MUSIC REVIEW: Hilary Duff, The Yale Herald

“What are you, on your period or something?” This is what a teenage boy might ask Hilary Duff of her latest teenage angst filled release, Dignity. This title would usually be absurd, but given the recent antics of her panty-less, rehab-entering colleagues, (LiLo, Brit –I’m looking at you) Hilary seems to be doing a pretty good job of keeping her dignity in tact and keeping her underwear on. I’m still not sure if Dignity is the word to describe it, but with this electro-pop album, Hilary Duff certainly sheds her Lizzie McGuire image like a size AA Hanes-Her-Way training bra.

Hilary’s latest album is a perky “You go girl!” for the 12-16 year old bracket. Where she used to “let the rain fall down” and splash about in the puddles, Hilary now stomps angrily and lets her mascara smear. She sings of her breakup with Good Charlotte’s Joel Madden on “Stranger,” the deep-breathing types of her older male fan base on “Danger,” and of breakups again on the I’m-like-so-totally-over-you song, “Happy.” Joel, who could easily get in an eyeliner-off with both Duff sisters, seems to have left the young, nubile Hil in a state of rage, providing much fodder for her lyrics: they read like the emo poems from the Hello Kitty diary of a high school prom queen stood up by her date. We gotta cut Hil some slack: he did ditch her for a stick figure who once drove the wrong way on a freeway while stoned out of her gourd.

On this album, it seems like the princess of bubblegum seems to have lost some of her pop. The synth beats are of the bad 80s kind, especially on “Never Stop,” and the single, “With Love.” Both sound like demo’s you might find on a Casio keyboard at a garage sale. Hilary would have a hit on her hands had she stuck with the rock based belters that she’s known for. These radio hits usually let her hang out with the older kids, the post-sweet-16 crowd who aren’t ashamed to enjoy songs like her past hits “Come Clean” (better known by its chorus “let the rain fall down”) and “So Yesterday.” Dignity doesn’t contain a single song like this, save the title track. Hil should’ve given us a hit that we could sing in the shower. You know, the jump-around-your-room-in-your-underwear-singing-into-a-hairbrush kind of pop song.

Dignity is Hilary’s equivalent of the “Not a girl, not yet a woman” stage that Britney Spears went through not too long ago. The album is dressing up in the makeup and high heels of an older, sexier euro-pop album: everything is two sizes too big and slightly ridiculous sounding. Albums like this only seem to work when highly sexual songstresses are at the helm (see: Madonna’s Confessions on a Dance Floor and any Kylie Minogue). For once, Hilary Duff’s status as the reigning virginal, pre-pubescent teen queen plays against her. It’s hard to imagine this being played in a club. It’s easy to imagine it bumping out of a plastic Mattel jukebox.

- Celeste Ballard

Yale Class History 2008

written by yours truly, Jessica Poter, and Doug Lieblich for Class Day 2008

The Yale Record, Machine Issue - List

The Yale Herald Column 4/25/08

Barbies, M.A.S.H. and the new residential colleges

BY CELESTE BALLARD

When I was growing up, my sister would force me to play Barbies with her. I would often watch as her well-groomed, smudge-free leading lady reigned over the ragged cast of Barbie wannabes that I kept in my monogrammed pink case: Cinderella Barbie, whose shorn locks complimented her sharpie eyeliner; Little Mermaid Barbie, who had suffered through a long, nauseating car ride from the Disney store that ended in vomit; and an array of Skippers, Dollys, Stacys, and other tweens from Barbie’s entourage. Her Barbies were fashionistas and working moms, while mine were fashion victims and the hostages of my younger brother’s Army men. She was always much better at Barbie realism, and I was always excited to participate and look on as she acted out scenes of domestic bliss. Luckily for us, we soon became the proud owners of the most exalted of Barbie’s bourgeois luxuries, the trademarked Malibu Dreamhouse, and this paragon of childhood “Material Girl” idealism prompted us to generate floor plans of our own.

