FebClub is the last chance for seniors to check out some of Philly’s best offerings before graduation. It’s our Bucket List. Mind you, not everybody attends these events — there are the cool seniors who have better plans and the uncool seniors who have homework. But somewhere in between is a mass of mild-mannered binge drinkers with mediocre GPAs and nothing better to do. We are the FebClubbers.

I don’t mind saying I’ve been a warrior, going to nine of the ten events so far. I might be out of the running for getting my name on a plaque at Smoke’s, but I’m still on course for that Class of ‘08 beer stein.

The Good: Mad River. Guitar Hero on a big screen and $3 well whiskey. Where else would you rather be on a Tuesday night?

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With Valentine’s Day fast approaching, you might be thinking about about where to take your SO, or just where to wine and dine the person who happens to be on your arm for the night.

I probably don’t know you, so I can’t make any great recommendations. But — with the help of Philadelphia’s restaurant inspectors — I can prepare you for the night in a way that Hitch never could.

(Warning: Please stop reading now if you’re squeamish at the thought of a fly in your soup, because that will be the least of your concerns. )

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I will get one. It is inevitable. Why? You ask.

Because I will have a job. It will be one where the emails pertain to important things. I write in response to the delectable Miss Himeles who reported on the use of Blackberries (or since they aren’t actually berries, is it Blackberrys?) a few days ago, and in response to Miss Gordon, who wrote an opinion piece back in September.

Miss Gordon, you are not inadequate for your non-use of the Blackberry. You are, in fact, getting more out of your college life and I am glad to see from your wonderfully sarcastic article that you got that point. I am huge fan of a decent spot of sarcasm. For those of you for whom it is still like a foreign language, read the piece and learn.

You see, Miss Himeles pointed out that Blackberr(ies)(ys) apparently suit the pre-professional outlook here at Penn. I would like to add one thing: PRE - professional. Pre. You know what actual bankers see when they observe Penn students walking around with Blackberrys(ies?). No, it isn’t, “Wow, that kid really has it together, better hire him!” It’s, “Seriously, what the hell sort of email does he get that he needs to have it right away?” or “What a prick.”

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Are women just their vaginas?

Ugh, that was so Carrie Bradshaw. But whatever. The point is, I never want to hear the word vagina again. Not on Locust Walk, not in Irvine, not ever. And oh, the implications of seashells, flowers, pussycats. 

As you’ve probably noticed, hoopla surrounding “The Vagina Monologues” is rather pervasive here on campus. (Like a trendy, expensive handbag, all the cool girls are flaunting it.) But, what can I say, I’m cool by association, and attended Wednesday’s showing to see one of my best friends perform.  

Let me set the scene: spotlight on a lone girl (maybe a few) in faux-sophisticated black and red getup. She is flailing her arms passionately (helplessly?) and rambling on about a number of things (e.g. sex, pubic hair, perverts and, duh, vaginas). I understand that the production has its merits — it is a novel idea to fight against violence and raise money for rape victims. The campaign has been quite lucrative, and according to the producer, Penn has raised over $27,000.

But although I’m impressed, I still can’t help feeling strangely dissatisfied. The production itself felt cliche, nauseating, and stale. (Ew, stale vaginas).

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Employers look at Facebook and Google you, yadda yadda. It’s an old story. You know it, we do it, DP commenters want the paper to move on.

But if we all know this, why are Penn students so lazy about simple protective steps — and so slow to take advantage of us gullible bosses?

According to one estimate, more than 30,000 Penn students have their profiles open for any alum to browse around. Which we will. Because employers are immoral, awful people. (Unlike undergrads who Facebook freshmen rushing their fraternity, or look up their assigned roommates. But I digress.)

Of course, running scare stories — employers will use the Patriot Act to access Facebook! Your profile will be part of your job application! — is more fun for college newspapers than being frank: plenty of curious employers can’t get to your page unless they try really hard. Many Penn students won’t interview with alums who have Facebook, and a growing number of companies block social networking sites anyway.

But most importantly, there’s a big shift underway: as employees sign up for sites like Facebook and MySpace, embarassing personal details are increasingly accepted (and ignored) in the workplace. Not to mention that seeing revealing Halloween pictures of aging coworkers is a lot scarier than seeing college kids do college things.

