Ours is a culture of nostalgia. Sometimes that nostalgia is immediate, like the million-member Facebook group “When I was your age, Pluto was a planet.” And other times it’s for a time we don’t even really remember, like VH1’s I Love the ’80s.

So now, on the verge of graduation, I think it’s appropriate for me to do a little Penn-themed reminiscing of my own. You underclassmen might not remember, but things weren’t always so easy for us students. I’m talking about an era where if you wanted wireless internet, you went to Van Pelt. My memory’s a little cloudy, but I think it’s coming back to me now…

Back in my day, we had the Triangle Diner. TriDi was open 24/7, and it would deliver right to your room in Spruce or even Hamilton. The walls in TriDi were covered with Polaroids of undergrads and waiters dancing to the 50’s tunes that the jukebox would play. And the disco fries were delicious.

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Today is the last day of March, which means a few things. First, it shouldn’t be 45 degrees and raining. Second, tomorrow is April Fool’s Day — so try to remember that spaghetti, like money, doesn’t just grow on trees. And third, we’re just two short weeks away from Spring Fling. By then, we should all be done with midterms and relaxed enough to enjoy ourselves — and it might even be 50 degrees outside.

But not everyone is über-excited about the prospect of fun and festivities at this year’s Spring Fling. Perhaps you like all your hos in the same area code and therefore aren’t stoked about SPEC’s music selection. Or maybe you’re so exhausted from a month of perfunctory bag checks that the idea of amusement seems unfathomable. It’s even possible that you’re a “good person” who doesn’t engage in rampant partying or otherwise questionable behavior.

Whatever the case may be, many of you have valid reasons not to be thrilled about the weekend of April 11th. So just as Penn offers alternative Spring breaks — for those more concerned with helping people build homes than helping people get home at 3 a.m. — I’ve compiled a short list of substitute activities that might be more suitable for this year’s non-Spring Flinger.

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So it has been brought to my attention that, in fact, we are a bunch of nerds. And, as usual, I blame Princeton.

For it was they who hosted a team from Middlebury playing Quidditch. Oh yes, Quidditch. I don’t care if we hosted them first, I still blame them, mainly to avoid despairing at our own sheer idiocy. Thankfully Ivygate blames them, too.

For those of you not cool enough to know, Quidditch is the game of the wizarding world, as described in the Harry Potter novels.

The game involves flying around on broomsticks with three different kinds of balls - one type (the Quaffle) to throw through hoops, one type (the Bludger) that renders you unconscious and the Golden Snitch, a tiny little ball that whizzes around, the capture of which ends the game and earns you 150 points (usually winning you the match). The rules are important for what comes next.

In the Middlebury version, the Snitch is played by a “hyperactive college student” in a yellow jersey, sporting a sock from his behind in the hope someone grabs it and ends the game. I think he’s also asking for feel-up, but that’s just me talking. I mean, kid, what the hell is wrong with you? You are not a Snitch, you’re an idiot hoping no one catches the sock flapping invitingly in the region of your arse.

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Coming out of a haze of birthday celebrating, I glanced at the calendar, and apparently it’s almost April. Wait, what?

That means it’s spring! A time for reproduction! Or even just production.

I’m sure you know where this is going (and no, I’m not using the Spin like a certain part of craigslist): a call for guest blogs.

Whether you want to oppose something uberpublicly, feel an overwhelming urge to give everyone some useful advice, or just have remarkably random Penn factoids to share, the Spin might be your place to do it.

200-350 words, humor suggested, wit required, opinion infinitely preferred to none, pictures/YouTube/inventive media always appreciated. If you have an idea for a post or already wrote something out, shoot me an email me at stull@dailypennsylvanian.com and we’ll see what happens.

Because even if you have that paper due tomorrow, wouldn’t you rather write 300 words of entartaining wit than 2500 of that “academic value” crap?

Quakers, are you ready for your close-up?

It’s all eyes on Pennsylvania, and the entire Clinton clan swooping through campus one by one is only the beginning.

Since — as Eric reported — you showed no kindness to MC Rove (who would?), I thought a guide on how not to treat your future political guests might come in handy.

1. Don’t throw pie. Seriously, that’s so 1914. Yet just five years ago, Nader was pied while endorsing Camejo, a Green Party candidate in California. Camejo then attributed the attack to the Democratic Party’s jealousy of the GP’s growing popularity. Wait, what? Okay, okay — if you need to pie someone, Nader is an excellent choice.