I recently found one such schematic that made it clear I was never destined to be an architecture or interior design student. If any of those students got a hold of my drawing, they would cringe at my refusal to use a ruler or other straight edge. For a drafting pen, I used a bright pink Gelly Roll to label my boxes in perfect Denelian script. My plan began with a small foyer, a room I knew belonged at the entrance of any good Dream Mansion, but a room I did not, evidently, know how to spell. Aware of the basic structural necessities, I added a small bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub adjacent to said foyer. A stranger or psychoanalyst might describe the rest of the floor plan as a combination of wishful thinking and appetite. A veritable pantheon of fast food deities included, but was not limited to, McDonalds, Jamba Juice, Noah’s Bagels, and the Chinese food place down the street. Little Celeste then included a roller rink, an ice skating rink, a bowling alley, a moon bounce room, and a ball pit. I also managed to squeeze in acres and acres of theme parks, including not only Disneyland, but also the more adventurous Magic Mountain (even though I was not yet “This tall to ride”).

Needless to say, the rooms I’ve inhabited during my time at Yale would never be attached to the word “dream.” Moving off campus definitely increased the square footage I could devote to strewing my clothes all over the place. But, as any amateur real estate enthusiast might tell you, location is everything, and Howe Street is smack in the heart of Gun Wavin’ New Haven. My prospects for next year, however, make my current abode look like what might be considered a Mansion in a game of M.A.S.H. For those who haven’t played M.A.S.H., at the end of this game of imagined futures you end up with one of the letters in the titular acronym to determine your future housing. It’s like room draw. Freshman year, my room was the H: a house. Sophomore year, the A: Apartment. This year, I landed on the M for Mansion. My younger self never imagined I’d ever be settling for the S—S, of course, is for Shack. I want to live on the great island nation of Manhattan next year; unfortunately, a shack is where I’ll be living.

In any case, if there’s one thing a schematic for a Dream House might inform, it’s the way the Yale campus will be changing thanks to the addition of two new residential colleges. I would like to propose a quick plan for my Dream Residential College. The two new colleges, which I have named Mariah Carey and Vanderslice, would be built as two eco-friendly biodomes. Because both are so close to the graveyard, and because the portentous sign “The Dead Shall Be Raised” is certain to become a self-fulfilling prophecy by the year 2018, both Carey and Vanderslice will have reinforced Zombie moats filled with corpse eating manatees. Instead of the alienating entryway system, the colleges will have hallways, all of which connect via a series of chutes and ladders for efficiency, joy, and the sake of nostalgia.

The colleges will feature an ice skating rink (because some dreams never die), a Swedish massage centry, and a McFlurry kiosk. The courtyard will be host to annual reenactments of Woodstock ’99. Finally, my dream colleges will have the coolest master and dean combinations since Master T and Dean Loge left Yale to form a championship winning tango team on Dancing with the Former University Professors. For Vanderslice, students would introduce their parents to Master Diddy and Dean Harriet the Spy. At Carey, Dean Splinter would offset the kooky antics of Master Philip Seymour Hoffman. Until these colleges are built, I’ll wait with bated breath, mostly because I’ll be holed up without much ventilation and certainly without AC. In a one-bedroom converted into a four-bedroom. It may not be a McWorld, but that doesn’t mean a girl can’t dream.

Scenic Views Column YDN: Grad List 2/1/08

I saw a movie starring Jack Nicholson recently. In it, he plays an ornery author with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. He becomes unlikely friends with his gay neighbor and a waitress, played by Greg Kinnear and Helen Hunt, respectively. If you still don’t know what movie I’m talking about, let me narrow it down further. At one point he enters the waiting room of his psychiatrist’s office, and asks those waiting, “What if this is as good as it gets?”

Do you recognize what movie I’m talking about now?

It’s called “The Bucket List.”

