posted on: Thursday September 30, 2010
Providence Props. This past weekend, my friends and I took a roommate date into downtown Providence for the widely-known Waterfire. My friends had already been to Waterfire before but I had never been, so I didn’t really know what to expect. I was impressed to see the downtown area was far more crowded than I had ever seen it. There were families, couples on dates, and college students from all over. The fire and its surrounding shows and attractions brought a sense of life to the city. It wasn’t like my friends and I were out on the town for a night of cosmos and sophistication like in Sex and the City, but it gave me a much broader perspective on Providence as a whole rather than the mall and the Elmhurst neighborhood. My roommates and I finished the night by retreating to our room and watching Sex and the City, just to pretend that’s what our lives were like anyway. So, kudos to the city of Providence for providing me with the glamour I needed in a night away from work and responsibility. — Kaylee Miller ’13
Backing the Buzz: From Luis Suarez’s game-saving handball, to Landon Donovan’s heroic stoppage time goal, the 2010 FIFA World Cup was full of the unexpected. But in all 64 matches, the one thing we could all count on was the loud buzz that relentlessly echoed from our television sets. Chances are, upon first hearing the infamous blare of the Vuvuzela, you thought a simple fly swatter could silence what sounded like a swarm of disgruntled bees. Of course, after a few games we all realized that these angry insects were nowhere to be found, and in doing so surrendered to the loud harmonic drone of what some have considered the worst invention of all time. As of recent, the simple one-meter-long plastic horn has been banned from nearly every arena/sporting event known to man. But, you can’t deny that the Vuvuzela helped define the intense atmosphere of this summer’s tournament. The South Africans have their Vuvuzelas, the Brits have their chants, and what do we have? The wave? I think America could use a little noise to promote soccer which, with the exception of every four years, is neglected to make television time for things like arena football and NASCAR. I’m all for the Vuvuzela. Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. — Kerry Vaughan ’12
A Redhead’s Rant. The word “ginger” is a completely derogatory term for the minority group of natural born redheads, and I feel discriminated against. Since I’ve been here, despite the redhead population at PC, no one seems to know my name. It’s Genevieve, by the way. Thanks to South Park’s Eric Cartman, redheads are “soul-less, evil, inherently disgusting and dumb creatures” who fall into one of two categories: day-walkers or night-walkers. In light of this, redheads have been beaten, in some cases to death, on National Kick a Ginger Day, which was created in light of this episode. This is a crime against humanity. South Park rekindled anti-redhead sentiments. After being called a ginger in the library a few nights ago, I angrily threw Socrates’ Apology to the side and fanatically researched this anti-redheadism. According to Greek mythology, people with red hair were thought to turn into vampires after their lives ended. Aristotle described redheads as “socially unhousebroken.” Egyptians used to bury men with red hair alive. In the Middle Ages, people with a certain shade of red hair were considered vampires or werewolves. In Corsica, one is supposed to spit if they pass a redhead in the street. Only in Denmark is it considered an honor to be born with red hair. Redheads make up one percent of the entire world’s population. Although rare, I assure you that we are people, people with feelings. —Genevieve Ilg ’14
I’m Not a Belieber. “If I’m assigned a tangent next week,” I wrote on my colleague, Jenn DiPirro’s Facebook wall, “I swear to God I will savagely attack your beloved Bieber.” A man of my word, and more opinionated about popular culture than I should be, I would like to viciously attack DiPirro’s Bieber, who she so staunchly defended in the last issue of The Cowl. That people only hate him because he’s young and rich is a fair and easy accusation to make. But I think Ms. DiPirro will find that there’s a plethora of valid reasons to hate Justin Bieber. First and foremost, when I was 12, I listened to music. I used to sit in front of a radio waiting for my favorite songs to come on, and I’d hurriedly press record on the tape player once the announcer finished talking. I’m pretty sure that if I were 12 today, I would have had no tolerance for perpetually prepubescent scumbags terrorizing America’s living rooms. His connections with Ludacris and Usher do not legitimize him. That’s like saying if you put a red nose on a rugged Sailor, he immediately becomes an authentic clown. I don’t care how much he earns, and I don’t even care that millions of Twilight-tainted youths have deified the freak-of-nature. Music is supposed to speak to its audience, and lyrics should have significance to some degree. What in the world does a 16-year-old know about needing somebody to love? More importantly, what do his 12-year-old audiences know about it? I’d rather idolize a McDonald’s Big Mac: it’d be less synthetic than whatever’s growing on that walking-caricature’s head. I’d rather listen to Celine Dion scratching 11,000,000 blackboards with her teeth for 14 years than listen to that squeaking chipmunk. Seeing him on a billboard reminds me of that Dove commercial where they timelapsed a photoshopping of that average-looking chick’s face. Ke$ha is more talented, and that’s a painful thing for me to say. If I were stuck in a room with Hitler, Osama Bin Laden, Justin Bieber, and a shotgun with two bullets, I’d punch Justin Bieber in the face and cry myself to sleep.