When I first applied to this university, I was promised that Penn would give me an “experience like no other.” Unlike students at Yale, for example, I won’t have to sit through lectures from Tony Blair. Unlike those at Harvard, Princeton and even Brown, I won’t have to pay less for my education. And perhaps best of all, I won’t have that nagging responsibility to cheer for a basketball team come late March like Cornell does did this year.

So far, so good: up until now, my life at Penn has been unquestionably unique, an experience like no other indeed. That is, until earlier this morning — when I saw the front page of the DP touting this unfortunate headline: “OK Go announced as third Fling band.” Suddenly I felt gypped, swindled, even betrayed. Let me explain.

This April, you see, will not be OK Go’s first appearance at Spring Fling. Just six short years ago, they played their first Fling gig in eerily similar fashion to next month’s concert: they were the show’s opening act; they played at Franklin Field; and their accompanying lineup was almost identical.

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A few days ago, when I returned from the week-that-feels-like-24-hours known as Spring Break, I expected to be welcomed back with kindness by this university. After all, temperatures are rising, fewer Philadelphians are being murdered and this city is the political place to be right now — so my RA and GA should at very least be in a good mood, right?

Wrong. For them, this week starts the inevitable month-long countdown to Spring Fling, when students tend to drink too much in the midst of “rocking out” to acts like Ludacris and Gym Class Heroes. (I never thought I’d say this, but why did Limp Bizkit have to be a joke?)

So instead of a warm welcome after break, I was greeted almost immediately by a light blue, caps-lock-friendly flier with the following header:

Riepe College House PENALTIES FOR ALCOHOL VIOLATIONS

The sheet goes on to list various punishments for drinking, from “community service” (’cause frequent boozers are great with kids) to “4 hours of alcohol education” (bartending class?!) to the incredibly vague “police action.” Needless to say, I was scared.
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For admissions officers, application review season (currently underway) is the most fun time of the year. But according to a recent DP article, some of this year’s admissions essays look as if they’ve been plagiarized or even written by counselors and parents — and that’s not “authentic.”

First of all, it astonishes me that people still want to attend this university — what with its killer hawks, rampant anarchists and sofa-less male bathrooms. But on the other hand, I sympathize with this brand new batch of Penn hopefuls, and I want to help them and future generations with the intimidating task of writing a college essay.

In that light, I’ve gathered some of the best tips from EssayEdge.com — The NY Times’ top-rated college essay site — and reinterpreted them below without all the academic jargon. If I can help just one Harvard reject make it into Penn, my job is complete.

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Most of us remember those lengthy, impressively pointless “career tests” we had to take in our junior year of high school. They would ask simple questions — like “Do you enjoy laying bricks?” — and then predict a potential career for the respondent if he said “yes.” (My guess: a bricklayer.) Some would even ask more difficult and philosophical questions — like “Do you have a soul?” — and predict a good-fit college for a “yes” answer. (My guess: Wharton.)

But as fun as those tests were, it turns out that many high schoolers more or less ignore them. (And have a whole different understanding of the phrase “to get tested.”) This report, for example, explains that only half of teenage students actually seek out career counseling, and those who do don’t find it particularly effective.

That said, I’m not trying to say that high school guidance counselors — even the worst of ‘em — are totally hopeless. Perhaps Stephen Colbert said it best in I Am American (And So Can You!):

“A guidance counselor [wonders], ‘If I’m so good at finding careers, how did I end up with this one?’”

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Spring Break is just around the corner, and that means students have one thing on the mind: sex. At the University of Iowa, for example, sex classes are filling up like crazy. And here at Penn, this Thursday is yet another installment of Sex Camp on the Quad. (Also the unwritten theme of all my childhood Boy Scout retreats.)

But this season’s biggest sex star is John McCain, the 120-year-old presidential candidate who carried on an alleged affair with a lobbyist more than thirty years his junior. In that light, I’ve decided to ask Larry Craig — Idaho’s Republican sex scandal expert — for a few political sex tips, just to keep things fresh this spring. Below are some of his secrets (or at least what I’d expect him to say).

