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(04/21/92 9:00am)
From Bill Madison's "Crackers In My Soup," Spring '92.From Bill Madison's "Crackers In My Soup," Spring '92.· Yeah, my Buppy fantasy. Nothing elaborate, just my piece of the pie. I remember when I met Chris freshman year -- he had a discernible limp in one of his legs. In the time he was here, that limp never went away. Whenever he was asked about it, Chris would say that it was a football injury from high school. I jokingly would say that it looked as if he had been shot. I found out later on that he was. Sometime during the summer before his freshman year, Chris had been shot in the leg, and it had never been treated properly. But Chris reflected more on the fact that he had not been killed. For that, he was happy. But Chris never dwelled on the incident, so I didn't press him. Chris had seen other people shot, people who would gladly have traded his bum leg for their mortuary body tray. As different as we were, we could still identify many ways in which we were the same. Ironically, though, we became friends during an episode that I would rather forget. One evening during freshman year, Chris, Keith -- my roommate -- and I decided we were going to watch the "Faces of Death" trilogy on the VCR in the Van Pelt Lounge. I decided this gory endeavor required a strong drink to settle my stomach -- you know, freshman logic -- so I went about making one. Taking a squeeze bottle, I filled it half with grain alcohol and half with Coke. When I arrived, I was definitely feeling no pain, or anything else. Somewhere between the end of the first movie and the beginning of the second, I told Keith and Chris that I was going to lay down on the couch behind us. You can guess what happened next. As I drifted in and out of consciousness between vomiting, someone decided to call HUP. The paramedics came, saw that I somewhat coherent and determined that I wouldn't have to spend a night in the hospital if someone volunteered to watch me through the night. So Chris became my nursemaid, for which I am forever grateful. Yes, we were different, but we were still able to connect. In the spring of 1990, I found out that Chris had been arrested for crack cocaine possession in a Bronx apartment. As soon as I heard the story, something about it didn't ring true. First of all, Chris didn't have an apartment in his name in New York. Secondly, Chris objected to drugs in general and said that my ambivalence toward drugs was the result of never having seen anyone killed over them. People on campus felt that if Chris were dealing drugs, shouldn't his friends have known about it? Well, I know Chris did not deal drugs. That's something that's relatively hard to keep away from close friends. Hell, I know of at least ten people here now who would technically classify as dealers, and we aren't more than acquaintances. Also, when's the last time you saw someone use crack at Penn? The DP published a picture that showed Chris with an array of weapons. Chris had shown me that same picture the previous semester, and I inquired about its authenticity. Chris said they were toys -- but he knew I didn't believe him. Chris did say who they belonged to, and it wasn't him. He also said whose apartment it was, and it wasn't his either. Now if I knew all this, I would assume the New York Police Department would also be able to find out. But somehow, I get the feeling it didn't matter. Chris was immediately expelled from the University essentially because of the negative publicity they received in The New York Post. Then there were protests on campus, civil rights attorney William Kunstler took his case and the University eventually allowed him to return. The last time I saw Chris was at his preliminary hearing in New York City during our sophomore year. He was brought out in handcuffs, and he appeared to have lost about twenty pounds. Kunstler, although he pledged to handle Chris' case personally, relegated it to a lawyer on his staff. The attorney was unprepared, and the judge's anger clearly reflected this. I found out later that while he was in jail, Chris was stabbed sixteen times by another inmate for refusing to get off the phone. Now Chris must serve sixteen years in jail before he can begin to get his life together. People ask me why I talk so much about societal concerns. People ask me why I am so critical. People tell me that tolerance begets tolerance. People tell me that racism is definitely a residual blemish from our nation's shameful past. People need to look around and see the world they are about to enter, instead of choosing to simply ignore reality. When the war on drugs targets someone like Christopher Clemente as a threat to our society, there is something wrong. When one out of every two black males passes through the criminal justice system sometime during their lives, there is something wrong. When a school expels a student prior to any court decision determining his innocence or guilt, there is something wrong. When students assume another student is guilty based on a picture and a news report in a student paper, there is something wrong. I know of a student who was arrested this year trying to sell five sheets of LSD at a Grateful Dead concert. When someone asked him what his chances were of getting off, he replied, "Well, I don't know, but I have good lawyer." When this student went to court, he refused to shave or cut his shoulder-length hair, looking every bit the dealer. But he was acquited -- the judge cited the incident as a first offense and said there was no need to put him in jail. I listened to this while Chris continued to rot away in jail, trying to keep hold of his sanity. I too hope to live in a color-blind society, where one's race is not the key factor in evaluating another human being, but we do not. As long as certain people in our society are considered expendable or unimportant, we cannot pretend that we do. · Bill Madison is a senior International Relations major from Alexandria, Virginia. Crackers in My Soup appeared alternate Tuesdays.
(04/21/92 9:00am)
Many have recited the phrase, "The more things change the more they stay the same," but this year's senior class may be the first University group to test it. The Alumni Relations Student Advisory Committee has begun soliciting seniors across the Unversity to donate photographs, documents and virtually anything else that represents their tenure at the University for a time capsule. "By putting them in a time capsule they are being saved," said Jennifer Goodman, ARSAC chairperson. "We'll see how things change and how they stay the same." The cubic foot box of momentos will be stored in the University's archives for 25 years and will be opened at their reunion, according to Gay Lacy, assistant director of alumni relations. College senior Goodman said the idea for the time capsule began last year, but there was not sufficient time to organize the event for the class of 1991. "The students [on ARSAC] decided they wanted to create a project that would be something which would bring the class together," Lacy said. "We hope this will be a new tradition." Lacy and Goodman said several items have already been pledged for the box including a Hey Day t-shirt, a video tape of the upcoming Commencement ceremonies and a copy of this year's yearbook. They said they also want to include memorable copies of The Daily Pennsylvanian -- probably the annual joke issue and a random issue that will give "a slice of life" -- as well as programs from performing groups. "I think it will be a neat thing. I think it should be cool," ARSAC member Whitney Stroutz said. "We're looking for items that are somewhat personable but give a real feeling for what it was like to go to school here." Goodman said the time-capsule project's slogan, "The year 2017 may seem far away, but so did 1992," may be "a little depressing" but hopes that people will remember to submit their momentos. "We'll take anything," Lacy said, noting they plan to accept the first 92 items "within reason." Lacy said for space reasons she would prefer that submissions be paper so they are flat and take up less space. She noted, however, that they do not want to limit seniors' creativity. Donations can be brought to the rear of the first floor of the Sweeten Alumni Center during regular business hours through then end of Senior Week, May 15.
(04/17/92 9:00am)
Philadelphia Department of Public Health Commissioner Robert Ross spoke last night on the turning point of the health care crisis in the coming years. A 1976 University graduate, Ross is mainly involved with projects on teen health, cancer prevention, injury prevention and lead poisoning. Ross acknowledged the financial difficulty that Philadelphia as a city faces in regards to health care issues, but he said that this crisis can be viewed as a turning point for change. "Crisis is an opportunity or a turning point," he said. "I don't care what we've been doing for the past five or 15 years. That doesn't matter anymore. We've got to do things differently now." Currently, 80 percent of the Health Department's funds comes from state and federal grants, while the remaining 20 percent comes from the city itself, Ross said. "I want taxpayers to know that from every buck they spend, we're getting four or five from federal and state funding," he said. "We are really at the mercy of what is happening to the state and federal deficit." Ross pointed to the rising use of cocaine as a major cause of the problem. He said that in the '90s, the rise in diseases such as syphilis, AIDS, hepatitis type B and tuberculosis can be explained partly through a rapid increment in the use of cocaine. He said that the number of admissions for cocaine treatment rose from 87 in 1979 to 10,450 cases in 1989. "Our number one health problem is drug use," he said. "Crack cocaine has became readily available and viable." In addition, Ross said that he thinks crack cocaine alters economic cultures, especially among young children. As an example, he mentioned children who recycle crack bottles to dealers for money. Ross also said he thinks the increase of infant mortality in the past few years is related to a wider range of drug use, especially by the black population. "Crack cocaine is something that makes a mother forget to be a mother," he said. "It impacts on nutrition as well as make them forget about things such as an appointment." Seeking to alter the situation, Ross, on behalf of the Philadelphia Department of Public Health suggested ways to improve health care for the city. He said that the health department needs to expand programs that have been proven effective, and to improve long-range planning as well as grants coordination and management. The department also need to focus on community based health promotion programs such as parental care, he said. Ross further advocated that prevention is the most important way to improve health care. "I think this society and this generation is perhaps the most violent and addictive," he said. "We should not give up those who are lost, but if we are going to learn at all, we've got to learn early." Audience members said Ross' talk was informative and wish to see his ideas carried out. "It was a very good presentation, very interesting and lots of ideas are very sound," Wharton senior Tadashi Egami said. "Hopefully, they can be implemented." The talk was sponsored by the Health Care Management Department and the Center for Health Policy in the Wharton School, as well as Physicians for a National Health Program.