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You know what the “Ride the Ducks!” tour is, right? It’s that ugly neon-colored boat on wheels crammed full of drunk tourists and their neglected children. The one that haunts Independence Hall and the surrounding area. The one where everyone gets this irritating plastic quacker and uses it like it’s their last day on earth.

It’s something I always figured was an annoying but inevitable part of the city’s landscape, like our excess of LOVE statues or our affinity for gun violence. But Walt Sherman thinks differently. He thinks he can bring real change. That’s why he’s made this video:

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A new mental disorder has surfaced, which now alters the state of mind of a healthy, well-rounded Penn student, to that of a well-oiled political machine. If you think you or a loved one may be suffering from this infectious disorder, please consult the following symptoms:

1) Instead of flirting with 19 and 20 year old ripe hotties at various fraternity parties, you choose to spend your Saturday evening charming middle-aged women in California who are leaning towards Hillary.

2) During a cab ride to Center City, you haggle with the driver over his choice for President. Typically, this will end with you informing the disappointed cabbie that Barack Obama is not actually a Muslim.

3) The highlight of your day is when a Penn Dining employee notices your campaign gear and gives you a high-five. Extra points if she calls you “sugah” and calls over her friends to admire your new threads.

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One week ago, Dartmouth College launched the Institute for Writing and Rhetoric and officially came over the to dark side. For Big Green students, this means one thing: like us here at Penn, they no longer have the right not to write.

Starting next fall, Dartmouth students won’t be eligible for exemption from the school’s freshman writing requirement. In past years, up to 20 percent of Dartmouth’s incoming class was excused based on high SAT scores. But now every single one of them will enroll in the dreaded First-Year Seminar.

One part of me thinks this is a good thing. After all, Dartmouth students should graduate with writing skills in certain areas — like how to record the minutes for meetings run by Penn grads. But the other part of me remembers those Writing Seminar horror stories I’ve heard from students at this university, and I just can’t wish that kind of torture on our Ivy brethren in New Hampshire.

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Stanley Fish’s February 3rd NY Times blog, “All You Need Is Hate,” got me thinking. (Note the Beatles mentality of the 21st century.) Fish, a professor of law, discusses what affectionately has become known as Hillary-hating. Hilary-hating is a distinct breed of political bashing. It’s acutely chauvinistic, callous, and aggressive (read: macho).

I kind of get it. I wouldn’t want Hillary as my mother — even if Bill Clinton were included as a package deal. (And moreover, maybe her criticism is due to society’s general dislike of aging women, and she shouldn’t take it personally.)

Still, Hillary haters are not your typical critics. They are borderline delusional and suspiciously fervent. I say suspicious because this type of bashing would not be accepted if it were on the basis of class or race.

Therefore, who are these Hillary haters? How hateful are they? Should I be scared? 

I conducted my sociological research via Facebook. (And that’s legitimate!)

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In the last few decades, judging people by the color of their skin or by their ownership of a uterus has become socially taboo and practically inefficient. However, stereotypes live on. In the first few weeks of class, it is important to identify the good study partners, infrequent bathers, and obnoxious question-answerers. I’ve found that the best way to judge people is based on the drinks that they bring to class. Here is the message you are broadcasting when you sip your favorite beverage whilst taking notes:

Honest Tea: I’m changing the world, one crappy-tasting tea at a time. Most likely a humanities major, I know all the ingredients of my beverage and I can tell you exactly which hill of the Himalayas they were tenderly gathered from.

Starbucks latte: I was actually wide awake this morning, but I will lose all indie street cred without my most important accessory. Sure, I spent twelve dollars on this mostly-whip-cream coffee, but it’s worth it if the cute mandolin/oboe/accordion/bongo player in my Existentialism class notices me.

Gatorade/gallon of water from Wawa: If you can’t tell that I’m an athlete by my Penn Athletics jumpsuit, backpack, stoic demeanor, protruding biceps, or unintelligible comments, just check out this gallon of water! Sure, the season ended three months ago, but with every sip, I can relive the glory days: Week 4 against Dartmouth!

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