I’ve been bored of presidential politics since before I could even vote. For the past eight years (since i was 12), I’ve seen towers burn to the ground, hurricane disasters left unattended, and the word “dollar” become synonymous with “toilet paper.” While war continues raging and homosexual couples lack equal marital rights, it was clear to me well before I was voting that anything was better than a Republican administration.

It took me all of ten minutes on my birthday earlier this year to realize just how much the presidential election was impeding on my daily life. That day was on April 22nd, and I was sitting behind a curtain in Houston Hall, voting in the presidential primary.

I’d be lying if I said I recall the last day that went by when I didn’t hear or think or see something about this election. I just want to go cast my final vote, sit around with my friends, and have absolutely nothing to talk about. That’s the way my life should be.

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Dear white people: I like you guys.

Seriously, in high school, I was made fun of by the other Asian kids for having no Asian friends. I don’t know why, but it sure wasn’t because of a meager talent pool; I hail from Vancouver, BC, which, according to some sources, is 30% Asian. But I digress.

As much as I like you guys, I’ve come to realize that sometimes I really feel sorry for you. I most recently had this revelation as I strolled through (okay, elbowed through at a sloth’s pace) the NSO Activities Fair on Tuesday.

Bombarded with pamphlets (I guess I look young) and later, out of curiosity, browsing through the OSL Cultural and Support Organization list, I was elated that I, at this moment, technically have the option of joining the Asian Student Union, Asian Pacific Student Coalition, Canadians at Penn, and the Korean Student Association. In fact, if you are a minority student, you are free to dabble in the veritable potpourri of Penn’s available cultural groups.

But what do you have if you’re one of them simple, good ol’ WASP-y American types?

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Mom jeans. They’ve been joked on by Saturday Night Live and banished by fashion magazines, and yet they continue to be sold by such fine establishments as JCPenney. These high-waisted, butt-enlargingly tapered creations are usually only seen in elementary school car lines — unfortunately, mom jeans’ little sister, denim leggings, have been getting a little bit more exposure than they deserve recently.

My first encounter with denim leggings began when my own mother bought me a pair in 1997. She was fascinated by the comfortable, stretchy fabric, and I wore them because I had them.

I seriously thought the last time I would see denim leggings was when I put them in a trash bag to take to Goodwill, but, to my surprise, one night when I was watching television with my family, there they were wrapped around the legs of Mischa Barton on my own TV screen, on a fashion show no less (check it out around 3:30). 

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According to the article “Bartering sex for stuff or services” on CNN.com, the world’s oldest profession– prostitution– is not only alive and well (which we all knew thanks to Law & Order: SVU), but thriving amongst coeds. 

The author, Michelle Goodwin, cites a study of undergraduates at the University of Michigan that states that students are regularly exchanging sex for favors.

27 percent of the men and 14 percent of the women who weren’t in a committed relationship had offered someone favors or gifts… in exchange for sex. On the flip side, 5 percent of the men surveyed and 9 percent of the women said they’d attempted to trade sex for such freebies.

In other words, more people are asking for sex and offering gifts than requesting favors.

Stay classy, Ann Arbor.

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Most of you were probably too wasted this NSO to notice, but amidst the merrymaking and sloppy grinding, tragedy struck the Penn campus.

The body was first discovered late Monday night near the Bridge Cinema. Approximately one pound in weight, the Philadelphia native was seen earlier that night stumbling across Walnut in a drunken stupor, solo cup in paws.

Thought to be alcohol-induced, the incident is being investigated by several interested students with camera phones. Although an autopsy has yet to be performed, this blogger knows death by jungle juice when she sees it. That’s one squirrel you won’t see before bio class on Wednesday.

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We could all learn a lot from Josh Hamilton, an outfielder for the Texas Rangers and the comeback story of the moment.

He is the man of this summer’s Homerun Derby fame — snatched up by the MLB right out of high school, he had the largest signing bonus ever forked over to a high school grad. He proceeded to do what most mixed-up 18 year olds would do with four million dollars — he blew it on coke (no, not the kind that offers endorsements), cars, and just about anything else that could have detracted from his baseball career.