(03/17/92 10:00am)
From Zelig Kurland's "Bacon for Breakfast," Spring '92 And before I'm branded and classified, let me state my position on fraternities: I make no generalizations about Greeks as a whole, but I do about houses. In other words, I like several houses. Simultaneously, I think several of them suck to the core. As for Zeta Beta Tau -- which has got a lot of attention recently -- I don't know any brothers so I don't have much of an opinion. But maybe I'm still a little biased because of that stripper-cucumber-ketchup bottle scandal. Either way, the opinions contained in this column are those of Wilbur. He's a guinea pig so go easy on him. Wilbur would like to comment on statements made in a letter to the DP written by Matthew Feinsod, president of Penn's ZBT chapter, which I will distort and exaggerate for rhetorical purposes: Feinsod writes: "It is unfortunate that the DP has chosen to brand indirectly all ZBT brothers as rapists by repeatedly referring to the University student as a 'ZBT brother.' " It's no secret that the DP isn't particularly excited about the Greek system. The pattern never changes: the DP nails fraternities collectively whenever it can grab the opportunity for exciting and provocative front page journalism. There's no question that an inch-high headline including the phrase "ZBT frat brother" brands the entire house. The location could have been disclosed with a lot more subtlety. So . . . fraternities protest on the grounds that misbehavior is the aberration of a particular misguided brother snuck in by communists. Also, they argue, the DP doesn't properly recognize the many wonderful philanthropic deeds that brothers have performed. For example, we keep hearing over and over that the founders of Stand Up Against Comedy are fraternity brothers. How nice. Naturally, it's contradictory to ask for bad actions to be treated as aberrations, and good actions to be treated as a reflection of the Greek system as a whole. The Greeks and the DP staff can get together and decide whether the actions of brothers should be treated individually or as representing the collective whole. Then they should treat all actions in the same manner. House functions and fundraisers, of course, can still be credited to the houses. We all know the joke: How many frat brothers does it take to change a light bulb? Five. One to do it and four to make T-shirts. In regard to comments made by University officials to the DP and The Philadelphia Inquirer, Feinsod writes: "These comments were made in total disregard of the [University's] confidentiality rules . . . and are unfair to the individuals -- the accuser and the accused -- involved in the process." Confidentiality rules should be in place primarily to protect the accuser and secondarily to protect the innocent-till-proven-guilty accused. They should not exist in order to preserve the prestige of the University or the fraternity system. Given that the accuser in this case consented to a front page interview, the "comments" were in no way unfair to the accused. "Rather than applaud the so-called achievements of the University in this case, all University officials must maintain the confidence and confidentiality required of them by the regulations," Feinsod writes. "Those University officials who are unable or unwilling to do so must be disciplined." It would be a sad day if any given rape case were to be buried by University regulations. You'd think that in the wake of the recent Oliver Stone movie "JFK," disclosure would be the hip thing. Only fools follow arbitrary bureaucratic regulation to the letter. Do we want the administration to turn its back like Minnesota's Carleton College did last year? The administration there refused to expel an accused rapist, so he raped again. Imagine that. At Penn -- and regardless of the location of any incident -- the signal should be sent out that if students rape, there is a chance of suffering consequences if they get caught. An example is more effective education than hype or propaganda can ever hope to be. How effective are the University's confidentiality policies anyway? Last semester a student was allegedly raped in the Quad, and the University's Almanac listed the location -- against the wishes of the accuser. This information may have been limited in scope had the DP not jumped all over the story and printed the location on the front page -- in inch-high lettering, of course. But oddly enough, no one wrote letters to the DP concerning violations of trust. I don't understand, why this double standard? What is it about this recent case that makes disclosure to the public so repugnant, especially after the accuser had consented to the coverage? Students have the right to know that students have been raped in frat houses, just as they have the right to know students are raped in the dorms. The flow of information in these cases should be controlled by the accuser -- not by the University and not by the DP. Feinsod concludes his remarks by suggesting that breaches of confidentiality "encourage . . . a lack of trust and respect for University officials, which unfortunately already exists on this campus." One word: brownnoser. Zelig Kurland is a sophomore English major from Charleston, West Virginia. "Bacon for Breakfast" appears alternate Tuesdays.
(02/21/92 10:00am)
From Caren Lissner's "Pretty Sneaky Sis," Spring '92. A lot of us don't want to admit that we grew up in the seventies. This recently became apparent to me when, upon turning 21, I tried to reminisce about the good old days. After all, I'm going to have to have stories to tell my kids some day, so it's important to think about what has changed since I was born. I enjoy remembering the seventies, but mentioning this decade to any of my peers causes facial contortions more violent than in any horror movie. Never mind the fact that "American Top 40" is now mainly composed of dance music and remakes of songs from fifteen years ago anyway. Everyone wants to forget their roots and pretend that they have always hated disco, and that they never worshipped John Travolta or watched Norman Lear sitcoms. It's so much better to live in the present, when we have more sophisticated number one songs. Like this week's chart topper, "Too Sexy," for example. I guess the fact that we identify more with the eighties than with the seventies makes sense. We were only in elementary school in the seventies. It's shocking to think that some of us were actually alive during Watergate and Vietnam, but not conscious enough to remember anything about it. The first news event I remember is the Bicentennial Celebration on July 4, 1976. I remember that we went to the pool that day. Learning to swim was more important than watching the news throughout most of the seventies. It was about 1977 that I realized I didn't know what was going on in the world, so I asked my mom why I was being kept in the dark. She answered, "We all are, honey, but just as soon as ConEdison gets the lights back on, we'll be fine." The first year I really became conscious of the news was 1979. This was mainly because I had to be so careful in 1979. If I looked at the solar eclipse I would go blind. If workers at Three Mile Island didn't fix the leak soon, we were driving to Florida. If the government didn't take care of Skylab, we were going to hide under the beds all day in case it dropped on our house. (I swear these were my mother's solutions.) But we're not defined by Skylab or the last total solar eclipse or even Pop Rocks and "Grease." Because we're not the disco generation. We're the MTV generation. According to the adults who put labels on generations, we want everything quick and to the point, like an MTV commercial. I'd like to think that we're sort of in-between, actually. Next year's freshman class is closer to the MTV-microwave-VCR generation than we are. Most people I know have adapted better to MTV than I have. I still think music is meant to be heard and not seen. I couldn't care less what Oxford Valley Cable took away. I guess I'm shaping up to be the grumpy old woman of my generation. My parents used to tell me what life was like when they were young. It seemed pretty glorious. Milk delivery. Knowing your neighbor. Being related to your neighbor. Does our generation have any stories like that? Sure we do. If most of the seventies have been forgotten, I suppose I can find something in the eighties to talk about. I was about ten years old when cable invaded my township. The advent of the new network excited me, because I liked the songs they used in the commercials, including "Centerfold" and "I Love Rock 'n Roll." The novelty wore off quickly, but luckily we had Atari. Of course, we didn't have Nintendo, the game system that keeps my younger step-brother and step-sister inside most of the day instead of playing in the street like my parents did. Actually, the kids are also inside a lot due to the VCR. They both knew how to work a VCR practically from the time they learned to talk. By the time I have kids, my stories of only being able to see a movie once will freak them out entirely. There are a few other things I'll be able to tell them. I'll tell them that phones actually used to ring. I'll also mention that they had dials, and that if you accidentally let go of the dial before pulling it all the way around, you had to dial the whole number over. Remember that? It was actually pretty tough for a little girl with tiny fingers. Perhaps I'll throw in the fact that pay phones only cost a dime. Someone recently told me that in Massachusetts they still cost a dime. I went up there to try to find out why they were so far behind the times. I never did find out, but I did get invited to a McGovern for President rally. I'll tell them about how there were only three networks when I was growing up. There was no Nickelodeon, so the only cartoons were on Saturday. They usually ended by noon, and then you had to watch stuff with real people in it, like "Land of the Lost," which sucked. I'll also discuss the horrors of not having had a Microwave. We had to wait at least 45 minutes to cook anything. And speaking of food, they almost had to cancel Halloween one year. People were afraid that sickos would mimic the person who had put all the poison in Tylenol that year. I went around anyway, and most of the doors had signs on them saying "NO CANDY" or "SORRY, TOO DANGEROUS." My mom didn't let me eat what I collected, so I sold it to a kid named John Basset on the schoolbus the next day. Anyway, that was when they started putting tamper-proof tops on medicine bottles. And I was there to see it happen. One thing that boggles the mind is trying to remember pre-computer times. I remember actually writing ten page papers on a typewriter in high school, and having to use whiteout (a new invention itself) every time I made a mistake! Then there is the symbol of all that is obsolete: the vinyl record. I often find myself stubbornly defending records when others encourage me to move on to smaller and better things. CDs scratch as easily as records, and they don't sound that much clearer, but nobody wants to admit this. Besides, you can get used records for a dollar each. I guess I'll be okay until my needle breaks and I can't get a new one. Our generation has certainly seen major changes, and we probably won't even be aware of all of them until we trip over our kids' history books and notice that there's a page detailing the incredible fact that Germany was once two countries, and that anyone who tried to go from one to the other got shot. It was shocking enough for me to discover recently that oldies stations now play songs from the seventies. The seventies! Can "Centerfold" and "I Love Rock and Roll" be far behind? · Caren Lissner is a junior English major from Old Bridge, New Jersey. Pretty Sneaky Sis appears alternate Fridays.
