMagazine.ComVol. VI, No.13

February 20, 2006

BY BRIAN J. LEVY

Toby Hicks

PLAY SOME REAL SPORTS, OLYMPIANS

Home ImprovementLiz has a plan for Philadelphia.

Page 3

This Turtle’s A JerkSarah shows how a friendship can sour.

Page 4

Can’t We Just Get Along?Ale dares you to climb her friend ladder.

Page 7

Silent NeighborsPedro tells us to give Latin

America a chance.Page 8

3 Step Formula

THE EASIEST WAY to get into a contentious argument with another man is to argue that certain activities are not sports. It always turns out that the differentiation between sport and game or sport and challenging physical activity is more personal than religion.

Here’s a quick test. Is baseball a sport? Boxing? Curling? Lawn bowl-ing? Korfball? Tug of War? Chess? Bridge? Life saving?

If you answered yes to all of them except baseball, then I congratulate you on your appointment to the International Olympic Committee. May I humbly suggest Franklin Field for 2016?

But if you’re an American with a regular—that is to say more often than once every two years—interest in sports, I suspect that you would disagree with at least one of those sports. Perhaps you are incensed at the 42-46 vote to keep baseball out of the Olympics in 2012. Perhaps you looked at the sports that the IOC recognizes (though does not include in competition as of yet), including some that I listed above. Korfball’s major rule appears to be political correctness. Bridge has the same physicality as chess, and combined, the two require less motion than pie eating contests. To say nothing of poor DanceSport. If you need to put the word “sport” in the same word as the activity, using classic camel caps, it clearly isn’t a sport. I am most alarmed by life saving, which I imagine requires a significant amount of life endangering before the “athletes” can compete.

But what really demonstrates the fundamental bankruptcy of the Olym-pic “programme,” as they would needlessly Anglicize, is the actual Winter Olympics. First, they insist that the proper way to pronounce “Turin” is “Torino.” Then, they continue to include wildly subjective activities and part-sports as sports. (I have always believed that races of any kind are not sports because running, skating, etc. are components of real sports. When Willie Parker burst through the offensive line in the 3rd Quarter of the Su-per Bowl he was only playing one sport.)

The seven official sports of the Winter Olympics are the Biathlon, the Bobsleigh, Curling, Ice Hockey, Luge, Skating, and Skiing. Hockey is a sport. It’s a wildly unpopular sport in America for many valid reasons, but it simply is. The rest are questionable at best. Skating and skiing gener-ally fit into two categories: races or art. I still believe that while racing can be more physically challenging and demanding than sports, it lacks the complication and strategy that separates football from bar-fighting. The subjective dancing and acrobatics in skating and skiing are clearly no more a sport than impressionist painting. One day, someone will be able to quantifiably prove that the ball-spotting errors in Week 15 of the 1998 NFL season would stretch from here to the moon and back. But the subjectiv-ity in sports is a matter of imperfection of human perception rather than a completely subjective system.

Bobsleigh and luge are also both races. I am tempted to let bobsleigh count as a sport because of the second greatest movie of all-time starring Doug E. Doug, Cool Runnings. But “bobsleigh” makes me think of Santa Claus dunking his rosy-cheeked head for apples.

In a reasonable world, curling would be the Olympic activity that gets included because it would make Canadians happy to see its inclusion and Americans happy to laugh at the one cute non-sport. Instead, there’s prob-ably a good case that curling best fits the definition of sport. And if they hold it in the Summer Olympics as “Club Med Shuffleboard,” it could beat out Korfball as most the inclusive-for-inclusivity’s-sake activity ever.

And there was the biathlon. The natural combination of the Kennedy family’s natural enemies, skiing and shooting. How bizarre. The only rea-son I can think to combine skiing and shooting is my childhood antipathy to the bear at the end of SkiFree runs. But mockery aside, it’s a race sport with an additional non-racing component that is scored objectively. Nei-ther half qualifies on its own, but together I guess I have to count it.

So that’s the Winter Olympics for you. It’s like going to an incredibly pretentious concert with five poets preceding two foreign bands. But, like the Academy Awards, it’s a very effeminate competition that occurs spo-radically and used to have importance, so it’s been canonized. When I am an old man, I will judge the success of our generation based on whether we have eliminated the Winter Olympics.

And I’ll be judging it from spring training.

Brian J. Levy is a senior in the College. You can write to him at bnj@sas.

FEBRUARY 20, 2006 | FIRST CALL | VOL. VI NO. 13

Vol. VI, No. 13 | February 20, 2006The Undergraduate Magazine

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Editorial PolicyFirst Call is the undergraduate magazine of The University of Pennsylvania. First Call is published every Monday. Our mission is to provide members of the community an open forum for express-ing ideas and opinions. To this end, we, the editors of First Call, are committed to a policy of not censoring opinions. Articles are provided by regular colum-nists and writers. They are chosen for publication based on the quality of writ-ing and, in the case of commentaries, the quality of argumentation. Outside of the weekly editorial and other editorial con-tent, no article represents the opinion of First Call, its editorial board, or individ-ual members of First Call other than the author. No content in First Call unless otherwise stated represents the official position of the administration, faculty, or student body at large of the Wharton School or the University of Pennsylvania.

Editorial

THE SHOW-OFF TAKES A SPILL

Shelby Prindaville is a sophomore in the College. You can write to her at shelbyp@sas.

We’re not the types to be watching the Olympics. Call us un-American, call us isolationist, call us people who have lives: it’s just not our thing. Yet somehow, we, along with the entire world, were watching when Lindsey Jacobellis fell on her ass.

If you happen to have missed it, here’s a recap. Lindsey’s snowboarding along down the moun-tain in the first women’s Olympic snowboardcross final, 50 yards ahead of her opponents, and three seconds away from a gold medal. Lindsey smugly looks back to see how far back everyone else is. Lindsey celebrates by craftily grabbing her board on the second to last jump. Lindsey falls on her ass, and loses the gold. Lindsey cries.

The media’s response to this debacle is quite hilarious. Usually when someone screws up in front of the entire world, you feel bad for them. You give them a pat on the back, tell them silver is great too, and that there’s always 2010. You congratulate them on the effort, the hard work, and the good sportsmanship. But not this time. No, this time, Lindsey has basically become an evil, egotistical, vain show-off.

Immediately following the race, the media pelted Lindsey with questions and accusations. Why was she showing off? What was she thinking? How could she do that to her country? Why did she suck at life?

Lindsey responded with composure. “I didn’t even think twice. I was having fun and that’s what snowboarding is. I was ahead. I wanted to share with the crowd my enthusiasm. I messed up. It happens.” She didn’t even think twice. She’s about to achieve one of the highest honors in sports and international lore, and she’s only thinking once?! We’re pretty sure we would’ve thought at least three or four times.

She insists that she wasn’t showing off. “The wind has just been catching me weird, and I tried all sorts of grabs to see which one would work to stabilize me in the air, but it just didn’t work.” That sounds reasonable to us, but espn.com will have none of it: “the truth is, a snowboardcross rider just doesn’t throw a flashy backside method if stability is what she’s looking for.” Translation: Lindsey’s a liar. And we hate her.

We feel bad for Lindsey. Everyone’s saying she was showboating, but really, what can you expect from a girl who’s in that position? It’s like when you’ve been taking a two hour final, and you’re at the second to last multiple choice question. It’s an exciting time, and if there were some way to do a fancy mid-air trick via multiple choice bubble fill-ins, we’re sure we might try it from time to time. Granted we wouldn’t be shaming our country while doing so, but metaphors can only take you so far.

Tanja Frieden of Switzerland ended up with the gold. That kind of makes more sense, given all the snow they have in Switzerland. Of course, now Tanja’s friends can tease her for having the gold handed to her on a proverbial platter. But at least that’s better than being the girl who handed it to her. Sorry, Lindsey.