So let me tell you about my fantasy: I’m the star of a summer blockbuster rom-com tearjerker action movie. Morgan Freeman plays the role of my best friend. We decide that before he dies and before I graduate, we’re going to make a list of all the things we’re going to do before these respective deadlines. Five minutes into the film, Morgan Freeman dies when zombies erupt out of a small volcano the size of a toilet. They stab him in the eye with a birthday party hat (the pointy ended kind, usually covered in Sponge Bob Squarepants or My Little Ponies) and blood shoots out of the circle end of the hat. No offense, Morgan Freeman, but this is my fantasy, and what I imagine goes! It’s nothing against you — I just want the gravitas of having a friend who just passed away to haunt my character throughout the movie, so later in the fantasy, when I’m nominated for an Oscar, I can win. Anyhoo, Morgan Freeman dies, I cross off all the things on my list, one of which, incidentally, is to stave off a Zombie apocalypse, and I’m nominated for and win an Oscar for Best Human Actress in a Movie Mostly Starring Cyborgs.

The following is the list I made in that fantasy. I think most of it applies to my senior year, so I’m publishing it here. That way I’ll be forced to follow through with my cap and gown list.

1. Watch the sun rise over East Rock.

2. Do all of the reading assignments for one class in their entirety.

3. Scale Harkness Tower and perch on top of it like a brooding superhero.

4. Successfully recognize one song that the Carilloneurs play.

5. Befriend the entire class of 2011 on the facebook.com, poke all of them, and send them messages with no subjects that consist of a sleazy wink emoticon.

6. Go to Louis’s Lunch and ask for a slice of pizza.

7. Boycott a random concert at Toad’s, let’s say one of the Billie Joel cover bands.

8. Enjoy an entire lineup for Spring Fling.

9. Eat at the Pantry.

10. Throw a dance party in the Philosophy Reading Room in the stacks of SML.

11. See what’s up this “science hill” I hear people complain about so frequently.

12. Successfully remove myself from the Old Campus Risk panlist.

13. Crowd-surf at a Saturday Night Dance Party at Toad’s.

14. Win an Oscar in an unusual category.

15. Prevent a Zombie Apocalypse from destroying humanity using only a spork and a can of Chef Boyardee Spaghetti-Os.

As a senior, I do hope to accomplish some of these things. But let’s be real — some of these things are just ludicrous, insane and completely impossible. I think I need to adjust my expectations so that the list is a series of “realistic challenges.” In that vein, I’m going to cross “Enjoy an entire lineup for Spring Fling” off my list, because when bands like Nickelback are in the running, there’s just no chance of that ever happening. I’m keeping the rest of the list intact. Wish me luck!

Please remove Celeste Ballard from this list.

Scenic Views Column: Malls 11/9/07

Time cannot tarnish the mall of my mind

Celeste Ballard

Published Friday, November 9, 2007

Let me tell you about my fantasy: I’m at my local mall, the Sherman Oaks Fashion Square, shopping with my mother circa 1997. We’re back in an era before the Westfield Shopping Center Empire took over suburbia, transforming every surface into an advertisement for Hannah Montana, High School Musical and other ABC Family fare.

As I browse the racks at Friends, rifling through their bell-bottomed polyester pants and frilly shirts, I secretly long for the days when I will be able to shop at Contempo Casual, Wet Seal or Rampage. I imagine myself with pierced ears and halter dresses, glitter jean pockets and tube tops. Until then, I’m stuck wearing my new Technicolor, dangling clip-on earrings from Claire’s, shuffling around the store in my Gap khakis and purple clogs.

From across the room I spot them: a pair of baby blue platform sneakers with white butterflies embroidered on either side. “They’ll be a perfect alternate to my black and white platform saddle shoes!” I claim, giving my mother my best puppy-dog, don’t-I-deserve-them eyes to mask my case of the gimme-gimmes. I like the shoes because the Spice Girls are really big on the scene; my best friend and I have just made up our own choreo for “Spice Up Your Life” the previous weekend at a sleepover (she’s Sporty, I’m Posh). My mother shifts the Gap Kids bags on her arms, causing the 11-year-old with the silver-banded braces and the overgrown frizzy bangs to squeal out a few more “please, please, pleaaaaase”s for good measure. “All right, since you got an Outstanding on your book report about ‘Where the Red Fern Grows,’˛” she says, much to my delight. Later that day, I stand in front of my bathroom mirror, really really really wanting to zigazig ahhh in my new platform kicks.