(01/22/92 10:00am)
I honestly feel that too much time is being dedicated to the "bicycles on Locust Walk" issue. To save everybody time, I offer the following suggestion, which at the same time resolves the "fraternities on Locust Walk" issue. We should simply ask all fraternities that line Locust Walk to smash all their empty beer bottles on the Walk. The result is obvious: we get rid of all the pestering vehicles. This includes bicycles, golf carts, campus security cars, cars belonging to people who are drunk or who are parading the Porsche that daddy bought them, and also that little helmet that in the fall announces when the Penn football team is going to lose their next game. In the process, we make fraternities an integral part of everybody's Penn experience. I realize my plan has certain flaws, so let me expand on what I feel are its most serious drawbacks. My plan fails miserably to be environmentally safe, since we should naturally be concerned about recycling the empty beer bottles. But let me point out that it would probably not take very many bottles to achieve the desired result and that the benefits outweigh the consequence of not recycling them. Another problem is that fraternities often prefer to buy cheaper canned beer, but I am sure that if the school would offer them a generous subsidy that they would willingly make the switch to bottled beer. There are, of course, more complicated problems such as the million dollar lawsuits that the school might receive because people will have little pieces of glass stuck to the bottom of their Armani shoes. Do not despair, because for this and all other complications I have a brilliant solution: we will form a committee which will dedicate all of its energies to the successful implementation of my scheme. DAVID MAYER College '92
(01/22/92 10:00am)
Two Saturday's ago, I was crossing Spruce Street at 39th when I slipped on the icy street and fell onto a glass bottle. When I got up, I noticed that my hand was gushing with blood. Luckily, or so I thought, my friends and I noticed Escort Service was dropping someone off across the street. The van emptied out, so when I went over and asked the driver (politely) to take me to the emergency room, I didn't think there would be a problem. I thought he was kidding when he said that he couldn't take me, so I showed him my hand that was covered with blood and repeated the question. Again he refused, and said, "[You] should have called first." I should have called first? When? Before I got hurt? Unfortunately, my psychic skills were not working that night. Anyway, it made no sense to me, and empty Escort van & wouldn't drive me with a terribly bleeding hand to the emergency room -- instead I had to take a cab. I had a perfectly acceptable form of transportation right in front of my eyes, but I couldn't use it. That is absolutely ridiculous. I definitiely learned a lesson out of all this. It took six hours in the emergency room, about ten stitch and a cast for me to realize it, but next time I'll be sure to call Escort before I get hurt. ROBBYN LEVENTHAL College '94
(11/21/91 10:00am)
In the 56 years since the book was first published, it's easy to imagine that such an important work might get lost in those stacks of Missouri Farm Reports and such on Van Pelt's shelves. So I took the time to locate it and tell you that it's right down in Rosengarten Reserve on the "BF" shelf. The twelve principles espoused as the goal of the book are still of great value to upwardly mobile students preparing for "The Real World" outside. Here are just a few of the things you will accomplish by reading Dale's advice: "1. Get out of a mental rut, think new thoughts, acquire new visions, new ambitions." 2. Make friends quickly and easily. 3. Increase your popularity. 4. Win new clients, new customers." Wow! Aren't these the very things we college students lust for? Popularity! Wealth! And it's all in one book! Forget all those long dreary Marketing classes. Drop those useless Comp Lit seminars! All you really need to know for success is in this one volume. For future marital happiness (an integral part of success and happiness), there are some things everyone should know. Dale writes an entire chapter of helpful hints on wedded bliss. Here is a list of questions Dale provides for you girls to make sure that all will be well in your household: "1. Do you give your husband complete freedom in his business affairs, and do you refrain from criticizing his associates, his choice of a secretary or the hours he keeps? 2. Do you try your best to make your home interesting and attractive? 3. Do you vary the household menu so that he never quite knows what to expect when he sits down to the table?" And the classic tip #8: "Do you compromise little differences of opinion in the interest of harmony?" Dale makes men ask themselves: "Are you careful never to criticize her before others?" And, "Do you thank her for the little jobs she does for you, such as sewing on a button, darning your socks, and sending your clothes to the cleaners?" For every positive answer you give to these and other questions you score ten points! And you insensitive men of the '90s should never think of forgetting to thank your wife for darning your socks! I once heard it said that literature ages quickly. But Dale gives advice that is not only pertinent to the '30s man, but is still valid today. For example, at the end of the "Twelve Ways To Win People To Your Way Of Thinking" chapter, Dale gives it to us "In a Nutshell." "Rule 1: The only way to get the best of an argument is to avoid it. Rule 2: Never tell a man he is wrong." And of course this important one -- "Rule 10: Appeal to nobler motives." I feel however that Dale missed some very important tricks that (as I have uncovered through years of experimentation and study) will help the average Penn student to "Win Friends and Influence People." With the holidays approaching here is some of my concrete, proven advice to help in your quest for friends and fortune: 1. Show up to all family gatherings completely smashed and continue to drink throughout the party, preferably straight Absolut on the rocks or bottles of the host's best champagne -- and make a comment if it's not French. (This proven method shows that you feel comfortable with your company and is especially good if you have to spend the holidays with your step-parent's family or in-laws). 2. Whenever the family is about to say grace (say right before carving the T-Day turkey), stand up and declare yourself a strict atheist who abhors religious ceremonies created to brainwash the masses. (This will show people that the University has opened your mind to creative belief alternatives, and that you are no longer intimidated about sharing your new knowledge.) 3. Males should scratch themselves publicly as often as possible. (This shows that you are not embarrassed by your physical being. Get in touch with your personal myth, guys.) 4. Complain aloud if you get any gifts you really hate. 5. Reality is important in every child's growth, so make it a point to show all small children you encounter that Santa Claus is really a fake. (None of the other wish-washys will have the guts to break it to them.) · Yes, I'm sure that Dale would have wanted it this way. Good luck in your striving, "To Win Friends and Influence People." Brian Kennedy is a sophomore English from Newark, New Jersey. Never Mind the Bollocks appears alternate Thursdays.
(11/07/91 10:00am)
f P.C. Sex The lustrous moon shined brightly through the large bay window. Leslie stood admiring its beauty, an island of tranquility in the sea of chaos surrounding her. Suddenly, a deep, suave baritone broke her concentration. Leslie turned to see who had spoken to her. Brad stood nearby, with a beer in his hand and a smile that revealed his chiseled jaw and ivory teeth. "Sure is a beautiful night, isn't it?" Brad said. "Yes, I was just admiring the moon shining through the trees," Leslie replied breathlessly. Brad took a step towards her. "Look, I don't want to seem aggressive, but I just wanted you to know how beautiful you are." Brad paused. "I'm sorry, that was sexual harassment, wasn't it?" A cloud passed over the moon and a chilly breeze gusted through the leaves. "I don't mean to treat you like a sex object, I only wanted to introduce myself." The moon once again cast its light upon her smile as she said, "Oh, God no, that doesn't even approach my definition of harassment. Just remember to stress the second syllable in "beautiful" not the first though." Leslie felt her heart throbbing in her chest as she looked into Brad's dark eyes. "I do appreciate your sensitivity though. What's your name?" "I'm Brad. Oh, and, just do me a favor and don't confuse my sensitivity with frailty. I try very hard to balance the two elements. Do you care to dance?" Leslie was swept around effortlessly in his arms as they danced to Summer Winds while the party wound down. She felt secure and relaxed as her Ferrari-red fingernails traced his shapely biceps, rippling under his tightly fitted sweatshirt. After the music stopped, Brad helped her put on her jacket. "I have a great bottle of champagne I've been saving ever since I first saw you last March. I swore I'd never open it until I was with you," Brad said gallantly as an amber leaf fell onto his shoulder. "Would you like to join me for a drink?" "I'd love to," she said, trembling with desire, for she had never met someone as mysterious and charming as Brad. Leslie put her long fragile fingers into his masculine hand as they strolled down Locust Walk, past the ivied mansions to his apartment. As he pulled out his keys, he turned, pulling Leslie so close that she could feel the fire of his heart, and kissed her with flaming lips. A moment later -- it could have been an eon -- Leslie and Brad were at his kitchen table sipping a bottle of vintage Moet. Brad went to the stereo and put on Wagner's Die Walkure. The driving rhythms made him feel like he was Siegmund, carrying his beloved Sieglinde. Brad and Leslie's desires blossomed like Sieglinde's flowery arias. Leslie sauntered across the room, her long legs accenting her womanhood with every step. They embraced, hugging and kissing with unbridled passion like two stars colliding to form a stronger, brighter light. Leslie ran her fingers through his blond wavy hair. Brad kissed her milky smooth neck as Leslie moaned in delight. He ran his tongue firmly up behind her ear, then he nibbled lightly on her earlobe as she pulled out her silver earrings. He whispered softly, "Look, I hate to do this, but, well . . . " Suddenly, the compact disc jarringly skipped a track. "You know how sensitive these things are today and all. And, well, I have to protect myself you know. I have this little form here I'd like you to look over and sign before we go any further." He pulled out the handsome sheet of resume quality paper, and held it up to the flickering light of the candle. "Item number one just states that, even though you might have had a few drinks, well . . . you're sober enough to know what you're doing. The second item just states that anything that happens here tonight is with your full consent. "I trust you so much it pains me to have to do this, my sweet little lamb." He kissed her forehead as she bent to catch the dim light. "Oh Brad, God -- don't feel guilty, I understand fully. I know what it's like. I just have a problem with this line about 'gives up the rights to any civil suits or other legal claims.' It's just too vague prima facie, and might limit my future ability to seek restitution for any tortuous act not expressly provided for herein. "Who knows? We might do business in the future and you might be able to use this unjustly as leverage. If you just cross out that line I'm sure I can sign it for you now, and we'll have my lawyer look it over in case we ever hook-up again, my dear." Brad moved the pen swiftly, erasing the contested statement. As the opera slipped into a gentle interlude, Leslie signed, grabbed Brad and pulled him tight. Their lips sealed into an impenetrable bond, leaving their tongues free to wrestle inside. But Leslie broke away violently, staring into his serene eyes as a sudden draft blew out the candle. "I'm glad we got that out of the