FEBRUARY 20, 2006 | FIRST CALL | VOL. VI NO. 13 PAGE 3

THE MISUNDERSTOOD VILLAINEVERYONE LOVES A VILLAIN. I do not mean girls are more likely to fall for him – they are, of course – but he gives the story that extra edge. Heroes are predominantly milk-and-water creations, they perform dashing deeds and all that jazz, but they are not men you can take to the cinema hall or snuggle up to in dimly lit restaurants. Comic book heroes, of course, are famous for being complicated, paranoid and distrustful; their favorite pastime is brooding over trivialities.

You can judge a society by its vil-lains. The villain is someone who is different, who does not fit into the accepted norms of his fellowmen. The casting of the villain often re-flects racial or physical stereotyping. Two-penny English romances feature a cadaverously fiendish Chinese as the villain longing to rape the delicate heroine. The arch villain, Feringhea, who lurks in fashionable Paris hotels, is a dark-skinned Indian prince. Comic book villains are typically from arid planets in the universe. It is significant that the word ‘villain’ itself is derived from ‘villa’, meaning serf – the ‘other’ for the fash-ionable upper class reading novels in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

As a society, we tend to judge by appearances. We would rather believe that a handsome guy is heroic – and we associate physical deformity with evil. The fifteenth century Brits thought ugly children were mooncalves, the spawn of the devil. Villains and vamps are profoundly unattractive in most literature. Freddy Kruger, the central character of the Nightmare of Elm’s Street, sports a distorted and burnt face. Batman’s enemy, Penguin, was

initially portrayed as a portly upper-class gentleman, but this did not make him horrendous enough. Later, comic book

writers and the movie Batman Returns gave him flippers and a predilection for raw fish to make him suitably repulsive. Octopus and Eradicator, enemies of Spiderman and Batman respectively show similar abnormalities.

The nineteenth century novelist Charles Dickens carried the physical markers of villainy to an extreme. Dis-figured or deformed characters were automatically evil. Mrs. Sparsit and Mr. Bounderby of Hard Times, Ma-dame Defarge of A Tale of Two Cit-ies and Tom Dorrit in Little Dorrit

are all fascinatingly ugly.At the same time, some

novels engage themselves in discussing the effects of such superficial judgment. Frankenstein, a noble creature, is driven to his reckless madness because he is spurned by a society that shuns his appear-ance. The Hunchback of Notre Dame, sus-pected and repulsed by society at large, shows kindness in sheltering

Esmeralda, even when she

i s

unable to love him. The Beauty and the Beast sees a young nobleman punished for his own unkindness to the deformed – he will remain ugly until he is redeemed by being able to love – and be loved in return.

The concept of the villain offers the reader a punching bag. Someone so evil deserves to be punished – and the reader can enjoy seeing him punched, kicked and skewered without hav-ing to feel guilty.

The villain, typically, is unable to accept blame for his own shortcomings. His response to the failure of his schemes is to abuse his sidekicks and subordinates. He is also a picture-per-fect illustration of the DSM IV criteria for megalomania, al-ways involved in complicated schemes that involve some form of world domination. A consistently unrealistic feature of the villain is his maniacal laugh – something films and books dwell on with loving detail.

The villain, unlike the boringly noble hero, can afford to be funny – and he unfailingly is. It is he who comments on society and delivers deadpan quips. Shredder in Teenage Mu-tant Ninja Turtles is a polished cynic who gets more laughs than any of the good guys. Even his amorality is delightful. Jilly Cooper’s Rannaldino, the terrifyingly debauched com-poser of The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous has the most sex appeal – and the best one-liners. The contrast is even starker in nineteenth century novels like Pride and Prejudice and Mansfield Park. While the heroes, Darcy and Edward are very starched, proper and terribly boring, the villains, Wick-ham and Frank Churchill, are dashing charmers who cut an excellent figure.

The villain is also supremely imaginative. The hero has little choice but to be heroic and to do the right thing, and this leaves him very few options. A number of avenues are open to the villain; you can rely on him to do the most outrageous things possible. His adventures also provide readers or view-ers with a sense of wish fulfillment – he does precisely what a fear of social disapproval prevents them from doing.

I think Lex Luther should really get a life…

BY ADREYO SEN

Adreyo Sen is a sophomore in the College. You can write to him at nexus16@lycos.com.

YO, PHILLY! WAKE UP AND SMELL THE SCHUYLKILL!

PHILADELPHIA: THE CITY of Brotherly Love. The city of Ben Franklin and pretzels, of cheese steaks and blatant mispro-nunciation of words like “water” and “crayons.” The city of urine-soaked public transportation and hefty levels of obesity. Is this place paradise, or what?

Maybe, but our lovely city could do a few things to make itself even more Eden-like. Mayor John Street is pissed as hell that some have labeled him as a lame-duck. As his term grad-ually grinds to a halt, isn’t it time to think about last-minute improvements? After all, Friends and Sex and the City threw in some “convenient” plot tie-ups in their final seasons.

If television teaches us nothing else, it’s the importance of going out while being banged – I mean with a bang (as op-posed to a whimper). But what can Street (and his gang) help Philly do in the final stretch of his tenure?

1. Stop Trying to Be NYC: Formerly bombed-out-looking factories converted into “New York style” lofts. It’s the good old TriBeCa success formula, and everyone’s gunning for it, up and down the East Coast. Fair enough, but it’s unoriginal. Why not bring solicit residential construction that’s a little more Philly - like historic Trinity-style apartments? Now that is a Philly style. Unfortunately, it’s also an “illegal” one, accord-ing to “health-and-safety” “regulations.” Semantics.

2. Try Better Park Placement: Fairmount is great, but not without a car, a “lucky” bike, or a serious addiction to long dis-tance running. Here is one occasion where we should look to other cities for inspiration. Boston has its “emerald necklace” of green space, and it loops through the city, culminating in the Commons and the Public Garden. New York has Central Park. Philadelphia has a very un-central park. What about clearing some space for linking a couple of Center City’s four squares?

3. Use Thy Waterfronts! I’m not a city planner, but this has got to be one of the top ten commandments of plan-ning. People like water. People like eating by water. People like sitting by water. And what runs along the banks of the Schuylkill? A highway. The Delaware isn’t much better, with a couple of apartment buildings and a “promenade.” However, as I’ve learned

from watching 7th Heaven, promenades should be busy, and exciting Christian events should unfold on them. This isn’t the case here.

4. Kidnap Stephen Starr, and Relocate Him: The number of restaurants Starr owns is multiplying like rabbits in heat. And what’s with the neon colors? Hello Ra-di-o-ac-tive-i-ty! Whee! Street can take care of this one…personally.

5. End the Goddamn Duck Tours: Or at least stop giving people those hellish duck whistles. I’ve never liked ducks, ever since one tried to trip me in a park in England. That’s all I have to say about that.

6. Bury the Vine Street Expressway: The expressway plowed through Chinatown when it was originally paved in the late 1950s, choking out a huge residential and commer-cial section. (For this I blame planner Ed Bacon. It’s ok Ed. Your son’s hair was amazing in The River Wild.) Right now, part of the expressway is already depressed, but why not go Big-Dig style on Philly’s ass and generate cleaner air and less noise for city residents? Here’s a frightening factoid: A cross-town expressway was originally proposed to run along cur-rent-day South Street, parallel to the Vine Street Expressway. Thank God for the hippies who stopped it. Lord, I love bell b o t -toms.

7. Create User-Friendly Public Transportation: Dear SEP-TA, Thank you for making me wait in the cold on several occa-sions; it was good for disciplining my “constitution.” I appreci-ate the way the train is thoughtfully perfumed with urine, and the fact that the blue absorbent seats allow this scent to linger. Finally, thank you for inexplicably only running the Green Line to 13th street and for running two parallel lines on the same street instead of putting one south of Market. P.S. Can I please be the next Septa woman-voice? I do it really well when I’m drunk: Doors. Are. Closing.

8. Annihilate Potholes! (Seriously) And Please Stop Ignor-ing West Philly: When I told my Mom that Mayor Street had set aside $3.5 million for “Smooth Streets,” an anti-pothole program, she laughed. Then we hit a major pothole, and I went through the windshield and landed in that crazy electri-cal utilities building on University Ave. So many colors! Oh, God. We’re not laughing anymore.