When I was growing up, my family would head to our local mall almost every Saturday without fail. My brother and dad always came directly from hockey practice, and I usually headed over with my mom and my sister after ballet class. We’d meet in the food court around noon and usually all end up in line at Panda Express. For years I ordered the same thing: half chow mein, half steamed rice, chicken and mushrooms, and orange chicken. Sometimes I’d pocket the change from the $20-bill my dad gave me. After finally nabbing a table from another San Fernando Valley nuclear family, we’d sit and discuss seeing a movie at the local Cineplex that afternoon. Usually the womenfolk would head over to Bloomingdale’s for a perusal of the sale rack, and my brother and dad would go to Tower Records or run some other errand.

Going to the mall on Saturdays was a family ritual, just like my Dad making Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes on Sundays. Later in high school, having quit ballet, I’d roll out of bed and drive myself to meet my earlier-to-rise family at the food court. Sometimes we’d all be coming from four different locations and would bring four different cars. We knew that the best parking is always at the bottom of the escalator bay on the second floor. Even now, when I go home for holidays, we usually end up at the recently Westfield-ified mall at least once. I usually opt for a California Crisp salad instead of the sauce-drenched Chinese food, but other than that not much else has changed with our family habits.

I still love going to the mall. When I’m nostalgic for home, I think of these Saturday mornings. It probably has something to do with being raised in Los Angeles and thereby being exposed to people who value the material and superficial over most other things. I certainly don’t mean to give off the impression that we went to the mall out of cultural deprivation — far from it. We go to the mall because it gives us the comfort of consistency.

I’ve been reflecting on how strange it is that my family loves the mall so much, but it makes sense considering how habit makes us feel grounded. Just like people make daily trips to Starbucks or the gym, my family makes weekly trips to the mall. Panda Express is certainly not the most delicious Chinese food in the world, but when I crave it, I’m craving time spent with my family on Saturday afternoons, the day of the week when everyone can finally relax, take a moment to breathe and take advantage of the sale racks at Macy’s.

Celeste Ballard is such a valley girl.

REVIEW: Britney Spears - Blackout

Music Reviews
Britney Spears
Blackout

BY CELESTE BALLARD



Dear Britney,

When I popped your latest album Blackout into my compact disc drive, I braced myself against my Ikea FLURGINT desk, scrunched my eyelids shut, clenched my jaw, and bared my teeth, ready for the worst. The instant before the first beat dropped I saw my life—er, your career—flash before my eyes. We were back on the set of your “Baby, One More Time” video. A doe-eyed schoolgirl with a hot body ran down a hallway chased by a bald demon wielding an umbrella yelling, “Eat it! Lick it! Snort it!” Your new mantra, so it seems. Around the corner, a red-vinyl jump-suited lass was being forced to endure NSFW pictures of her future self while holding onto her dignity for dear life. (Btdubs, NSFW stands for Not Suitable For Work, for those of you who don’t subscribe to The Gospel according to TheSuperficial.com.) I was ready for Blackout to be the soundtrack to your horrific, oft-blogged about downward spiral. I was ready for you to fail.

Shockingly enough, you had me at, “It’s Britney, bitch.” With these sassy words, girl, you launch into an equally sassy, competent dance album. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not the stellar comeback album I was hoping for when I heard you broke up with the K-Fed. Blackout is no Britney, nor is it even as good as the spotty, In the Zone, a record whose single “Toxic” would undoubtedly beat “Gimme More” in a fight to the death (if songs could fight). Yet there’s something about the aggressively unapologetic tone of Blackout that keeps me from wanting to write you off entirely into the annals of heading-for-obscurity.