way. It makes bringing this up all the much easier. I trust you totally and all, but, well, caveat emptor," Leslie explained. "You know, written protection is better than verbal. Here's a little thing I'd like you to look over before we go any further." She took his hand and sucked lightly on one of his fingers while she relit the candle to allow him to peruse the document. "Item one ensures through threat of a class action suit that -- even though I know you'd never . . . you won't go back and blab to all your friends about what went on here tonight. It's just that men sometimes abuse us by slandering us and spreading tales about what occurs in moments of passion. "The second item -- the so-called 'Respect me in the morning' clause -- guarantees that you will talk to me after tomorrow, not that it seeks full relationship, just that you don't ignore me after we have sex like most guys do." "Honey, I'd never do that," Brad whispered lovingly in her ear as he caressed her back. "Thirdly, even though I use the Pill, a sponge, foam and an IUD, and you, of course, will wear a condom with spermicidal lubricant, in case of accidental pregnancy you will bare half of the monetary burden. "The last clause is what I like to call the 'Mutual Satiation Guarantee,' which basically says that you must not roll over like a jerk and go to sleep as soon as you climax." She rubbed his thigh vigorously as he read it over. "Look, sweetie, all this is fine except for the 'no blab' clause. It's not that I don't agree with the principle, it's just that I feel it restricts my First Amendment right to free speech." "O.K., cross that line out. I'll initial it. We'll have my lawyer work out a wording that is more comfortable to both parties." The candle glowed with the fire of their passion as they fell together in a tempestuous, grinding kiss. The moon lit up the hall as they groped for his room. They fell in a fury onto his shimmering silk sheets. Rolling and twisting together like battling snakes, Leslie and Brad kissed and moaned. As his strong hand unhooked her restrictive brazier, Leslie whispered, "Brad, oh Brad, I'm sorry but I broke one of my nails today and I have a small cut underneath. Would you mind terribly if I wore rubber gloves? You know how it is with open wounds and all. It is the '90s." "My darling, do as you like." He passionately undid the buttons of her translucent blouse and began gently kissing Leslie's excited breasts. "Darling, I want you, God do I want you. Look, though, I scraped my stomach playing rugby yesterday, and I have a slight abrasion. Do you mind a little . . . Saran Wrap?" "Of course not! I understand your position. Oh, rugby, you're such a man. Come here, closer hurry, I want you now!" Brad and Leslie made love as if they were dancing Swan Lake. Every thrust was met with the perfect reply, every kiss answered with a kiss. Leslie felt her womanhood swelling up inside of her as she lightly bit his neck. They moved with the music, a symphony of squeaking gloves on crinkling plastic wrap, reaching every note with their passion, crescendoing together. They fell exhausted, as two warriors who have finished in a draw. Brad's chest rose and fell as he held Leslie in his arms, her head on his shoulder, protecting her from the cold. She could hear him snore softly. She reflected back on the evening's wonderful events as she peeled off the gloves and threw them towards the wastebasket. As she saw a glimmer of the moonlight reflecting off the Saran Wrap, Leslie thought that for the first time she felt true love. Brian Kennedy is a sophomore English major from Newark, New Jersey. Never Mind the Bollocks appears alternate Thursdays.
(10/31/91 10:00am)
cy, Cover-up, Murder Over the last five years, more than 30 seemingly unrelated people have died, one by one, under very mysterious circumstances. The dead include the following: Philadelphia lawyer Dennis Eisman, Financial Times Reporter Anson Ng, Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme, Israeli counter-intelligence chief Amiran Nir and John Friedrich, an ally to Lt. Col. Oliver North. All of these men may have been murdered by "The Octopus." "The Octopus" is a name coined by investigative journalist Joseph Casolaro for a theorized "mega-scandal" linking the alleged October Surprise, the Iran-Contra Affair, and perhaps even the evolving BCCI scandal. Unfortunately, on August 10, before Casolaro could publish the results of his investigations, he was found dead in the bathtub of a Martinsburg, West Virginia hotel room. His wrists had been slashed. The local coroner ruled Casolaro's death a suicide. Before an autopsy could be performed -- indeed before his family even knew of his death -- the journalist was embalmed (which is against the law). A razor blade, a suicide note and a half-empty bottle of wine were found in the room where Casolaro died. But an autopsy conducted later at the request of the family showed no alcohol in the journalist's bloodstream at the time of his death. One thing was conspicuously missing from Casolaro's hotel room -- his notes on the "Octopus." Casolaro's family doesn't believe that his death was a suicide. They think he was murdered. In several conversations with his friends and family in the days before his death, Casolaro said that he was elated because he only needed to conduct one more interview before cracking the "Octopus" affair wide open. Ominously, Casolaro had received death threats in the past. He had even told his brother that if he died in an accident, "don't believe it." · The "Octopus" scandal that Casolaro claimed to have uncovered allegedly dates back to the 1980 presidential election and the so-called "October Surprise." Some commentators have alleged that Earl Bain, a former California state secretary of health under Ronald Reagan, may have helped the Reagan campaign broker a deal with the Ayatollah Khomeini to delay release of the 52 American hostages until Reagan was in office, a move that could have secured Reagan's victory in the election. As it happened, the hostages were released just as Reagan was being sworn in. Bain has denied involvement in any deal to delay the release of the hostages. · From alleged treason and election fraud, the "Octopus" scandal next turns to high-tech theft and espionage. In 1981, Edwin Meese, then an advisor to President Reagan, announced an $800 million effort to overhaul the computer systems of the Justice Department, the FBI and other law enforcement agencies. The only computer software available to meet the government's needs was owned by a small private firm named Inslaw. Inslaw contracted with the Justice Department in 1982 to install its system in the 20 largest U.S. Attorney's offices for $10 million. Soon after the system was installed, the Justice Department reneged on the contract and refused to pay Inslaw millions of dollars still owed to the company. Eventually, Inslaw was forced into Chapter 11 bankruptcy as a direct result of the payment dispute. In January of 1988, Bankruptcy Court Judge George Bayson ordered the Justice Department to pay Inslaw $6.8 million plus attorney's fees, saying that the Justice Department had stolen the software from Inslaw. Soon after Bayson's ruling on the Inslaw case, he was not reappointed to Bankruptcy Court, despite the fact that more than 90 percent of all Bankruptcy Court judges are routinely reappointed. The Justice Department appealed its loss in the Inslaw case to federal district court, but lost. Next, they appealed to the U.S. Circuit Court, which ruled last spring that the case was originally tried in the wrong court and must be reheard. Inslaw has alleged in court that the Justice Department gave the stolen software to none other than Earl Bain, the alleged mastermind of the October Surprise. The company further alleges that Bain then made millions by selling the software to dozens of foreign governments -- including foreign spy agencies. · Enter the mysterious Mr. Michael Riconosciuto. In 1990, Riconosciuto, who claims to have connections to American intelligence, came forward alleging that he had helped Bain set up the October Surprise and later modified the stolen Inslaw software for intelligence use. Apparently, Inslaw's software is perfect for keeping tabs on the movements of spies. In April 1991, soon after Riconosciuto gave a sworn affidavit to Inslaw's lawyers, he was arrested on drug charges. Riconosciuto claims the charges are trumped-up and that he is "a political prisoner," but remains in a Washington state jail without bail. Philadelphia Attorney Eisman, who was considering becoming Riconosciuto's defense lawyer, was found dead in his car with a single bullet wound to the chest on April 23 in an underground parking lot at 1500 Market Street. "He died of a contact wound directly into the heart," Philadelphia Homicide Detective Thomas Baker said Monday. "The weapon was found laying beside the car and the door of the car was open. The weapon was Eisman's weapon. There was an empty holster on his belt." "He had known for some time that he was under investigation for money laundering," Baker continued. "He found out the day before that he was going to be indicted." The Philadelphia Medical Examiner's Office ruled Eisman's death a suicide. But a woman in Eisman's former law office, who identified herself as a secretary who had worked with him for 10 years, said Monday, "No one who knew him believes it. I guarantee you he didn't do it to himself." The secretary refused to give her name, saying "whoever killed him could do the same to me." As for the possible indictment, the secretary said it never came down, adding, "I don't think they had anything on him." "They [The Justice Department] were harassing him," she said. "They wanted privileged information from him [about his clients] so they were giving him a hard time." · Several other suspicious deaths have been linked to the "Octopus," according to the Napa Sentinel -- a twice-weekly paper in California run by a self-described former intelligence officer. "Anson Ng was found dead a month before Casolaro," The Sentinel reported in September. "Ng had a single bullet wound in his chest -- like Eisman. His death was ruled a suicide." Ng, the Sentinel reported, was in Central America attempting to interview a man who allegedly held documents showing that individuals involved in an "Octopus" cover-up had a hit list, which included Swedish Prime Minister Olof Palme (whose assassination has never been solved), Israeli Counter-Intelligence chief Amiran Nir (who died in a mysterious plane crash) and John Friedrich, a close ally to Lt. Col. Oliver North. (Just two weeks before Casolaro's death, Friedrich was found dead in Australia with a single bullet wound to the chest.) · Between August 1988 when he was appointed Attorney General and the day he resigned from that post to run in Pennsylvania for the U.S. Senate, Richard Thornburgh was repeatedly asked to appoint a special prosecutor to look into the Inslaw case. Despite the pleas -- one even came from former Attorney General Elliot Richardson -- Thornburgh refused, calling Inslaw's lawsuit "a petty contract dispute." Thornburgh's Justice Department also refused to turn over documents on the Inslaw case to a Congressional committee investigating the matter until he was forced to do so by a Congressional subpoena. Committee staffers say that even now key documents are missing. The question one is left with is why didn't Thornburgh appoint a special prosecutor to look into the Inslaw allegations? Did he have something to hide? Is he somehow complicit in the "Octopus" scandal? Perhaps the Reagan administration chose Thornburgh for the attorney general post because he would keep a lid on any investigation into the matter. Remember, Justice may be blind, but Justice is also a politically appointed position. The whole "Octopus" story sounds like a Lyndon LaRouche theory. But the charges are worthy of investigation because if people start behaving like they are above the law, they are likely to continue that pattern of behavior until someone stops them. Steven Ochs is a senior Economics major from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and editorial page editor of The Daily Pennsylvanian. Whose Dream, This Reality appears alternate Thursdays.