9. Shake What Your Mama Gave You (Past 2:00 am): In-stead of sitting bored or getting shot at 7-11s at 3:00am, kids could be out shaking their groove thangs in the city. Alas but for the 2:00 am bar curfew. Is this some Quaker relic? Did a man in a white beard fear that past 2:00, chaos would ensue,

and the witching hour would be upon us? And, most sig-nificantly, did the man in the white beard wear that

silly Quaker hat? Religion is funny!10. Raise Philly Pride!: Ally McBeal, The Prac-

tice, Boston Public: They’re all about Boston, and they’re all hip. Law & Order, Friends, Sex and the

City: They’re all about New York, and they’re all hip. Come on, Philly. Why can’t we be

the setting for cool programs too? Let’s see. There was one show called Hack that featured a disgruntled cab driver. That was set in Philly…Awesome. Here’s the thing: media reflects national ideas about who we are and how we want to be represented. The kids in Real World: Philadelphia didn’t venture beyond the

cobblestone streets of Old City, but what about a show that does? This one isn’t on

the Mayor. Get out your pens, and write to Fox. Dear God, Fox is our only hope.

L I Z T H O M A S | T H E H I T L I S T

Liz Thomas is a senior in the College. You can write to her at ecthomas@sas.

FEBRUARY 20, 2006 | FIRST CALL | VOL. VI NO. 13PAGE 4

SWORD PLAY

I’m ColdSitting at this deskI’m freezing my ass offVan Pelt needs heaters. BitterIt’s laughing at meWith its happy bright colorsStupid love statue. 24He’s so strong and braveFirst cuts out right then leftJack Bauer is hot. Harrison House StupidityFire drills don’t workwhen they are every daywe moan in stairwells.

LossI hate when my gumloses its flavor beforeI am done chewing. CocktailsVodka with orangeTequila with stomache acheMorning wih vomit. AdviceSleeping is betterWhen someone is holding youSo is skydiving.

I once heardThis saying That kind Of madeNo sense.

It was that thePen is mightier than the sword. Actually I think my fifth grade teacher toldMe that first. I was inclined to believe her. In fact, I even went home that

Day and told my brother what she had said. He laughed. “Moron. Pens are what, like 5 inches long? And they’re

not even that pointy at the tip. If anything, the person who came up with that was

some loser who was reallybad at sword-fighting. So hedecided, screwthis. I’m just

gonna convincethe world that

pens are mightier.And I’ll write

Me some scaaaAaaaaaaaaaaaAaaary poetry,

And everyone willRun in fear!Ha. Loser.”

He then grabbedThe remote,

Pushed me away,And changed the

Channel. ThatDid it. Who diedAnd made him

King of the Remote-control?

So you know whatI did? I took this

Very pen I used toTell this little taleAnd stabbed himIn the leg with it.

Now who’s mightier,Punk? Oooh,That’s gotta

hurt.Ha.

I dreamed of days that never were and were And anti-depressants fizzed in water.We all were born with recollectionsOf times when faith was introspectiveAnd insects flew into our mouthsAnd with them brought checkered tablecloths.Ramble ramble speak and speakWords have fallen from far greater lips than these.A single web of shoelace knotsEntangles and denies and startles baby J.Who’s to say we’ve failed in our submissionWhen all we do is bow to sight and sound?We blend with colors of brown and redWe sleep and wake all along a broken watchWe dream of days that were and weren’tAlive at once with death in his cradle.Check for blimps above the stadiumThrow yourself at lights and cherry bombs.A song a day becomes my soulAnd lyrics believe in what I could never explain.Some are prone to love the inexplicableWhile candy canes are striped for no good reason.Panting is for dogs and dogs are my best friends.We and I and they and she,All members of the board reported to the scene -A testament to this zombie’s paradiseA sacrilegious ceremony for God to laugh at tonightSleep sleep dream and dream,Tomorrow I’ll find solace in your eyes once more.

SHIRA WAXES POETIC

A HAIKU OR TWO ZOMBIE’S PARADISE

THERE IS A PICTURE of Anke holding the turtle she rescued from the highway. In it, she wants to smile, baring her yellow teeth, but her eyes remain dull, staring out from the frame on her desk. The turtle was thrown out of a mov-ing motorcar the day after Christmas. At first, Anke thought it to be a German helmet from the War. It was smooth and green, and smelt of boot polish. The turtle did not emerge from its shell for over a week. Anke was worried. Anke’s mother slicked on the rubber gloves and thrusted her fingers deep into the turtle’s shell. It didn’t budge. So Anke sat and waited. She placed the shell at the end of her bed and sang the national anthem to it every night before she went to sleep.

It was the only song she knew.

* * *Anke’s father, the General, slumped in his

armchair and allowed his lids to close for the first time since the day before. The lines etched onto his skin crept along his cheeks and his forehead, like leaves imprinted on leather-bound diaries. The General’s belly folded over his belt, leaning towards his crotch, pulling his neck and shoulders with it. A portrait of ex-haustion, Anke’s father remained in the chair for five days. Anke and her mother left a tray of herring and cheese and a bottle of whiskey by the foot of the armchair. They were not at all concerned for his eating habits; they instead wanted him to rouse from the armchair to find more food in the kitchen. A little exercise would do him no harm, Anke’s mother repeatedly said. But every night the food and drink would be gone, despite the General’s protests that he had never touched the tray nor the bottle. An-ke’s mother would call Anke’s father a liar, An-ke’s father would say that Anke’s mother never believed him in whatever he said, then Anke’s mother would accuse Anke’s father of never loving her, and Anke’s father would reply that Anke’s mother never had to marry him.

Meanwhile, Anke sat in her room. Watch-ing turtle.

Anke never had many friends, so she would take the turtle wherever went. She placed the turtle on top of her piano during her music les-sons every Thursday afternoon. Afterwards, the turtle would imitate Anke’s chubby fingers pounding the piano keys, until the teacher al-lowed the turtle to play duets with Anke every second Thursday. When Anke told her mother that she and the turtle were entered in the lo-cal music competition, Anke’s mother began to hyperventilate. “You and that…helmet!” she gasped, not quite sure how to respond to her daughter’s absurd announcement. Neverthe-less, Anke’s parents could not stop Anke and her turtle. The pair won first prize, and the turtle received an additional certificate of en-couragement. Soon after, the music teacher suggested that Anke pursue another activity, for the turtle was a musical genius, whose tal-ents could never be matched.

When Anke first brought the turtle to school, nobody took a great deal of interest in it. The children would watch Anke polish-ing the turtle’s shell, and laugh at her off-key singing. But soon she and the turtle were in-vited to her classmates’ houses to play sport and sip lemonade. They all enjoyed the turtle’s company, polishing its armour, and hurling it across the grass in the backyard. Anke’s parents were pleased their daughter had finally found friends. They no longer cared that the turtle accompanied Anke on her every journey. But Anke did. While the turtle became more and more popular, Anke had fewer and fewer class-mates to talk to. Most of them were crowding around the turtle, praising its musical talent and laughing at its impersonations. While the turtle was busy most afternoons, Anke was no longer invited to her classmates’ houses, and would often walk home alone. Without turtle.

Anke helped her mother clean the house ev-ery Friday afternoon. She washed the bed linen and mopped the bathroom. But her favourite task was dusting the shelves and ornaments in the living room. Each Friday afternoon she would sit in the crowded living room and imag-ine herself in a cave full of treasures, carefully at-tending to each trinket with an old toothbrush to clear away the stubborn dust. Anke would lose herself amongst the black china vases and the terracotta dolls for hours, until her mother would call for dinner. Anke was very hesitant to include the turtle in this ritual. This was Anke’s special time. When she first introduced the turtle to the room full of treasures, it just sat in the same position all afternoon, watch-ing Anke handle the glass figurines with deli-cacy and concentration. The turtle bristled with jealousy. But soon enough, the turtle began to help with Anke’s cleaning. It would steady the ornaments against its shell, allowing Anke to reach the difficult crevices. One Friday after-noon, Anke leaned a tall glass perfume bottle

against the turtle’s shell. Without warning, the turtle moved to the left, and the bottle crashed against the wooden floor. Anke’s father had bought the perfume bottle for her parents’ first wedding anniversary. As soon as Anke’s mother heard the glass shatter, she raced into the liv-ing room. Anke’s mother stared at the fractured fortune lying in pieces on the floor in utter dis-belief. She shouted at Anke, forbidding her to come near the precious ornaments ever again, regretting that she ever allowed her daughter to help with Friday afternoon cleaning. Anke’s mother ordered Anke to her room without din-ner, and to “take that thing with you!”