My favorite song is definitely “Gimme More,” with its gritty synths and guttural groans because you sound most like the old version of yourself. Your version of La Lohan’s “Rumors,” and most likely your next single, “Piece of Me” is not nearly as danceable. The lyrics “you want a piece of me” alternate between being a question and a threatening statement, never quite clarifying if your media image is how you actually are in real life. Admittedly, “Break the Ice” and “Get Naked (I Got a Plan)” are pretty good for knock-offs of Timbaland and Nelly Furtado collaborations. With lyrics such as, “Baby I can make you feel hot, hot, hot” I see you’re still pursuing the most intellectual inquiries life has to offer; topics from your never-expanding repertoire include: “How hot am I?” “Don’t you want me?” “Don’t I just love shaking my butt?” “Sex anyone? No, seriously you guys, sex anyone?”

As it turns out, your pseudo-rapping is as hilarious as ever—“Toy Soldier” is pretty fun, but you’re clearly trying a little too hard with the ’tude-infused whiny lyrics. The Pharrell-produced “Why Should I Be Sad” is a nice closing alternate to the schmaltzy, weepy numbers that usually fall mid-album for you. The rest of the album consists of standard dance fare, songs such as “Heaven on Earth” that lack the pop-tacular catchy hooks of your previous hits.

If I had to venture a guess, I’d say that when recording this album, you rolled out bed still wearing the cut-offs you fell asleep in after a night at the club, were handed a mocha frappacino by an assistant, sang the songs that were written for you without doing many takes, turned on the auto-tune, and called it a day. Sure, Blackout is competent, and given your recent history it’s tempting to call it a pretty amazing achievement. The high-fives, however, should be dealt out amongst your handlers, who knew the only way to save your career was by forcing you to work with a line-up of hot on-the-scene producers. Completely missing from this album are those “only Britney” moments. The choruses aren’t tailored to you or your notoriously mediocre croon. Any pop starlet with enough cash money millions could have made this dance album. Your voice was never known to be legitimately beautiful, but on Blackout your voice lacks any evidence of effort whatsoever, y’all!

Sure, as club albums go this one is pretty good, but I miss the good ol’ days where you were still teeny bopping even while being sexy. Will you never have another “Toxic” or “Slave 4 U?” I have the sinking feeling that the Britney Spears I have come to know and love over my years as a hardcore mainstream pop fan has been replaced by another dancehall drone. Why, Brit-Brit, why have you completely given up? Get it together, lady! I know you’re probably too far gone for that, but at least Blackout leaves a vestige of hope. I’m currently very thankful I still have my copy of your Greatest Hits album. I have a feeling my nostalgia will want to take it for a spin one of these days.

Love conditionally,

Celeste Ballard







© 2004 The Yale Herald | The Herald is an undergraduate publication at Yale University. | Please see the Contact page to reach us.