(10/10/91 9:00am)
he University "The Boy died in my alley Without my having known. Policeman said , next morning 'Apparently died alone.' 'You heard a shot?' Policeman said. Shots I hear and shots I hear, I never see the dead." I was reminded of this Gwendolyn Brooks poem earlier this semester as I was sleeping at a friend's off-campus house. Around 4 a.m., I got up to go to the bathroom. At the same time a violent fight began outside on the street. In my semi-conciousness, I thought little of it and continued to go about my business. After three years of going to school in Philadelphia, this was nothing special. I listened to the swearing, the screaming, the breaking of glass, and then emerged from the bathroom into the dark hallway where one of my friend's housemates stood frantically trying to decide what to do. Figuring she thought I was a burglar, I reassured her that everything was all right. Of course, nothing was all right. Her panic arose from her fear that one of her friends might be coming in at that moment, passing through the bottle-fight gauntlet on the street. Furthermore, she thought she had heard one of the fighters outside being seriously hurt. The police arrived moments later, and I went out to survey the damage. The combatants had fled, leaving nothing but broken glass. The cops could offer no help in explaining what happened. Everyone returned to bed, but few went back to sleep. It was just another night in West Philadelphia. One group of my friends tried to make a collage of all the crime stories reported in the University area. In six weeks, they had covered half a wall with news clippings and decided to stop so they would not crowd out their posters. A good deal of the crime goes unreported, as students feel nothing will ever be done about it anyway. One friend was beaten up last year by four local youths directly across from President Hackney's home. However, my friend didn't report it because he feared his parents would find out through The Weekly Pennsylvanian and want him to come home. The trustees come to town to discuss the future of the University and spend three-fourths of their time dealing with crime statistics. Fear grips our campus. Increasing the size of the police force will do nothing to decrease the amount of crime. We want to put a band-aid on the cancer of our society. I promise you that this will not work. Gwendolyn Brooks' poem comes to mind because it questioned the poet's complicity in the murder of a neighborhood child in the alley: "I have always heard him deal with death. I have always heard him shout, the volley. I have closed my heart-ears late and early. And I have killed him ever." As students, faculty, administrators and employees of this University, we are responsible for our environment. When a male student gets shot in front of Smokes (as happened my freshman year) or a female student in a backpack robbery attempt gets dragged a block by a car, we helped to pull the trigger, we grabbed the bag. To quote Brooks: we have "joined the Wild and killed him/with knowledgeable unknowing." "On what do you base your logic?" you may ask. "I wasn't even a student here last year when those things happened." Granted, we do not participate in these crimes; however, we directly collaborate to create the society in which we live. Our inaction in combating homelessness, drug abuse, broken families, a decrepit education system and the rest of the mammoth list of daunting societal dilemmas is exactly what makes these problems appear so incorrigible. Clearly, something must be done. I could use this essay to encourage my fellow students to become involved in the community, but I doubt that I could say anything that they have not heard before. In helping others, you help yourselves. The time devoted to service is never wasted time. One person really can make a difference. If everyone did their one bit of good, then we'd live in a much nicer place. These are all time worn expressions. But barring the advent of a mass popular movement to combat the increasing instability of this city, we at the University must move boldly to stop the madness ourselves. Stop the madness of students getting shot while moving into their apartments. Stop the madness of two out of five Philadelphia residents not knowing how to read. Stop the madness of tennagers carying guns to school. We must act proactively not just for the welfare of the University in the '90s, but into the next century. The time has come for mandatory public service for all students in the Penn community. I know the arguments against this before they even reach the letters-to-the-editor box of the DP. Some may say, "We come here and pay good money for our education, not to perform welfare work for a city that can't even balance a budget." This rebuttal is well-founded. We students didn't really break the branch off the tree that was used in beating an Economics graduate student to death four years ago. The city in which we happen to go to school turns out to be one of the worst managed in the country. This can't be our fault. But if you could do one thing to prevent a fellow student from losing his or her life while travelling home from the library late at night, wouldn't you? Some may say, "I'm busy enough as it is. I couldn't possibly find any time for community service." There's never enough time, but somehow everything gets done. As students, we make time to do the things we have to do and then divide the remaining time up for things we want to do. I believe that once you get involved in community activity, it will become something you want to do. Furthermore, one only has to devote a few hours a week to services such as the West Philadelphia Tutoring Project. How will helping a third grader learn math prevent crime? The third grader will grow up having a role model for success and an education, two factors that help keep the child out of trouble. Before dismissing this proposal as an idiotic liberal raving, remember that William Buckley, Jr. shares the same central notion. To paraphrase the conservative pundit, mandatory public service, like gravity, is something we could accustom ourselves to and grow to love. In the meantime, as you forcefully walk home from Steinberg-Deitrich at three in the morning, reflect on what Gwendolyn Brooks had to say about violent crime: "The red floor of my alley Is a special speech to me." Jeffrey Howell is a senior English major from Seekonk, Massachusetts. Harold Ford's column, which usually appears in this space, will appear on Monday.
(10/09/91 9:00am)
Last year, Pennsylvania ran up a budget shortfall of over $1 billion. Its state government was forced to raise taxes to unprecedented levels and to slash important social programs across the board. A couple of weeks ago, it decided not to renew Smokey Joe's liquor licence. This, after it spent thousands of dollars for Liquor Control Board officers to raid Smoke's and several other campus-area bars over a period of more than a year. Clearly the good civil servants of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania have their priorities straight. Sooner than give up a valiant and noble crusade to rid the state of 20-year-old drinkers, Gov. Robert Casey and his fellow morality makers in the statehouse cut state funding where it isn't really needed -- like aid to higher education and aid to the state's biggest city. Someone needs to give the good governor a good slap upside the head. · When the federal government twisted the states' arms to increase the drinking age to 21, the rationale was that the number of driving fatalities related to alcohol would drop. It was not, they stressed, a moral issue. It was instead a practical one -- take drinks out of the hands of a section of the population, and they will not be able to drink and drive. Forget that this rationale is similar to arguing that we should not allow people to buy baseball bats because they could be used to beat people over the head. Forget that the policy punishes people who use alcohol responsibly. Forget that tough-as-nails laws against drunk driving have a similar effect in a more equitable fashion -- the federal government threatened to take away highway funds if the states failed to fall into line. But the new campaign by the LCB against campus-area bars, which is becoming increasingly vindictive, flies in the face of the whole logic used to support the 21 drinking age. The net result of closing bars around a university, where most students live on campus, will literally "drive" students off campus to find bars. It is naive to think that students will not drink. It is dangerous to foster an atmosphere where students will be more likely to drink and drive. What the state did by passing strict underage drinking laws in 1988 was not to help the fight against drunk driving. Instead, the laws are more like moral dictums passed down by the "knowers of right" in Harrisburg who feel a need to protect citizens from themselves. As a nation built by Puritans and a state built by Quakers, there has always been something holier-than-thou in the way the U.S., and Pennsylvania in particular, have dealt with vices. Things that often provide an amount of corporeal pleasure -- alcohol and sex, to name the biggies -- are for some reason looked upon as evil or dirty. Our false moral rectitude provides our Western European counterparts with a little chuckle. Americans, they say, hate to have fun. Europeans say we are embarassed by our desires and try to hide them. Whether you agree or not, it is clearly not the role of the government to decide what is morally right. And behind these philosophical arguments stand the practical ones. The strict enforcement of underage drinking laws is forcing students further off campus, where they are more susceptible to crime and more prone to drink and drive. If they chose not to drive to find alcohol, students will turn to the hard stuff in their rooms before they go out on campus -- a practice that is both unhealthy and unsafe. It is clear, however, that no matter how loud we yell and scream, the legislators will not listen to our mostly-out-of-state-non-voting voices. The University has a responsibility to mitigate the repercussions of these laws. Non-alcoholic alternative events, like those sponsored by the Social Planning and Events Committee, are one answer, but alcohol will still be consumed even as these events grow in popularity. And there is no reason why alcohol, when used responsibly, should not be part of a healthy campus social scene. Drinking can be fun, and should not therefore be seen as something evil and dirty. Rutgers University has realized this fact and recently instituted a policy that allows students to drink -- indeed, it encourages students to drink out of kegs to avoid the hazards glass bottles present. Students who want to host campus parties must attend presentations on drinking responsibly and register their kegs with the school beforehand. According to the dean in charge of monitoring the new plan, "students will act responsibly and take responsibilty for others" who drink. The University and the state should follow the lead of our cousins across the Delaware. Peter Speigel is a senior History major from Phoenix, Arizona and managing editor of The Daily Pennsylvanian. Laughter and Contempt appears alternate Wednesdays.