Anke cried that night, and told the turtle she was very angry with it. The turtle just looked at Anke with no expression, and that made Anke even more angry. Anke fell sleep with a frown on her face, while the turtle sat at the end of the bed, watching her.

At the end of each school year, Anke’s class sat an examination. Anke always scored very high, and her knowledge of national his-tory and culture made her father proud. Anke’s teachers adored her, and didn’t mind when Anke brought the turtle to class. Anke sat the turtle in the top right corner of the desk, next to her coloured pencils. In the beginning the turtle didn’t talk very much, but by the middle of the year he was the class chatterbox. Not only did he make the other students laugh, but he made most of the teachers smile as well. They too encouraged his piano-playing and often rewarded his wit and intelligence with sweets. The teachers began to compare Anke to the turtle, asking her, “Why can’t you be more like the turtle?”—to which Anke had no reply.

The turtle assumed his usual position on Anke’s desk during this year’s examination. The paper was to be completed in silence, and Anke observed this with strict obedience. But after half an hour, the turtle began to mutter ob-scenities to Anke. Anke tried her best to ignore him, but the turtle’s murmurings were getting louder and louder. When she did tell the turtle to be quiet, the teacher looked up from her desk and shook her head. Anke tried to continue with her work, but the turtle’s vulgarities were too distracting. The more Anke tried to hush the turtle, the louder it spoke. The turtle’s curs-es eventually reached the teacher’s ears. “Anke, would you please stand up immediately!” The turtle became silent. “What are you mutter-ing?” Anke told the teacher that it was not her but the turtle who was whispering and that she was only trying to keep it quiet. The teacher refused to believe that the turtle would know such foul language, and interpreted their com-munications to be cheating. Anke’s examina-tion paper was confiscated, and she was taken by the ear to the principal. “Why can’t you be more like the turtle?” the principal asked Anke in disappointment.

Why couldn’t Anke be more like Anke, she wondered.

Anke never commented on the turtle’s weight, however often she wanted to. The turtle grew fatter and lazier, its shell wearing thin around its body. She noticed the turtle’s bulging legs after the first of her father’s arm-chair inebriation episodes. Those mornings Anke would awake to find the turtle smelling of whiskey. But now the turtle could hardly move, not even reaching the piano keys. Yet food was still disappearing from the cupboards, and the silver cutlery became scarce. Anke’s mother ac-cused the General of stealing the forks to bribe his officers. Anke’s father stared at his wife in disappointment. Anke sat in her room, while the turtle gurgled in glee.

Anke’s parents decided to spend Christmas in the mountains. There the General wouldn’t be bothered by his officers, and Anke’s mother wouldn’t have to cook. The journey took two days by motorcar, along the twisting high-way. Anke spent most of the time staring out the window, looking at the brown and green shapes lining the road. Sometimes she lifted the turtle and pressed it against the pane. Their hot breath would fog the window, so Anke rolled down the glass. On the second day the family passed a town with a similar name to their village. At the entrance of the town, a girl holding a sign waved at the motorcar. The sign read, ‘War Memorabilia and Junk Collector’. Anke looked down at her German helmet. The metal shell was shiny and brittle, and the foam that protects the head was overflowing. She tore away the material and emptied the silver forks and spoons onto the backseat of the mo-torcar. Without hesitating, she hurled the turtle out the window and into the arms of the junk collector.

Dearest First Call Readers, I just wanted to let you all know

that I did write an article for this week, but unfortunately it’s just too boring to print. See, I wrote this whole thing about who I really am, since I’m really not myself in the articles I write. Seriously, I’m not that caustic/sexual/angry, I just happen to write that way. I don’t think that’s a bad thing, I just find it interesting. I wrote a whole ar-ticle about that; it was painfully hon-est. And by painfully, I mean just plain annoying to read, for anyone who re-ally doesn’t give a shit what I’m actu-ally like, which I’m sure is most of you. (By the way, I don’t curse that much in real life, either. Shocking, I know.) So, I decided not to print it. Instead, I pres-

S H I R A B E N D E R | I N A L L S H I R I O U S N E S S

ent you with a couple of random poems I wrote. Just for clarification: I’m not a poet. I’m one of those people who writes when I’m feeling emotional. That’s how Zombie’s Paradise happened, though don’t ask me what it means — I couldn’t tell you. In terms of the sword thing—back in high school, my then-boyfriend was in a creative writ-ing class and he had to write a shape poem. So I wrote it for him, and this is it. No, it’s not a true story. But I think I dreamed it once. Regarding the haikus—I’ve never written a haiku before. Wikipedia says they’re 5-7-5 syllable poems. I hope Wikipedia’s right about that, because I sure as hell wouldn’t know.

Shira

Shira Bender is a sophomore in the College. You can write to her at shiratb@sas.

A TURTLE POSSESSEDBY SARAH RAMLER

Sarah Ramler is a senior from Melbourne, Australia, studying abroad at Penn. You can write to her at ramler@sas.

FEBRUARY 20, 2006 | FIRST CALL | VOL. VI NO. 13 PAGE 5

THE OTHER NIGHT I DID something I never thought I would ever be able to bring myself to do. Now, I know exactly what you’ll say: “What’s the big deal? Why does what you write there even matter?” And I won’t blame you. In fact, I said those same things to myself as I was doing it. I know there are much more important things in life than this, but it needed to be done, lest I lose myself in an endless circle of self-examination. The other night I logged on to Facebook, and changed my “Political Views” from “Very Conser-vative” to “Libertarian”.

I’d been considering the change for weeks and I’d hoped that whatever I finally chose would represent the culmination of a long, yet pro-found, examination of my political beliefs. Sure it is only Facebook, but I figured that at some level, the minor choice I would make there would re-flect a deeper affirmation of my principles. It didn’t quite work out that way. Instead, this decision is nothing more than a hasty answer given to save myself the frustration of trying to fin-ish sorting out the warped world we call “politics”.

It’s been quite a while since I first tried to deci-pher my po-litical ideals. Of course, the natural place for someone who wants the quick and easy answer is the Internet. A quick search will reveal that the Internet is teeming with po-litical quizzes ready to tell you in only ten min-utes precisely what political label best fits you. However, the completion of only a small selection of these also revealed that I am firm follower of every political agenda. My personal favorites are the quizzes rigged to place you in line with the sponsoring group 95% of the time. The “World’s Smallest Political Quiz” has only 10 questions, and somehow my repeated manipulation of the answer choices continues to pin me as a Liber-tarian. I doubt even Benito Mussolini himself could get that quiz to spit out anything besides “You’re a Libertarian! Now send us money!”

Another great quiz showed your results by marking you on a scale of 0 to 40 of famous po-litical figures, with Jesse Jackson at 0, Ronald Reagan at 40, and Colin Powell (Is he even a politician?) at 5. I think I scored a Jack Kemp, a solid 30, on the test. I particularly liked this one because comparing myself to political figures is the only way I’ve ever been able to successfully communicate where I stand. I like to say to peo-ple, “I’m so far to the right I make John McCain look like Ted Kennedy.” Sure it’s a bit of an ex-aggeration, but it’s more accurate than grouping everyone from Trotsky to Mussolini as Libertar-ians.