But after a few years of weeklong benders and a sub-par batting average, he did what all good struggling athletes do: he found Jesus, made peace with his demons and went back to work, eventually earning a starting spot on the American League’s lineup for the All-Star Game. 

Now he keeps to a very strict regimen. He never has more than 20 dollars in his pocket and if he isn’t at the Rangers’ clubhouse he is in his apartment. But the most striking element of Hamilton’s turnaround is his handler/mentor Johnny Narron whose sole job is to keep Joshie out of trouble. 

This makes me wonder — what if we all had handlers?

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Ah, off-campus housing. It is perhaps the minimal definition of “cool” here at Penn. I remember the excitement of signing my lease way back in November. Everything was perfect. I was taller, braver.

Fast forward ten months and I’m moving in. YES!!

Unforeseen blessings discovered upon move-in included… The mold on my ceiling! The lack of central air! The spiders! Oh, yes, the spiders were so happy to have me. I was in store for many precious gifts.

The first gift I received was that of familial harmony. Yes, my parents and I were afforded the opportunity to spend twenty-six consecutive hours together in a small, sweaty bedroom. Parental involvement is at best a mixed bag.

Beware: your parents will absolutely love hating everything about your new digs. Nothing brings a family closer together than 1000 variations on “What was wrong with the high rises, William?”

My parents and I also really bonded over the little surprises in my new home, like cleaning the shovel-loads of mouse crap off my windowsill and taking bets on when in October I’d die of asbestos poisoning. (My dad said the 20th. I said I wouldn’t make it to Yom Kippur.)

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Unfortunately for the class of 2012, they couldn’t pass on Convocation this year. If it wasn’t for that big, capital M in the circle on the NSO program, they could all have gotten a head start on gathering into packs, eating in dining halls and sleeping with their next-door neighbors.

I had the pleasure of singing at last night’s Convocation with the Penny Loafers, and lucky for the Loafers, we ended up being the best segment of the night.

The University kicked off the hour-long celebratory bash with the agonizing faculty stroll-in, and once the old people were seated, the class of 2012 got to hear about what other people wrote for their admissions essays. Riveting. From running for president to swimming for Olympic gold medals, Penn’s class of 2012 certainly got creative with their 217th pages of their autobiographies. What big dreams we have, freshmen!

I have news for you, Interim Dean of Admissions Eric Kaplan: None of them cared about anything you said last night. Half of these kids were admitted in 2007 and don’t remember what they wrote, and the other half had a great view of the dessert tent.

Somehow, they next let President Amy Gutmann near the microphone.

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Lots of change seems to be happening on the east side of campus.

And while there are always construction workers tooling around our sidewalks in their impressively loud and obstructive life-size Tonka trucks, this past semester saw a great increase in the number of overall-clad workmen roaming from Walnut to Spruce. We all know about the Palestra’s summer makeover, and we’ve heard murmurs of revamped athletic facilities due to grace campus by 2010.

But I’m still wondering, why all this construction and still no solution?

You see, the way I look at it, the greatest problem facing Penn students today is congestion. That’s right. The need for speed. In this dog-eat-dog world, where a college student has to pencil “personal hygiene hour” into his schedule, timely travel is a priority.

Every day I find myself cursing the non-New Yorkers among us, who just can’t seem to shuffle down Locust fast enough for me. There are simply too many people in too small a space. And with the recent graduation of the only unicyclist on campus, things aren’t getting any better.

Thus, I call for change. Rather than budgeting an ungodly amount of money for a new tennis facility, it’s time Amy Gutmann put a little aside for the solution.

Ziplines.

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I had to say it for the first time on Tuesday. “Cohen Hall.”

I was talking to a transfer student who is taking Econ 001, and when I was telling him where the class was probably located, I had to stop myself. “Logan” nearly slipped all the way past my lips.

“I mean, now it’s Cohen Hall.” I rolled my eyes.

A lot of people have been ranting about the name change of Logan Hall to Cohen Hall. I understand that alums are offended by the fact that such a historical building is being affected by donor politics, but no one seems concerned about other long-lasting ramifications.

I think of it as more of an inconvenience — I don’t want to offend anyone who has an alliance to a particular name. Having to correct myself for an entire semester could waste calories better spent elsewhere.

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