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I thought things were pretty bad: violent crime is up, we’re nearly in a recession, and massive polar ice regions are being reduced to raisins in the sun.

But whatever — all that shit doesn’t matter today, because for just $29.99 (and a lab fee of $119) you can finally find out who your baby daddy is.

Go to your nearest Rite Aid — actually the one on Broad Street — and an over-the-counter paternity test can be found in aisle six, on the shelf close to the condoms and under the Excite Female Sexual Stimulating Gel.

If the cheek swab test is done correctly, these tests are 99.9% accurate. That’s pretty impressive. It sure takes the fun out of “Guess Who” whomp whomp.

But seriously, this is a pretty big deal for a lot of Americans. Research has shown that about 10-20% of Americans incorrectly assess who their real fathers are. Let’s do the math. 15% of 300 million citizens = 45 million who may now be able to call the right guy “papa.”

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At Penn, we value our technology. We use clickers to answer questions in class. We Facebook stalk. We even tackle tough technology-related bioethical issues.

So why can’t half our profs check their email without crashing the system?

In my almost-two years at Penn, I’ve taken four language courses in the Department of Romance Languages. I’ve also watched four professors waste class time - that could be better spent mispronouncing the names of primary colors - engaging in a futile battle with such overly complicated technologies as BlackBoard, Windows, and the touch-screen insanity that lurks in every Williams classroom.

Similarly, a professor from another department once accidentally clicked on an ad of questionable nature during a lecture, which resulted in general hilarity and a lot of blushing from both sides of the classroom. It was like watching porn with your mom on a big screen — wildly uncomfortable and really, really easily avoided.

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“When do I get to be who I’m going to be?”

It’s a question that still perplexes Julie Buxbaum, nearly a decade after graduating from Penn.It’s a key dilemma for Emily Haxby, the central character of Julie’s debut novel, The Opposite of Love.

And I’d bet it’s a problem a lot of Penn students wrestle with, too.

You wouldn’t expect it from Julie, who’s already been a Harvard law student, corporate lawyer, and (at present) successful novelist. Shouldn’t she know by now?

Well… talk to her for a few minutes, and you’ll understand. Julie wishes she’d gone into public interest law; having majored in PPE over English, she’s got a stack of classics left to read; and so on. Like a lot of us, Julie’s still figuring it out.

A self-confessed Type A personality — tethered to her cell phone as we talk across three time zones — Julie’s touring to support The Opposite of Love (she’ll be at the Penn bookstore at 7:00 tonight, signing the book and taking questions). While the novel’s great, Julie’s own story is just as intriguing.

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So The Colbert Report is coming to the Zellerbach theatre from April 14 to 17. Want tickets? Too bad. I think they sold out thirty minutes before Stephen even made the announcement.

But alas, this column is not about Stephen Colbert. Nor is it about selling out. It’s about Doritos — as in the sponsor of Colbert’s visit, officially titled “The Colbert Report: Doritos Spicy Sweet Pennsylvania Primary Coverage from Chili-Delphia — The City of Brotherly Crunch.” And this column is about America. And maybe, just maybe, it’s about a collision of the two. (Missy Elliot not included, but we might just be able to get OK Go.)

Doritos, you see, are an American snack food. For one thing, the Doritos headquarters are located in Dallas, Texas — the most American state we’ve got. (Despite that whole “annexation” thing.) For another, the execs over at Frito-Lay have managed to come up with a wide array of Dorito flavors to parallel this country’s diversity: Blazin’ Buffalo & Ranch (delicious), Nacho Cheese (traditional), even Cheeseburger (fire that guy).

But perhaps most importantly, Americans consume more Doritos per capita than any other nation on any other continent. And sure, that might make us the most obese country in the history of the universe — but that can’t be blamed on just one snack, can it?

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This is the first of an at-least-one-part series about how awkward professors are.

Professors get awkward about even the simplest things, like their names. When introducing themselves to students, you can actually see them furrowing their brows as they debate whether to self-identify as “Professor Parker” or just “Peter.” To some extent, it’s an understandable dilemma. The formality of one might place an icy wall between teacher and student forever, while the familiarity of the other might undermine the professor’s authority until the class devolves into an orgy — cellphones ringing, kids snorting blow off the lectern, sheer chaos.

But rather than summoning the resolve to go with one title or the other, professors invariably end up waffling between the two, plunging themselves and the entire class into a purgatory of awkwardness.

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