Review: Radiohead - In Rainbows

Between September 30, 2007 and October 10, 2007, I spent 240 hours quaking in anticipation for the new Radiohead album In Rainbows to reach my inbox. As I’ve been an h-core Radiohead fan since my sister first played me The Bends, I had come to associate their album releases as significant events in my life. Leaving aside the revolutionary means of distribution, what was most fascinating for me about In Rainbows is that releasing the album this way ensured what may be the first collective musical experience in my lifetime. On October 10, 2007, people from all walks of life turned to their computers to have their minds collectively blown.
Aside from the cryptic messages left on their blog, Dead Air Space, the last we heard from Radiohead as a band was just over four years ago with the release of Hail to the Thief, a decent album, which nonetheless sounded a little bit tired. In the period between albums, Radiohead refrained from signing with a record label, took time off and took to the road, previewing all ten tracks that would eventually end up on In Rainbows. The album contains all the elements of Radiohead we’ve come to know and love over the more experimental stages of their career: Thom Yorke’s haunting crooning, reverberating electronic blips and hums, white noise distortion…and wait a minute… was that a guitar? And a drum? And an ORCHESTRA!?! Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! For the first time in years, my favorite band sounds like a band.
The album opens with the lyrics, “How come I end up where I started? How come I end up where I belong?” The line seems to subconsciously refer at once to Radiohead’s return to their sonic roots and the evolution their music has made over the last decade. In Rainbows rocks and rolls in exhilarating and unexpected ways, the perfect amalgamation of Radiohead’s lost days of straightforward rock with their less-accessible forays into the music weaned from technology.
The album is replete with moments that invert expectations, as the songs build and deconstruct themselves from inside out. The opening electronic scratch and drum sequence in “15 Step” teases us into thinking Yorke and company are going the way of Kid A and Amnesiac, but soon the scratch dissipates, giving way to Jonny Greenwood’s soulful guitar line. “Weird Fishes/Arpeggi,” crescendos monumentally into a modern symphony as the arpeggios weave in and out of the intricate drumming and transcendent harmonies.” It sounds like it could belong on Ok Computer. Listen to “Let Down” and then “Weird Fishes” back to back to understand the progress they’ve made as a band. In spite of the dissenters, Radiohead had to make Amnesiac and Hail to the Thief in order to be able to write the songs on In Rainbows.
Perhaps the most remarkable accomplishment of the album is the return to pure, unadulterated melody. Rarely is Yorke’s voice filtered beyond recognition. A personal favorite, “All I Need” centers itself on the sincere refrain of what may be Yorke’s most uncomplicated lyrics to date, “You’re all I need / You’re all I need.” The oldest track on the record, appearing sometime in the 1990s, “Nude,” begins as a Bjork-circa-Medulla mermaid song, but the doubled voices soon drop away, leaving Yorke doing his doleful, inspired version of r&b, singing about woes of alienation with the lines, “And now that you’ve found it – it’s gone / and now that you’ve felt it – you don’t.” “Reckoner,” indulges Radiohead’s ability to create cinematic atmospheric pieces à la “How to Disappear Completely,” and “Exit Music (for a Film),” yet doesn’t take itself as seriously, reveling instead in its own inner harmonies. This album is definitely the sexiest Thom Yorke and crew have ever sounded.
In Rainbows is also the best of all of Radiohead’s beautifully messed up worlds. One of the reasons many listeners and fans may have been turned off in recent years is that all of the blipping, buzzing, and whirring can come off as noise pollution. Instead, here Radiohead extracts moments of their electronic experimentation to use as accents instead of overwhelming the songs. Songs like “Bodysnatchers” and “House of Cards” recall the more sonically distant moments of Amnesiac, but the band remains grounded.
Finally, the album closer, “Videotape,” finds Yorke singing, “This is my way of saying goodbye / Because I can’t do it face to face.” As I reluctantly retreat into the post-album silence, I realize that Radiohead has come full circle, not back to where they started, but to a new and exciting vantage point over the full range of their talent and experimentation. The repetitive piano and continuously collapsing drumbeat of “Videotape” provide an appropriate and steady march away from the tremendously moving masterpiece that is In Rainbows.

Scenic Views Column: Dance 9/28/07

Published: Friday, September 28, 2007

Dance Dance Yalies! A not-so-subtle call for revolution

Celeste Ballard

Let me tell you about my fantasy: I’m walking down the streets of Soho, kick-ball-changing, shuffle-ball-stepping to the totally chasé-able chorus of ABBA’s “Voulez Vous” I have bumping from my iPod headphones. Just as I bend down to pick up a fully-loaded iTunes gift certificate, Leigh Lezark from the MisShapes, Zooey Deschanel and Chloe Sevigny (three ladies I think look cool all the time) stop me on the street and invite me to what they refer to as THE dance party.

“But she can’t go wearing that!” shrieks Zooey, whipping out a grab bag filled to the brim with hot numbers from Marc Jacobs, 3.1lim and other lines that H&M likes to knock off. “Wait! You forgot the finishing touch!” Chloe says, whimsically pulling a pair of ruby-encrusted Nike Terminators off the backs of two equally ruby encrusted land dolphins who have just swam through the air to the corner of Prince and Elizabeth. I slip them on my feet, gasping, “They’re just my size!” Just as Zooey starts to respond, “Of course they are! This is your fantasy and you’re writing this right—” Leigh interrupts her, shouting, “Quick! To the teleporter!” We step into the frozen goods aisle of the nearest bodega, pull open the door with the Lean Cuisines inside, and everything goes black.