(10/01/91 9:00am)
Wharton senior Mike Fernandez said he throws his trash in the dumpster. He said he wants to recycle, but doesn't know where he can do it. Fernandez, like many off-campus residents, is not aware of the curbside recycling program available in West Philadelphia. Angie Coghlan, coordinator for the Spruce Hill and Cedar Park Areas Plastics Recycling program, said the beginning of the school year is the best time to educate and inform off-campus residents as well as the University community about the recycling program. "It's like reinventing the wheel," she said. "With groups of students leaving and entering the area, it is necessary to keep going back over the same information and procedures con cerning recycling." On campus, dormitories have recycling containers for aluminum cans and all paper products. Easily accessible in each dorm is a red dumpster for aluminum cans and a yellow dumpster for paper products. Off-campus residents can use these facilities as well. Nick Sanders, coordinator of the Spruce Hill Recycling program, which services students living off campus, said about thirty corners from 40th to 51st Streets are drop sites for recycling. "Our curbside pickup program is a successful one," Sanders said. "We are an outlet for a growing concern in the community, and consequently, the student turnover is always big." Sanders added that the Spruce Hill program has been cited as one of the most economically efficient programs in the city because of the large number of participants and high volume of recyclable materials received. "We continually bring in more materials than other parts of the city," he said. Sanders said corner pickup takes place the first and third Saturday of each month. All materials in Spruce Hill area should be out on the corners by 11 a.m. and in Cedar Park by 10 a.m. If items are left in advance of these times, they may be removed by trash pickup. "By participating in our program, we are able to supply manufacturers with recycled products. That's the first step," Sanders said. "However, [consumers] must take the second step -- demanding recycled products and then creating a market for them." Acceptable items for the corner pickups are: aluminum cans, newspaper, office paper, computer paper, and glass, but clear glass, green and brown bottles and jars only -- no ceramics, drinking glasses or lightbulbs. Like materials should be separated, then appropriately bagged, tied, or boxed. Although plastics can be recycled too, they are not collected at the general recycling corners. Coghlan said recyclable plastics may be left at the Firehouse Farmers' Market at 50th Street and Baltimore Avenue or at the Northwest Corner of 40th and Locust Streets. Plastic items can be dropped off between 10 a.m. and 1 p.m. at either station on the first and third Saturdays of every month. Recyclable plastics include water and milk jugs, soda and seltzer bottles, and laundry product bottles. Sanders said the proceeds from Spruce Hill Recycling go to local recycling, environmental and community groups. In the past, the groups have included Clean Air Council, Philadelphians for Recycling, University City Arts League, and the police mini-station at 44th and Walnut streets. Coghlan said her plastics recycling program uses its funds to support local students in continuing higher education. Both programs are organizations run solely by volunteers. Despite the extent of recycling capabilities, some materials cannot be accepted for recycling. Magazines, glossy ads, cardboards, telephone books, mixed paper, folders and envelopes, frosted or painted bottles, plate glass, car windows, and metal cans should not be left at the corners for pickup. These corners include: 40th and 44th and Walnut Streets, 42nd and 46th and Locust Streets, 45th and Spruce Street, 43rd and 45th and Osage Avenue, 42nd Street and Baltimore Avenue, and 44th Street between Baltimore and Larchwood Avenues. For more information or to volunteer, call 726-8126 or 662-5636 for corner recycling and 729-6273 for plastics recycling.
(09/26/91 9:00am)
Recycle this newspaper. Put it in one of the many white plastic tubs labelled "mixed paper" found all over campus. And then give a big round of applause for the University, whose year-old recycling program will receive an award from the city of Philadelphia next week. Dezzi plans to present University Recycling Coordinator Albert Pallanti with a citation at a recycling convention next Thursday at Thomas Jefferson University. Pallanti said he will make a presentation of the University's program at the convention. Pallanti added the University recycles 45 to 50 tons of mixed paper each week, which is 25 percent of the total waste produced at the University. The University also recycles cans, but Pallanti said Physical Plant does not keep an accurate account of them. And just as the University receives an award for its extensive recycling program, an extension of the program is scheduled to begin next month. The University plans to start a program for disposing of glass bottles and plastics with receptacles first being placed outside Steinberg-Dietrich Hall, in the Graduate Towers and in the Towne Building. Pallanti said Physical Plant is also planning a pilot program for recycling laser toner cartridges used in the printers in administrative offices. Currently, about half of the cartridges are sold back to the vendor and recharged. The University instituted its recycling program last September, in response to a city law mandating that institutions recycle and to student criticisms that the University was dragging its feet. "There were a lot of people who really wanted a sincere recycling program but still had to push the issue through a lot of red tape," said College senior Colin Yost, former president of the Penn Environmental Recycling Group. "Penn got lucky in a sense, because it found [a recycling company] willing to take all of our paper products." Pallanti, who headed the administrative efforts to implement a recycling program last fall, credited student groups with pushing the administration forward and for publicizing the efforts to students. In the past few years, the Environmental Group and the Undergraduate Assembly Environmental and Recycling committee have pushed the administration to start and expand current programs. In fact, it was students who started the first environmental programs on campus. And both groups have presented the administration with proposals and lists of goals which Pallanti said the University has tried to meet. "I personally meet with both groups and they have a very positive influence," Pallanti said. "They assist in the basic follow-up with the students, advertise on Locust Walk . . . they're the publicity department of our program." UA committee Chairperson Jennifer Berrent said the group will continue with publicity this year, with a new campaign of "recycle, and tell your friends to recycle." "We want to go with the idea that if you tell two friends, and they tell two friends and they tell two friends . . . If you can get two of your friends to recycle it can make a huge impact," Berrent said. Yost said that while the University has come a long way, it still does not buy recycled products, which he said is an important part of any recycling program.
(09/16/91 9:00am)
A man robbing a house on Chestnut Street inhabited by University students "thought he could fly," Craig Hollerman said yesterday. The Wharton senior, who lives in the house, said when his friends found the man robbing a third-floor room at 8:22 p.m. Friday, they yelled at him to stop. "Some black dude climbed up a tree, broke into the third floor, and took two CD players," College senior Chris Busconi said. "He ran down the hallway and jumped out of the window with the players in hand." The man survived the 35 to 40 foot drop to the alley behind the house with two broken ankles, Busconi said. "He broke both his ankles, but miraculously the CD players were unharmed," the resident added. "We and the police found him crawling down the alley." Hollerman mused, "I think he was on crack or something." University Police Sergeant Lawrence Salotti said yesterday that police responding to the burglary report found the man with broken ankles in the alley. The house, located at 3721 Chestnut Street, has been burglarized seven times during the past two years the students have lived there, residents said. "We asked the landlord to put bars on the windows [when the crimes first occurred]." Busconi said, adding the house was robbed the week after the bars were installed. The students then asked the landlord to put bars on the inside of the windows, and for the past year and a half, there have been no incidents. Hollerman said that several bicycles have been stolen during the past summer, but that no one has been injured or threatened. Busconi said he has chased away several people who he caught throwing bottles at his house and this semester he caught one man "chiseling" at a side door to the kitchen.