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When I was in eighth grade, my parents made me take a ballroom dancing class because everyone else was doing it. (For some reason, when I used that logic to defend many of my other adolescent actions, it didn’t fly.)

The class typically went as follows: 120 fourteen year-olds were crammed into a room built for 50; an underpaid, over-passionate instructor dressed like a Medieval balladeer yelled commands like “Swing your partner!” for two straight hours; and at the end of it all he played the “Cha Cha Slide” just to make us feel better (although I still have no idea how to do the Charlie Brown). Worse yet, there were slightly fewer girls than boys — so a few male stragglers were left dancing with each other (horrible) or one of the supervising moms (Oedipal).

Now, more than six years later, I barely know how to box step. So when I read stories about college students involved in ballroom dancing competitions, I get nostalgic and sad.

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Earlier this semester, I enrolled in Music 070 in an effort to con my way out of Penn’s quantitative data requirement. It’s one of the few eligible classes not in the math department, so I figured I’d breeze through the course and maybe pick up some beat-boxing skills on the way.

But alas, my plan failed miserably — I should’ve known I was doomed when I listed “Alicia Keys” as my all-time favorite composer. While everyone else in the class seemed to pick up complex rhythms and time signatures with ease, I was left giggling whenever someone said pianist. So I dropped the course and that was that.

This is not to say, however, that I hate Penn for making me suffer through an inevitable semester of math. I’m slowly starting to realize how important math is to every situation; I can’t even pay my tuition bill without adding together some huge numbers.

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Today is President’s Day, the federal holiday honoring the February birthdays of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln — our two finest presidents. (Bush comes in a close third.) During their presidencies, both Washington and Lincoln fought hard for American freedoms; neither one, evidently, fought hard enough to get us a day off.

But I’m not going to spend the day being bitter. Instead, I’ve decided to honor the presidents who have graduated from this prestigious university in hopes that Penn sends more men and women into the oval office in the future. (And not as interns.)

After all, Penn has to have an illustrious list of White House alumni, right? Our Ivy peers have long lists of presidential grads: Harvard has sent seven men to the West Wing, among them JFK and FDR; Yale clocks in at five, including Clinton; even Columbia has sent three men to head the executive branch over the years. So it only makes sense that Penn has… one alumnus-turned-president? Really? Just one?

Now to add injury to insult: it’s William Henry Harrison.

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It’s no secret that humans are getting older. Medical reports have identified dozens of reasons for this trend, among them healthy eating and exercise. And one professor — University of California’s Michael Rose — predicts rather drastic life expectancies for the near future.

“In 400 years, people will live to be 1,000,” Rose told the Orange County Register a few years ago. “We’ll be playing golf in our 900s.” (”Fore!” “What?” “FORE!!” “What?!?”)

By Rose’s estimates, some humans alive today will go on to be 200 years old. Just imagine how crowded Denny’s will be.

By my count, a 200-year lifespan means a few things. First, Larry King might live another 30 years. Second, somebody somewhere is working on new Viagra that could raise the dead. (As opposed to the near-dead.) And third, people will soon get a lot uglier. And smaller. And more out of touch with today’s youth.

So is older really better? Apparently, Penn answers this question with a resounding “yes.”

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I’ve always pondered the lives of journalists. Most of the time, I’m envious of their world travels, their intimacy with countless subjects and their dogged spirit. Other times… well, not so much.

Case in point: I just read a story about a prank at a Philly high school involving dozens of chickens and even more chicken feces. Over the weekend, apparently, a crafty student sneaked countless hens and roosters into the school’s halls and abandoned them until their discovery early yesterday morning. The result? Hilarity, school cancellation and one big steaming pile of soft news. (Among other big steaming piles.)

But I feel bad for any journalist who had to cover the prank. This is the kind of story where some up-and-coming AP reporter gets a call around 6 a.m. about “school crime in Philly.” In his mind, this could be the story that makes his career. He gets excited, puts on his best I-make-less-than-you-but-know-a-lot-more clothes, runs outside to hail a taxi and tells the cabbie to “make it there before those Reuters bastards.”

Then he gets to the scene and almost immediately steps in chicken shit.

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