In fact, aligning with political parties and figures seems to be the norm in America today. Everyone is either a Democrat or a Republican; if you’re not Red, well then you must be Blue. Well, you could be Green, but then people would laugh at you. I don’t think anyone has a clear answer as to why this happened, but at least partially it’s because sharp divisions like these are much more entertaining. Which headline is going to sell more papers: “Bush battles Dems on Hill” or “Politician ignores agenda and serves constitu-ents”? The problem with all this is political par-ties rarely represent a specific set of ideals. The history of our nation has repeated rearrange-ments and reversals of the ideas our parties es-pouse. If you go back as far as 1800, we even had a Democratic-Republican Party. Anyone care to try and figure who they’d side with today?

Still, even if you move be-yond the parties and try to look at political ideas in general, the am-biguity doesn’t go away. Americans also like to divide themselves into Liberals and Con-servatives when the Republican/Democrat divide gets boring. This clear division in America disap-pears when you hop across the Atlantic. Liberal-ism in England pushes for a lais-sez-faire govern-mental policy; that is, the less

government interferes with the economy, the better. That’s quite different from the meaning of “Liberal” in America; in fact, neither of the two major political forces in America think this way. Only out on the Libertarian “fringe” will you find an American system similar to one of the main political movements in Britain. How does this happen? Well, as languages and cultures diverge, words and meanings start to change, adding a little flavor (or flavour) to our culture.

So what have I taken from all this twisted terminology and puzzling politics? I hate to bring it together in such a cliché way, but Face-book is simply not capable of summarizing your political ideals and principles in a single word. How many people can honestly call themselves just “Liberal”? Wouldn’t life be much less com-plicated if Facebook offered choices like “Moder-ate Economic Conservative”, “Social Liberal with a Communist Slant”, or “Anarcho-capitalist with a hint of Whig”? You can try to describe yourself in a single word, but unless you’re “Apathetic”, you’ll most likely need a sentence or two. So what to do now? I don’t know precisely, but I’m wait-ing for Facebook to get to work and add a “Mild Libertarian with a Confederate Twist” option to my profile.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?BY TIM POTENS

Tim Potens is a freshman in Engineering. You can write to him at potens@seas.

market world, but is now pulling back from this idea. There are many countries that have held or will hold elections this year. In most cases—Bo-livia, Chile, Mexico, Peru—a leftist candidate will probably win, if they have not already. This move to the left comes at a time when three incum-bents are on the left: Hugo Chavez, Fidel Castro and Néstor Kirchner in Venezuela, Cuba and Ar-gentina, respectively. The move towards the left is not over, however; Brazil and Colombia will most probably choose right-wing candidates in this year’s elections.

Although Latin American politics have proven unpredictable and sweeping conclusions about general policies are nearly impossible, Americans should see that Latin American coun-tries are no longer as willing to follow American policies. Latin America has always maintained ambivalent feelings toward the US, though many people are becoming increasingly anti-American. Mr. Bush, as an economically liberal president,

should be conscious of the economic problems this poses for America, and Americans should be made aware of them as well.

Issues pertaining to Latin America are im-portant to the world at large and should not be ignored. The focus placed on the Middle East is more than understandable, but the neglect of other areas of the world is appalling. Latin America is just one example of many of how the American media has chosen to overlook world issues. We could talk about how no one men-tions the genocide in Darfur anymore—let alone the rest of Africa—or how Asian countries, other than China, are barely in the news. By analyzing the complexities of all these regions the American media would be doing its people a favor. It would highlight examples of where American policy is challenged, what the US government is doing about it, and where values held by Americans are being upheld and encouraged. The current administration claims to be fighting isolationism and ignorance, yet the American people are still left alone in a cloud of unawareness and neglect.

Continued from PAGE 8

GERSON

Pedro Gerson is a sophomore in the College. You can write to him at pgerson@seas. Yue Wu is a freshman in Wharton. You can write to her at yuewu@wharton.

ON JANUARY 25TH, Hamas had come in a strong second to Mahmoud Abbas’ incumbent Fatah party in the Palestin-ian elections. Hours later, it became clear that Hamas actually

won the elections in a landslide, finishing with 74 out of the 132 seats available in the Palestinian parliament to Fatah’s 45. The Western world is justifiably aghast. Unapologetic terrorists have been by all counts democratically elected to power. Hamas does not recognize Israel’s right to exist and is proudly responsible for the murders of countless innocent Israeli men, women, and children.

Hamas would have preferred the ini-tially reported outcome, where it had a strong showing, but Fatah remained the majority party. A strange claim indeed. Given Hamas’ steady flow of inflamma-tory rhetoric directed at the allegedly corrupt Fatah and the sharp policy differ-ences between the two parties, one would think Hamas would be delighted to have blown away the more moderate party in the recent elections. After all, Hamas now has an opportunity to implement its vi-sion for a future Palestine, to establish Sharia, and to gain control of an Abbas-controlled police force which occasionally frustrated its plans.

To understand why this isn’t the case, we will need a deeper understanding of Palestinian politics. Since its inception, Hamas has operated as an opposition movement within Palestinian society, criticizing the Palestinian leadership’s policies on a foreign and domestic level. Hamas would blast Yasser Arafat and Ab-bas for even considering peace with Israel and decry Fatah’s inability to provide ad-equate social infrastructure. In the latter, Hamas recognized an opportunity. It has succeeded in providing most of what so-cial services now exist in the Palestinian-populated areas, thus securing some votes it may not have otherwise won. Perhaps this is an optimistic theory.

While Hamas would dispatch suicide bombers into Israel proper, the Palestin-ian Authority (PA) made an art of playing both sides. Publicly (to Western audi-ences), Hamas would denounce terror-ism and express commitment to a nego-tiated peace with Israel. However, on the ground, Hamas would spew anti-Semitic, anti-Zionist venom to Palestinian citizens and promised not to stop until Jerusalem. In fact, there was little difference in how Hamas and Arafat spoke to Palestinians privately in Arabic. Politicians and pun-dits who observed this blatant hypocrisy were (and still are) dismissed as extrem-

ists and war-mongers. Merely because it were perceived as the best option avail-able, the PA received huge sums of money annually in financial aid from a variety of sources, most prominently the United States, while doing nothing to curb ter-rorism and little to improve Palestinian standards of living.

Now the PA and Hamas are one and the same. Hamas showed its hand, when immediately upon victory, it asked Fatah to form a coalition government—a re-quest which was promptly denied. Hamas has made such a request simply because it recognizes the untenable position it now occupies, thanks to its decisive electoral victory.

As soon as Hamas takes power, any terrorist attack engineered by its organi-zation outside the recently de-occupied Gaza Strip is unequivocally a military ac-tion taken against Israel by a legitimate government. Israel would be within its full rights to defend itself in the manner it sees fit. There is no question that in the event of war, Palestine’s disorganized and poorly trained militia would be no match for the Israeli Defense Force (IDF). The leaders of Hamas realize this means the terrorism option has effectively vanished.

Just as importantly, the substantial international aid which the PA has been accustomed to receiving from both neigh-boring Arab countries and the US is go-ing to be almost completely cut off. With limited resources, it will only be a matter of time before the Palestinian people tire of a neutered Hamas which has no money and can offer only empty threats to Israel. When this proves to be the case, the Pal-estinians will have seen what a terrorist government can do for them (nothing) and hopefully fully embrace the secularist and peace-driven movement within their society.

Indeed, the ideal situation for Hamas, for reasons which should now be obvious, would have been to come in the originally reported close second. If that were to have been the case, Hamas would have gained enough influence to both affect policy within the still internationally-supported Fatah government, as well as put tremen-dous strain on Fatah’s ability for political maneuvering.

It is a blessing that this did not oc-cur. While Hamas’ victory certainly does not speak well for the current tempera-ment and reasonability of the Palestin-ian people, Hamas’ landslide victory will probably eventually be viewed as the best thing that ever happened for the Arab-Is-raeli peace process.

Adam Goodman is a freshman in the College. You can write to him at adamlg@sas.

JAMAS ALREADY!A D A M G O O D M A N | O N E L A S T G O O D M A N

FEBRUARY 20, 2006 | FIRST CALL | VOL. VI NO. 13PAGE 6

Continued from the 2/13 issue. To read the previous installment go to www.firstcallmag-azine.com and see the archives.FACE TO FACE with Larry Feduccino, the well-connected creamy-Italian mobster, I was sweating bullets. Literally. I’d been shot twice the past two times I’d been conscious, both times by a knock-out blonde named Jane Reinquist, who had apparently made off with $250,000 of Mr. Feduccino’s laundry. I was still woozy from the blood loss, and Mr. Feduccino was growing ever impatient with my selective memory.