(06/13/91 9:00am)
You enter a smoky, dimly-lit room, its walls graced with Arabic script. Exotic strains of guitar music twang in the background as you cross the tiled floor, and a fez-capped waiter in harem pants leads you through a maze of mosaic-patterned couches. You recline in a dark, cozy corner, surrounded by plump cushions, and your charming guide kneels tableside, instructing you in the customs of a far-off land. Your mind reels as he brings dish after dish -- seven sumptuous courses in all. Where are you? a sheik's royal banquet? a desert oasis? a Near Eastern opium den? Answer: All of the above -- Marrakesh, located at 517 S. Liethgow Street (just off South), has been offering far more than just a prix fixe meal since 1977. According to the restaurant's manager, Nina Frangieh, a family named Kouchacji, originally from Lebanon, opened their first Moroccan restaurant on the East Coast (there is also one in Washington, D.C.) with the goal of providing customers with an authentic, unique experience. · We visited Marrakesh on a crowded Saturday evening, and the waiter immediately bombarded us with friendly banter and knowing advice. "Is this your first time at Marrakesh? . . . Here we will serve a meal as you would experience it in a Moroccan home . . . First you will wash your hands, since you will eat with them." After pouring water over our hands, our waiter spread a towel-sized napkin across our laps, and the feast commenced. Course one was a pungent vegetable salad, served in a shallow ceramic bowl. The salad was served with a hunk of dense, floury bread, which we dipped into the pickled sliced carrots, tart eggplant and mildly spicy cucumbers and peppers. When we finished the bread, we scooped up the oily slaw with our fingers, a delightfully naughty sensation, and one which was to enhance the entire Marrakesh experience. My dinner companion and I ordered the reasonably-priced house red wine, available (as is the house white) by the carafe. We were informed matter-of-factly that it was a California brand. The couple next to us was enjoying a bottle of special Moroccan brew, which was on the more expensive side. A few sips of the full-bodied wine, and along came course two: a searing hot shredded chicken-and-egg mixture encased in filo dough, and sprinkled with powdered sugar and a touch of cinnamon. The room was so dark that it was difficult to discern exactly what it was that I tore apart with my fingers, but somehow that didn't seem to matter. While waiting for dish number three, I glanced around the room. Next to us sat a middle-aged woman sitting quite close to a rather young man. Across the room a group of six thirtysomethings cooed over a baby, and discussed kitchens and snakes. Farther down, a loving couple fed each other grapes. I wondered what course they were on. Dish three was "spicy chicken," a supernaturally tender meat doused in a fiery curry sauce and served with bitter green olives. I am not usually fond of spicy foods, but by now something -- the atmosphere or the wine or both -- dulled the effect to a near-pleasant tingle. Next, course four offered a choice of beef or lamb. We opted for beef shish kabob, blackened on the outside, salt-and-peppery inside, garnished with orange slices. While pulling the meat off the skewer with my fingers and tearing it with my teeth, the everpresent waiter popped by, bringing washcloths scented with rosewater for our hands. · With three courses still to come, I realized that I had forgotten my watch. This was fine with me; I had been in this Near-Eastern Oz for at least an hour and had no desire to click my ruby slippers. · At the couch next to us, a smiling foursome were diving into their cous-cous, course five. When ours arrived, we understood the smiles -- the curious mixture of cooked onions, grainy squash, burnt raisins and Moroccan grain, simmering in a lamb-tinged sauce, provided apt compliment to the heavier meat dishes. The gluttonous manner in which we shoveled this fare into our mouths seemed awfully humorous. And by now we certainly appreciated our mammoth "lapkins." While reclining into item number six, a huge bowl of fruit, I began to ask myself what exactly about this Marrakesh produced such a collective feeling of good will and camaraderie. My comfort and contentment certainly had something to do with the knowing, mischevious looks I received from patron and waiter alike. Eating with our hands in a warm, close room creates a curious feeling of intimacy. I also wondered why the Red Delicious apple I munched on was indeed the most delicious I had ever tasted, even after five other dishes. Perhaps it was the fluffy pillows I sank into, or the music which seemed to rise and fall erratically with my heartbeat. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that my shoes had slipped off, and were hiding somewhere among the couch cushions. · After the fruit, mint tea, served in a manner that one must see to believe, was a perfect palate cleanser, balancing out the meal. And the final course, sticky-sweet baklava, honey and chopped nuts wrapped in a triangle of flaky pastry dough, rested in a pool of rose-flavored syrup. I could only manage two bites of this dessert, for by this time my limits had been exceeded. I was astonished by the amount that I consumed; I felt leaden but light-headed. The room seemed darker than before. From all sides I heard whispered murmurs: " . . . I could fall asleep . . . Do I have to stand up? . . . " I resisted my own urge to doze off, and left the meal with honeyed hands. (With all the attention paid us by the staff, I had to question why we weren't honored with a final rinse. Perhaps so the check wouldn't slip out of our fingers?) · Dining at Marrakesh costs $20 per person, with 15 percent tip and tax tacked onto your bill, in case you're too overwhelmed to add properly. Make sure you call for reservations, because seating is limited and this joint is really popular. Above all, remember that Marrakesh is more than a restaurant, it is an experience; this is not a meal to be rushed through, or taken lightly. Visit Marrakesh with that person you want to get closer to -- feed him or her some grapes, and watch the patterns dance on the walls. Or bring five or seven close friends for some soul-searching. Don't wear a watch. After dinner you will walk out into the night air, spirit a bit lighter, and feel like you are missing something, as if some sort of home exists in that warm intimate den, and "real life" is a rather unwelcome prospect. This strange sensation wears off in an hour or so. But you'll be back. (CUT LINE) Please see DINING, page 9 DINING, from page 7
(06/06/91 9:00am)
A Summer Times reporter spends 24 hours with a group of homeless men, learning what it really means to endure.
Johnnie is looking for $5.08 — the price of a half gallon of Thunderbird wine. He counts his money slowly and precisely as he hands over the total of $2.50 to his best friend T., who says he’ll combine their funds to buy the “vino.” Johnnie reaches into his sack to get an Egg McMuffin that he scrounged from the dumpster behind McDonald’s, and offers a cold cheeseburger to June, another longtime friend. Johnnie says he has to find ways around the security measures which McDonald’s uses to protect their garbage. He salvaged his most recent haul by scaling a 10-foot wall, climbing over the barbed wire at the top and jumping into the dumpster. The two eat their sandwiches in silence, and they watch the students hurry down Locust Walk. Occasionally the silence is broken when a pretty girl walks by and June comments that he wants a college girl, “who’s got her head on straight.” He adds that the right girlfriend would bring him back from the dead-end path of “crack and cheap sex.” As the hot summer sun beats down, and the salty food is eaten, both men say they are dying for a drink, but T. has not yet returned with the wine. Luck is with the men today, and the attendent allows them to take the ice, which they bring to the side of a nearby house and fill from a garden hose. They have come to rely on the spout since Roy Rogers recently restricted the amount of free water they will give to the homeless. Johnnie says he was an All-Star basketball and football player while in ninth grade and then dropped out of school when his mother died. Shortly after, he eloped with an Italian girl named Donna and moved to Tallahassee, Florida. The two were passionately in love and they moved first to Miami, and later to Philadelphia in the mid-‘70s. Johnnie had only been in Philadelphia a short time when his “life fell apart,” — banks repossessed his house and car, and his wife walked out on him. This series of catastrophes caused him to begin to drink heavily. “I see Donna once in a while,” Johnnie says. “She’s whoring downtown.” Johnnie remembers one night when Donna tried to stop him from going to a bar because she was afraid something bad would happen. That night, Johnnie stabbed and killed a man he knew because the man uttered the threatening phrase, “I just don’t like you, Johnnie.” After serving a prison term, Johnnie remarried in 1979. He and his second wife, Mumsey, who is also homeless, are not faithful to each other. Johnnie will turn 40 in several weeks. · Tommy returns to the shady bench and tells them the word on the street — someone was shot last night in The Bottom (also known as “The Bucket of Blood.”) The Bottom is the area surrounding 40th and Lancaster — a crack haven where the homeless purchase drugs and get high in the crack houses and cheap hotels. The talk of the murder, however, soon dissipates (Johnnie says that death is an everyday occurrence for him and his friends). The topic of discussion moves onto graphic descriptions of the sexual favors that each man had purchased the night before. Two hours have passed, and T. has not returned from the liquor store. June and Johnnie go to find T., and more importantly, their money. They slowly make their way to the liquor store, and they see that T. is being chased by Red (whom June describes as “white trash”). Red yells that T. must return his eighteen cents so he can buy a beer. T., however, insists that he never borrowed the money. Red raises his fists to hit T., his arms revealing many tatoos and IV drug track marks, vivid against his pale white skin. T.‘s grunting shows that he is in no mood to fight, so Red stops short of striking him. Johnnie’s friend Chuck reflects on how Red has changed in the past few weeks. “Red just found out he has AIDS, and ever since he’s been violent,” Chuck says. “I now break all my needles so that I too don’t get AIDS from drugs.” T. eventually returns the money to Red, so Johnnie makes his move, cornering T., and demanding his money. T. again begins his routine about not having the money, but Johnnie is sober and will not fall for it. In fact, after leaving he has made twelve cents. · Johnnie is the leader of his “posse,” a club of several dozen homeless people that has its own intricate rules and traditions. They used to meet at a clubhouse in a condemned home, but it burned down twice. All members of the club identify their alligiance by donning an American Heart Association button and a Zenith Data Systems painters’ cap. Among the club’s rules, foremost is the stipulation that “your word is your bond.” No one ever goes into anyone else’s bag of possessions without permission, and food and booze is generally shared. Club members enjoy citing their hero, Kenny Rogers, as best expressing the philosophy of surviving on the streets. Twice that day June and Johnnie sang “The Gambler,” in chorus. “You got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away, and know when to run.” · Five hours later, Johnnie is still short of his $5.08 goal for the Thunderbird wine, so Chuck goes to the WaWa on the 3900 block of Walnut and “hustles” passers-by for the remaining money. Johnnie says that college students give the panhandlers the most money. On an average day, if one “hustles” from dawn to dusk, he can make nearly $35. “If it wasn’t for the college kids, I wouldn’t be alive,” Johnnie says. Chuck purchases the bottle of Thunderbird, and Johnnie and June join him in the park outside the Free Library to sip the wine and talk. June has many stories to share with the other two, since he has just been released from a prison term for justifiable homicide. Chuck adds that he is thinking of joining Red on his annual tour with the Grateful Dead. He says that he feels it is a great opportunity to sell t-shirts and make some money, but he worries that he could never match the amount Red brings in by selling sheets of acid. The trio is soon joined by Tyronne, and as the wine dulls their senses, the conversation quickly turns to sex. Tyronne brags, as his pronounced beer belly wobbles, that his work went well the night before — Tyronne is a gigolo. June explains that Tyronne is actually a “gigolo-want-to-be,” and that none of his “customers” actually pay him. Tyronne retorts that June is “just being negative” and is always looking for the disappointments in life. Night falls as they finish the wine, and Tyronne leaves. Johnnie, June and Chuck decide that it is time to go to the Bottom to get high. The three cross the intersection of 40th and Market, becoming excited about what the night holds in store. As they walk north, they come to an area called “Tricks City.” Prostitutes line the streets and hawk their wares. “They turn the trick and then buy the crack,” June says. “If the cap [vial] is five dollars, and they have four fifty, the whore will take you around the world for 50 cents.” The hookers have sex an average of thirty times a day for three days straight, and then they rest and don’t work for two, the men say. “I don’t want to get married,” one prostitute says. “This crack is my husband and this glass pipe is his dick.” The group chooses to purchase the night’s crack from a group they call the Jamaicans. When they see the Jamaicans’ familiar truck, they know that means turn right on the next street and look for a guy on the left-hand side of the road. They follow the instructions, and proceed to purchase a five-dollar crack vial each. “Five dollars a hit, for five minutes,” June says. “It’s a rich man’s high.” June explains that men should never smoke crack before sex, but women should. “If the man smokes crack, he can’t get it up,” June says. “But if the women does, she will love that fuck.” The three then walk to a crackhouse a block away, but choose not to go inside. They huddle in a tight circle and begin the familiar ritual. The three men bend over and insert the crack crystals into a glass pipe which is also filled with shavings from a brillo pad that act as a filters. A long metal stick called “the pusher” is used to insert the crack. After they light the pipe, they hold the smoke in their lungs for as long as possible. After they get high, June and Johnnie began to search for the evening’s sleeping location. After careful thought, they decide on the alcove in front of a church at 38th and Chestnut, where Johnnie had left a pillow and two pieces of carpeting the night before. As they lie down into their sleeping beds, they light up their pipes again, trying to get another hit; unfortunately, not enough remains to get high. They are not bothered by the bats which fly above their heads and the large cockroaches which crawl across their beds. After drifting to sleep, Johnnie suddenly wakes up and announces that he is “horny.” He wanders over to the Bottom again and finds a prostitute who will help him for free. “She was feeling good, I was feeling good,” Johnnie says. “So she sucked my dick.” The two return to their bedding location for the night, and sleep until dawn, then they return to the WaWa and the cycle repeats. Once again, Johnnie needs $5.08 to buy a half gallon of Thunderbird wine. . .