“You better start again. Tell me every-thing, exactly as it happened,” Feduccino said, waving over the largest thug to his right. “If I hear something I believe to contain false-hoods, I will have my associate Chunk knock you through that chair. After that, he will in-dent you into the asphalt floor of this ware-house. So please feel free to begin anew.” I asked for some water and they were kind enough to oblige me. One thing about gang-sters: they had excellent manners in the pres-ence of their officers.

“I started with the day at the office. I was sitting in my office with my pants down, as I always do when the temperature gets above 60 and the AC bill hasn’t been paid, drink-ing whiskey and thinking about the last few jobs I’d done. Jane walks in, we go down to dinner, mentions something about Rhonda La Face, we go into the bathroom, make it in the bathroom stall. Then I go out and ask about Rhonda, thugs confront me, I defuse a car-bomb, and finally she comes over in the early AM and plugs me in the gut. I wake up in the hospital, she plugs me in the shoulder. I wake up again, I’m here.” I asked for water again. They reminded me I was still holding a glass. I finished it and asked for another. I’d lost a lot of blood. Blood is a lot thicker than water, so it takes a lot of water to make up for the density.

“Rhonda La Face had a lot of goods that I would rather not discuss the particulars of up for sale. Jane Reinquist was the buyer. The only trouble was my people got to La Face first. When you couldn’t find her, my thugs found you. And there you see, is where the switch begins. Jane set you up to look like a buyer so she could test the waters, see what kind of heat was around the goods. And I picked you for just another dirty ex-cop on the grind, looking for some extra cream. And if beautiful blonde Jane asks a favor for some cash, who are you to decline? But that’s not you, is it Briggs? You’re just a fucking mo-ron. A dupe. You’re not even bright enough to know you’re getting duped.”

I tried to look as puzzled as possible. “But if Reinquist wanted me to look like I had the money, why didn’t she get out of town after she shot me?”

“I do not answer your questions, Mr. Briggs. My goods are safe. I want my money back. And you’d better find it, and Ms. Re-inquist, or else I will put many more holes through you, in manners untraditional and creatively horrifying.”

“Killing me is enough, I scare easily,” I in-formed him.

“Chunk, please deposit our friend with the Vet, and make sure he gets himself stitched up,” Feduccino relaxed, and his shoulders dropped slightly. “I’m sending you to a mu-tual friend of ours. I hope you don’t mind. He’s currently in my employ. You might be as well, one day, if you can find this dame,” Feduccino said as he turned away and started back to his car.

“I do honest work for shit pay, not shit work for honest pay. And I’m not gonna find more people just so you can kill them. Ex-cept for this one.” Morals are tricky things when you’ve been bleeding, and vengeance is a common symptom of infected wounds. “After I find this one person for you to kill, I will not find any people for you just so you can gun them down,” I said. He knew I had standards. Ex-cops always have standards. I wasn’t an ex-cop though, so having standards was news to me. I was a fake ex-cop: I had the license printed up by a Turkish friend who made passports and boating licenses, and I had taken the badge out of an evidence locker when a local precinct had closed down 15 years ago. The whole ex-cop thing lends an air of credibility to a hard-boiled detective.

There’s nothing worse than seeming soft. I always thought of myself as a deviled eggs with ham kind of gumshoe, mainly because I’m usually very hungry. But people don’t see what you are, they see what they want to see, and Feduccino was starting to think I was just not smart enough to merit killing. Ad-ditionally, he thought he’d saved me from Re-inquist, which meant she was connected with something much bigger than a stolen suitcase full of greenbacks.

“If I ever choose to employ you, Mr. Briggs, you will most likely not have the option of turning it down. But it will be very good money, and as you and I both know, getting on my bad side puts you on the bad side of most of this town. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go act like a to-tal grease-ball with some assholes from the continent,” Fe-duccino got into the back seat of a spiffy Lexus sedan and drove off, about as elo-quently as the car would allow. He was a man of theatrical exits.

Chunk dropped me off at a veterinary hospital in a relatively commercial sector of the city. It was about fifteen blocks from my abandoned industrial district that got con-verted into a few offices but mostly cheap housing and strip-joints or bars. I was still dizzy so Chunk helped me ring the doorbell.

“What the fuck happened to you?” “I got shot. Twice.” I replied.“She must’ve really liked you.”“I can’t feel my toes,” I was trying to wig-

gle them.“Chunk, get him inside, I’m gonna need

a minute to prep then I’ll take the bullets out and fix him up,” he said, opening the door for us. I leaned on Chunk as much as I could, as he turned his giant frame sideways to fit through the door.

“You played football in high school, Chunk?”

“Golf.”“No shit? That’s one you don’t hear ev-

eryday.”“Mom wouldn’t let me play. Said I would

get hurt,” Chunk smiled. He was much quick-er than anyone gave him credit for, but he was still a galoot. At least he had a sense of hu-mor, though.

“Get him on the table,” the doctor ordered. Chunk lifted me as easily as a normal person might light a lamp or a thick paperback, and placed me on the table.

“Alright, Quin, I’m gonna give you a shot to numb the pain. You might feel a little diz-zy,” he said as he found a vein and injected.

“Hey Jake,” I said, beginning to feel a tin-gle all over. “I really gotta piss.”

His face was frozen between surprise, laughter, and contempt. He looked like some-one had just shat on his rug. “Yeah you do.”

Someone had just pissed on his table. I passed out again, into the sweet morphine dreams that follow the prescription pain-killer euphoria.

When I woke up I was in a recliner in full-on slouch position. There was a sandwich next to me. Drool was running down my face and had collected in a nice round stain around the left sick of my t-shirt collar. I wasn’t wear-ing my original clothes. Jack must’ve given me some of his. A TV was on but I couldn’t quite see that far yet, and my ears were ring-ing. My entire body was stiff and racked with soreness. I could barely move, but I started to loosen up as I tried lifting my hands and turning my head.

“Jake?” I yelled as loud as my system would allow.

“Hold on, in the kitchen,” came a shout from across the apartment. A bulldog wad-dled up to me and crawled up in my lap. I winced from the pressure but he sat still and looked up at me. He smelled like a wrinkly wet bag of farts.

“Your dog smells.” I stated, to Jake and the room in general.

“Yeah but ain’t he cute?” The dog turned to the TV and emitted a low-rumble, some-

where between relaxation and embarrass-ment.

“Fuckin’ adorable,” I said to myself. I reached over for the sandwich. I took a bite, and held it out for the dog. It was a BLT. He took a bite. I took a bite. He took a bite. Mike entered and watched the process go through one cycle of homo-canine alternation.

“You are still the most disgusting person I have ever known,” he said, and put down a large bowl of soup. “Don’t feed him that, he’s

on a diet.”“Jake, we have a prob-

lem,” I said.“No, you have a

problem. And appar-ently Feduccino needs you alive to solve it. He only sends the salvage operations my way. The rest of ‘em go to this whole bunch of real unpleasant Scan-dinavians over by the docks,” Jake added salt to the soup and handed me the bowl. “You need

to eat this, you’ve lost a lot of blood.” I put down the

sandwich and accepted.“You’re a fucking vet, what do you know

about medicine?” I said.“Still smarter than you—getting involved

with some runaway grifter and a suitcase full of money. Thought you’d learn by now. After Heather left you, at least…” He said. The dog growled longingly and tried to wedge him-self over to the sandwich. I dutifully handed him the rest and he emphatically devoured it. Jake frowned.

“Jake, we have a serious problem,” I re-peated.

“Quin, look, it’s been what, seven years? Last time I spoke to you, you were getting into fights at AA and running around with some rich broad while you were blackmailing her husband. You have a talent for pissing

off rich and powerful people, Quin, and I’m tired of getting in the way. The only reason I sewed up those holes is because Feduccino pays me too. Well enough to keep Lindsey at boarding school. I got ties; I can’t afford to gamble anymore. If you stumbled in like last time, bloodied and bruised and crying about Heather, you can bet your ass I would’ve called 911 while you waited on the doorstep.”

“Jake, we have a very serious problem.” I repeated.

“What, Quin? What is so fucking seri-ous?”

“I stole $257,000 from a blonde grifter who shot me twice while we were having sex, and Feduccino is convinced she has the mon-ey, and now I have no way of getting in the clear with it unless you help me.”

Mike shifted in his chair and leaned for-ward on his elbows. His dog propped his chin on my knee to stare back at his master. They held this pose for a few minutes.

“That is a very serious problem.” He stat-ed. The corners of his mouth curled slightly.

“Yes it is.”“How are we going to solve it?” He

asked.“You wouldn’t have really let me bleed

outside if I just showed up here on my own,” I said.

“Not even if you were my own brother,” He replied.

“You are.”“Yeah but I always viewed that as a largely

metaphorical concept anyway.” Mike got up and the dog followed. I finished my soup and reclined. I had to come up with a plan. I was awful at plans. Then again I was awful at just about everything, that’s why I was a fake ex-cop to begin with. But I had made it this far. Sometimes you don’t need a lot of brains to get by; you just need to seem stupid enough not to matter.

…TO BE CONTINUED…

QUINTON BRIGGS: PART THREEBY MIKE WEINGARTH

Mike Weingarth is a junior in the College. You can write to him at mweingar@sas.

FEBRUARY 20, 2006 | FIRST CALL | VOL. VI NO. 13 PAGE 7

THE SCENE: TWO CLASSMATES are strolling down Locust Walk, chatting.

Classmate 1: “Yeah, so then I went over to John and Mark’s and we chilled for a while.”

Classmate 2: “Oh, John Smith and Mark Co-hen?”

Classmate 1: “Yeah! You’re friends with those guys?”

Classmate 2: “Well….um…”*awkward silence ensues*Recognize the above scene? I certainly do; I ex-

perience it on a regular basis. How does one define the word “friend”? What are the requisite qualifi-cations to be considered someone’s friend? Do you have to hang out, talk once in a while, have a class together, or will knowing the other person’s name suffice? I propose a universal rubric through which all people can be placed into categories. Using this code, these questions can be answered with a sim-ple, “Oh he’s a #3” or, “Yeah, she’s a #2”. And so, at the risk of appearing monotonous in my article layouts (admit it, you like the simplicity,) I give you: The Friend Code.

#1: You know each other…but you’re not talk-ing about it. Maybe the way you met is awkward, (Facebook anyone?) maybe you did something awkward together, or maybe you’re just awkward people. In any case, #1 is the guy you hold eye con-tact with for a second too long on Locust Walk, the girl who gives you the half smile in line at Com-mons, and all the people who walk by you, head down, face forward.

#2: The wave hi and smile friend. This is the girl you met in September. It’s now February and the “What’s your name again?” window has long since closed. She’ll forever be the #2 who you’ll al-ways smile and wave at, but also always make sure you’re walking just fast enough that she can’t stop to talk.

#3: The small talk/call when you need some-thing friend. Behind him in line at ABP? You ex-change pleasantries. Suddenly find yourself walk-ing next to her on Locust Walk? You ask what class she’s headed to. Beyond this, and the occasional

‘crap it’s Friday night and I have nothing to do’ situ-ation, this is as far as #3 can go.

#4: The secret friend. This is the person whose status as your friend is one of your best kept secrets. You’ll guard it with your life, lest incredulous, “you know that guy?!” and “you’re friends with her?” come your way. In fact, you may even carry a large newspaper should the need to cover your face as he or she walks by arise.

#5: The one-way friend. Arguably the most awkward of all. You know them, but they don’t know you. It doesn’t matter how it happened; maybe your friend knows them, maybe you’re a Facebook stalker, or (*gasp*) a real live in-person stalker. Your interactions are mostly comprised of staring when you think they’re not looking and holding eye contact for a beat too long. If you’re lucky, they might get confused and put you in cat-egory two. Keep dreaming.

#6: The hookup when you’re bored/drunk/des-perate friend. No explanation needed.

#7: The here today gone tomorrow friend. So you run into one another at Fresh Grocer, and swear you’ll hang out. You do. It’s awesome. Mar-tha and Emily, best friends forever and ever. There may even be friendship bracelets involved. But the next day…Martha who? Guess you’ll have to see her on your next FroGro run.

#8: The bail you out of jail friend. You not only have this person’s number, but you actually hang out, and can legitimately call them whenever you so please. You even hang out all the time. Imagine that.

#9: The let’s call someone else to bail us both out of jail friend. Again. Self-explanatory. BFF for real this time. We only get one or two of these, so choose them wisely. They’re yours forever.

And there you have it, folks. The comprehen-sive friend code. Bringing you relief from awkward situations everywhere. So, people of Penn, embrace the code. Live it. Love it. USE IT.

Medium Sudoku #19

DISSECTING THE PENN FRIEND SPECTRUM

Monday: House “Skin Deep” (FOX, 8 p.m.) Special time slot announce-ment! House usually airs after American Idol on Tuesdays, but since this week the singing show will be two hours… House will be on before 24 (which I recommend staying around for, naturally). The team treats a model with a drug program and—shock!—it turns out there’s more to it than meets the eye. Dr. House’s leg pain is intensifying and he’s becoming even more crab-bily bitter. Get your Emmy on, Hugh Laurie!

Tuesday: Winter Olympics (NBC, 8 p.m.) Female figure skating short program. The rest of the stuff is kind of obscure. And, hell, without Michelle Kwan (sob!) female figure skating might be, too. But you know you’re still going to watch.

Wednesday: American Idol (FOX, 8 p.m.) Two hours of the Top 12 Males “singing”! What… cacophony. I was going to recommend the elimination show on Thursday, but then realized the female figure skating freeskate pro-gram was on. So, you get amateur crooners. Laugh it up, fuzzball. In a week, Lost comes back and we find out what happened to Claire when she was abducted last season. Now that’s television. If you want to watch the pilot, it’s on ABC.

Thursday: Winter Olympics (NBC, 8 p.m.) See Tuesday, re: female figure skating. Tonight the new Queen of the World gets crowned… and then every-one will forget about her in a week.

Friday: Battlestar Galactica “Downloaded” (SCIFI, 10 p.m.) The words Lucy Lawless and Battlestar Galactica are about to become more synony-mous. She’s signed on for ten episodes next season. And she’s back as a guest star in this episode that promises, of all things, to show viewers the Cylon homeworld after a Cylon in the Colonial Fleet gets killed. This is, of course, the final prelude to the spectacular two-part season finale. And, of course, I’m not spoiled so I can’t really give any more information. C’mon. It’s Lucy Lawless. You know you want to watch. See my column for more on BSG.

Saturday: Winter Olympics (NBC, 8 p.m.) Does anyone know what a Bia-thalon is? Because I’m confused. At least the last day of the Winter Olympics isn’t as god-awful as the last day of the Summer Olympics with its marathon of boredom. There’s a bunch of speed skating, slalom, aeriels, etc. on tonight. But shouldn’t you be out partying?

Sunday: Grey’s Anatomy “What Have I Done to Deserve This?” (ABC, 10 p.m.) Wow. So, hopefully you caught the Super Bowl episode. And the fol-low-up episode. It’s back to business as usual at Seattle Grace, despite being on against the Olympics Closing Ceremonies. I mean… really. Who wants to be bored by tape-delayed crap in Italy when you can watch Sandra Oh? George and Meredith are trying to kill each other. Bailey is inexplicably in the hospital, despite being on maternity leave. And I’m hearing the fireworks between Alex and Izzie are in trouble when a new beau comes into her life.

If You Can Only Watch One: Battlestar Galactica.

BEST BETS ROB’S TV PICKS: 2/20-2/27BY ALE JACKSON

Ale Jackson is a freshman in the College. You can write to her at jacksn@sas.