(04/25/91 9:00am)
The two students fired from University Television last semester for a lewd program used the same airwaves last night to publicly apologize for the broadcast. "We lost control, and we're sorry. We don't want it to be a litmus test of our character," Rothstein said. During the 45-minute talk show, which aired October 2, the two discussed oral sex in graphic detail, flashed pictures of nude models, mocked the dating of Jewish women and aired surprise telephone calls to women selected from The Freshman Record, all while drinking a bottle of tequila. The two said the alcohol was the "catalyst" for their behavior. "Richie and I don't drink that much, so when we did drink this large amount of alcohol, we got out of control," Fumo said. Last October, much of the attention over the program was focused on the phone calls made to women listed in the Record. The hosts had identified female students by first and last name and broadcast their room numbers just before they asked them on dates. Rothstein said he and Fumo believed that since the names were published in a directory they were "public domain" and fair game for comedy. The duo also apologized for a string of ethnic jokes, saying they had intended to refrain from using such humor, but were overtaken by a "being-on-TV-lets-be-funny attitude" once the live show began. As for the nude photographs and related discussions, Rothstein said they "tried to have a candid, mature discussion about oral sex, but it got out of control." During the eight-minute statement last night, the students appeared relaxed and spontaneous, often breaking into dialogue to illustrate their arguments. The apology also said the former producers have undertaken "serious self-evaluation" since October. The October incident sparked a probe and subsequent settlement by the Judicial Inquiry Officer. Last night's broadcast was reportedly part of the settlement agreed upon by the JIO and the hosts. Another provision of the settlement requires Rothstein and Fumo to show the apology at four campus locations Sunday -- at 6 p.m. in High Rise South 16th floor lounge, the McClelland Hall television lounge at 7 p.m., at 8 p.m. at the television lounge at Hill House, and at the King's Court/English House courtyard at 8:30 p.m. JIO Constance Goodman said last night the punishment includes additional sanctions, which she declined to specify, citing University confidentiality policies. Outrage over the program also prompted changes in UTV station policy. After last night's apology, Station Manager Kirk Marcolina appeared on the air to reiterate those changes. According to Marcolina, all program debuts must be monitored by station management. In addition, UTV has prohibited alcohol in its studios. "Again, I apologize to anyone who was offended by Pig Penn," Marcolina said. Staff writers Emily Culbertson and Roxanne Patel contributed to this story.
(04/25/91 9:00am)
The apology, which UTV Station Manager Kirk Marcolina said is part of the hosts' punishment for producing the show, will air at 9 p.m. While Judicial Inquiry Officer Constance Goodman said yesterday she has seen the taped apology, she did not say whether the taped apology was part of the punishment. President Sheldon Hackney called for an investigation of the 45-minute talk show days after the UTV executive committee fired hosts Richard Rothstein and Vincent Fumo. During the show, Rothstein and Fumo split a bottle of tequila, showed pictures of nude men and women and discussed oral sex in graphic detail. At one point in the show, the hosts called two freshman women, identifying them by their names and face book pictures. JIO Goodman imposed sanctions on the hosts last month after a four-month investigation. However, because of University confidentiality policies, Goodman cannot discuss the students' punishments. Marcolina said the taped apology elaborated on all of the points the hosts made in a written apology printed in The Daily Pennsylvanian. He added Goodman made no changes in the taped apology submitted to her. Earlier this month, Fumo and Rothstein submitted the letter to the DP apologizing for offending people and invading the privacy of the two freshman women. They also said they "underestimated the tolerance of the Penn community" and that their discussion and actions were inappropriate. Their letter contradicted earlier statements saying the show was meant as satire and questioning why putting the women on the air was harassment. After Fumo's and Rothstein's apology airs, UTV will broadcast the changes they have made in station policy after Pig Penn, which include barring alcohol on the set, requiring the production director to watch taping of new shows and giving the program director power to pull live shows from the air. Rothstein confirmed yesterday the apology would air tonight but would not comment further. Fumo changed his phone number to an unpublished one days after the show aired. UTV is available in all Superblock dormitories.
(04/22/91 9:00am)
A female Georgetown University student was lassoed by a Phi Delta Theta fraternity brother (ARCHIVE NOTE: NOT correct, not by a brother) Saturday night as she passed by the fraternity's 37th and Locust street, University Police said yesterday. According to University Police Lieutenant Susan Holmes, the incident, which was referred as a harassment case to Judicial Inquiry Officer Constance Goodman, occurred at 8:30 p.m. as the woman was walking with her boyfriend. Holmes added that police know the identity of the brother and has passed his name on to the JIO. Holmes would not release the name of the student, however. The harassment case was only one of an unusually high number of crime reports that kept University Police busy over Spring Fling weekend. From Thursday through yesterday, police responded to two simple assaults, a robbery, an attempted robbery, an auto accident and a possible break-in at President Sheldon Hackney's house as well as the harassment incident. According to Holmes, a male University student reported at 10:25 p.m. Thursday night that he was the victim of an attempted robbery on 40th and Spruce streets. The student told police that a man approached him and threatened to punch him in the face if he did not hand over his jacket. Holmes said the student used mace to defend himself and the assailant fled the scene. The student described his assailant as five foot, nine inches tall, weighing approximately 160 pounds with a neat appearance, dark moustache, and wearing dark jeans. In the first simple assault, a graduate fellow was assaulted while trying to break up a fight between three students on the Junior Balcony in the Quadrangle at 2:36 p.m. Saturday afternoon. Holmes said that there were no injuries reported and no arrests were made. She said the incident will probably be referred to the JIO. In the second assault case, Holmes said a woman reported that she was at a party early Sunday morning in the Sigma Phi Epsilon fraternity house at 4028 Walnut Street when a man grabbed her and swung her around. The woman responded by striking the man with a plastic bottle. At 3:13 a.m. Sunday two students were struck by an automobile at 40th and Spruce streets and taken to the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania by Philadelphia Fire Rescue, Holmes said. Holmes said police tried to get an update on the condition of the two students at 10:13 a.m. but Student Health reported that they had no information. Holmes speculated that this lack of information meant the two students were not admitted to the hospital. In the robbery, a University alumnus was robbed on 40th and Spruce streets at 3:57 a.m. yesterday morning. Holmes said the alumnus told police his wallet was taken and described his assailant as six feet tall and wearing black clothing, fleeing west on the 4000 block of Pine Street. Holmes also said a burglar alarm went off at 4:29 a.m. yesterday morning at President Hackney's house at 3812 Walnut Street. Holmes said the building was checked and the rear door was found open. She said a man, described to police as five foot eight, to five foot, ten inches tall and dressed in black clothing, was seen leaving the area. Holmes added that police do not know if anything was taken from the house.