GUNS DON’T KILL PEOPLE, DICK CHENEY KILLS PEOPLE... ALMOST.

our dose of weekly wisdomfirstcallism

THE UNDERGRADUATE MAGAZINE | FEBRUARY 20, 2006 VOL. VI NO. 13

DEEP SPACE OPERA

LASTCALL

BY PEDRO GERSON

MIDDLE CHILD SYNDROME

“I JUST WANT to know why the Cylons hate us so much.”

“… hate might not be the right word.”

“I just want to know why.”“It’s what you said at the

ceremony, before the attack… you gave a speech… you said that humanity was a flawed

creation. That people still kill one another. Petty jealousy and greed. You said that humanity never asked itself why it de-served to survive. Maybe you don’t.”

Except for the word Cylon, you probably under-stood the above exchange to be a meaning-ful, philosophical conversation between two people, asking one of the biggest questions humanity has ever posed to itself: do we deserve to survive? The exchange comes from, of all places, a television science-fiction program called Battlestar Galac-tica. No, not the hokey version that aired suspiciously close to the original Star Wars movies.

Conventional wisdom tells us that science fiction tele-vision shows and films—I will leave out books, as many of science fiction’s great novels have been critically lauded as valuable societal reflection—are not supposed to be that meaningful. Sure, Star Trek was about bridging races together and exploration… but it was also about William Shatner sex-ing up hot alien women. Star Trek never asked the “big questions”.

The reincarnation of Battlestar Galac-tica asks all of these questions and more in its stunning, dark, and deep representa-tion of modern society. In December 2003, SCI-FI aired a four-hour miniseries that worked as the premise for the series. People occupy a dozen planets is in some dis-tant galaxy, not related at all to our Earth or solar system at all. People created a race of machines called Cylons. The Cylons rebelled against their creators (as children are wont to do), and eventually disappeared.

Forty years later, the Cylons returned, with the ability to look human—previous models were very clunky robot-types. Be-fore humanity even knew the Cylons were back, the Cylons ex-ploded nuclear bombs on all twelve worlds and disabled all of humanity’s defense systems, thanks to infiltration allowed by their new guises. Humanity, for all intents and purposes, was wiped out by this act of near-genocide. A few ships remained, and, long story short, banded together to form a pseudo-soci-ety with just under 50,000 people in the entire fleet.

As the series continues, this initial act of terrorism has become much better informed. The Cylons, it would seem,

are religious fanatics. In the instances of conversation

audiences have been privy to, many metaphysical questions have been raised. Even though Cylons look like people, they are curi-ous about the concept of a soul, about love, and most importantly about God.

They don’t see humans, with their weaknesses and sins,

as worthy of God’s love. And, so, they wiped humanity out. Further acts of terrorism have been

spaceship equivalents of suicide bombing and continuous psychological subterfuge through the human-looking agents—who many not even know they are Cylons until they are “turned on”.

For the humans, life is now about sur-vival, and seeking a new home. They can’t return to their old planets, because the Cylons very handily kicked their asses. Through a series of events, it has become

apparent that the home this fleet of humans is seeking is called Earth. Is this series happening concurrently with our own time? Does it take place in the distant past? The future? We

don’t know, yet. Perhaps we never will. Survival issues are at the forefront. Will there be enough water, food, energy, work force, military to survive to the next day?

The Cylons are not humanity’s only enemy. Humanity is increasingly killing itself off. Recent episodes have featured human terrorist groups trying to take revenge on the military, who they blame everything on, the black market, and even an encounter with another human vessel that escaped the first attack. This ship, called the Battlestar Pegasus, served as a mirror for many of the show’s main characters. A reunion that should have been a joyous occasion turned sour when the Ga-lactica crew realized what had been going on in the Pegasus: torturing of Cylon prisoners to near-death (a comment on the Abu Ghraib fiasco). When some of the Pegagus crew tried to rape one of Galactica’s Cylon prisoners, a war almost broke out between the two sides that would have certainly obliter-ated the human race before the Cylons got the chance.

Intermixed with these real-world parallels and metaphys-ics are some of the most human, and deeply flawed, characters science-fiction has ever offered. A woman with breast cancer is elevated to the position of President after the attack, though she was 43rd on the succession list, then finds herself playing a role laid out by millennia old scriptures as the one who will guide humanity to Earth, its final safe haven. A commander on the verge of retiring is suddenly in charge of the last line of defense humanity has… and there are not replacements com-ing from military training grounds. A soldier who continues to be in love with one of the human-looking Cylons after dis-covering her secret, as she is somehow bearing his child. Per-haps most curious of all is a brilliant scientist who unknow-ingly gave the Cylons access to humanity’s defense system, and lives every day in fear that he will be found out. Then he be-came Vice President and has since delivered a nuclear bomb to one of the Cylon-lead propaganda groups after the President insulted him. And many, many more.

What’s the best reason to watch Battlestar Galactica? I can’t really give an answer to that question. I can say that, af-ter having watched it, the show changed my views on what the genre of science fiction can do. Battlestar Galactica is, all at once, a war drama, a story about people, metaphysical, philo-sophical, and has massive amounts of social commentary. In-telligent, serious science-fiction? Sign me up.

R O B F O R M A N | M Y 1 3 - I N C H B O X

Rob Forman is a senior in Wharton. You can write to him at robertf@wharton.

I SAT DOWN TO WATCH CNN the other day and after some time I realized that I had just inadvertently heard thirty minutes of some rubbish analysis about Dick Cheney’s hunting accident. Meanwhile, they spoke about the problems with the Haitian election for maybe three minutes at most. That’s when it hit me: Latin American news is completely neglected in this country. Why? Many people would ar-gue that Latin American issues have nothing to do with the US, or that their global impact is minimal. The truth is, though, Latin Amer-ica is a very important region and its issues highlight many things in US policy. They can also show how and why American values are challenged or supported around the world.

The Haitian election is one that came af-ter 23 months of political unrest. This elec-tion was supposed to symbolize the reestab-lishment of democracy in the country; how-ever, abnormalities in the vote counting have stirred opposition by many who claim that René Préval, the front-runner, is fraudulently denied power.

Haiti is important for Americans, because it represents the concept of building democ-racy around the world. Despite the fact that Mr. Bush’s administration does not talk about promoting democracy in Haiti, it actually has made such efforts. But the results have not

been favorable. A recent interview by “Dis-covery Times” with the former US ambassa-dor to Haiti revealed that the US government has been manipulating different groups in Haiti, promising all of them power and ob-viously not following through. The result has been serious political confusion and a con-stant state of disarray, because power can-not be seized. The quest for democracy is not only occurring in the Middle East, and people should not forget that. If the US government is seri-ous about promoting democracy, then the American people should know actions is it taking all over the world.

Another Latin American coun-try that should be attracting more attention is Chile. Chile has so far been, by Latin American standards, a story of quiet success. After the end of the military regime, Chile has increased so-cial liberties and has had great economic suc-cess—the country closed 2005 with economic growth rate of 6.3%. What Americans should be hearing about Chile, however, is that it just elected a female president. Michelle Bachelet is an outstanding woman, a graduate of med-ical school, a polyglot and a military strate-gist; she has proven she has what it takes. As

an agnostic moderate socialist she has has managed to win the election in a conservative Catholic country. It is also worth mentioning that she underwent torture during the early years of

A u -gusto Pino-chet’s regime. Americans should be hearing about Mrs. Bachelet. Not only is she an ex-ample to women trying to make it in a male dominated career, but she also epitomizes the

American dream. Mrs. Bachelet is a strong woman who managed to emerge from a past of suffering and adversity to become the first female president in her country’s history.

Americans should know about her and view her as an example.

We may not hear about her because of her so-

cialist policies. Her policies, however,

are liberal in the economic and the social sense, and while this may not be the case with other Latin American governments,

Americans need not feel threat-

ened. Some media attention has been

given to Latin America’s movement toward the left, but

analysis has been lacking. America should feel threatened that Bachelet had

made ideological breakthroughs which seemed to increasingly favor being a part of a free

Latin America Deserves Its Place in the Public Eye

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