When I open my eyes, I’m inside a set of gates that read Emerald Cit-tay in neon, standing in the middle of a room complete with luminescent green ceilings, walls and floors like some Ian Schrager hotel gone wild. Suddenly, a voice booms over the microphone, “Are you ready to dance?” An invisible DJ scratches his record not once, not twice, but three times, letting the opening moments of “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough” by Michael Jackson do the talking.

As the song begins to play, the craziest corps-de-ballet I’ve ever seen enters, dancing with wild abandon and wearing crazy carnivale masks. It’s the most reckless dancing of my life, so naturally I don’t notice when the clock strikes five in the morning. The scene disintegrates, and I wake up on my Tempur-Pedic, the beats of Timbaland, old school Puff Daddy and the Family, and various Euro fare refraining in my ears. But wait! I’m clutching a pair of red sparkley shoes! It wasn’t a dream after all!

At one point in the movie “Dazed and Confused,” the nerd played by Anthony Rapp asks the nerd played by Adam Golberg, “So you’re not gonna go to law school? What do you want to do then?” and in a moment of Linklaterian perfection, Golberg responds desperately and earnestly, “I wanna dance!”

I kept coming back to this line this summer, mostly because I watched every episode of “So You Think You Can Dance?” multiple times, but also because, well, when it comes down to it, the one thing I almost always want to do is dance. It doesn’t matter where I am or what time of day it is. During a particularly jubilatory Shaw’s run the other day, I found myself in the vitamins aisle dancing in front of the Gingko Biloba to the warbled R&B jams of Breezy-Nostalgia FM.

I’m not referring to easy dances like the Bunny Hop or The Hokey Pokey. Nor do I mean choreographed routines, like those you might find at a Danceworks show, packed with popping and locking, dropping it like it’s hot, and backing it up. And I certainly don’t mean the kind of dancing that happens when the ubiquitous Umbrella-ella-ella starts to play at Toad’s.

I don’t mean to suggest I frown upon or shun the sort of moves that elicit lines like, “Wanna come back to my room? My twin bed isn’t the only thing that’s extra long.” In fact, I think every doctor would do well to prescribe a low dose of that kind of social interaction. What I’m looking for is a more therapeutic release from the daily (weekendly?) bump and grind — an alternative to the Saturday night trek to Toads.

Where can I find the sweat-soaked hair and clothes kind of dancing, the kind of dancing that starts at your feet and radiates up through your whole body until you’re in a trance? It’s the kind of dancing that doesn’t leave you scanning the room self-consciously, but rather the kind that necessitates a full-body immersion that makes “freaking” impossible. It’s such an elusive experience, one that is difficult enough to find at all, let alone within the confines of the Ivy League. Only twice in my life have I ever experienced this kind of raucous movement: at a !!! (ChkChkChk) concert, and at a Daft Punk concert. I would suggest, however, that there’s more than just techno and dance rock that allows this kind of cathartic rocking out.

In high school, I did a bunch of improvised dance – yes, of the “you’re a beautiful tree! Now you’re trepidation!” variety — so of course my instinct is to dance like nobody’s watching, as the inspirational poster quote goes. I really think everyone has something to gain from this kind of moving. It’s like going to therapy, but instead of a doctor asking, “And how does that make you feel?” you can express it through motion. It’s a tremendous psychological and physical release.

But I’m not delusional – I know most people at Yale wouldn’t go for something so “hippie” or whatever the appropriate adjective might be. Yet I do think it can be achieved at dance parties. So is it really so much to ask that every once in a while we drop all inhibitions and just shake what our mothers gave us, no matter how silly it looks? Who wants to join me in starting a dance (dance) revolution?


Celeste Ballard wishes she could turn off the lights and turn the Daft Punk up to 11.

Scenic Views Column: Apatow 9/7/07

Published: Friday, September 7, 2007

Apatow gets us super ‘Knocked Up’

Let me tell you about my fantasy: I’m sitting at home, lounging on my queen-sized Tempur-pedic in a burnt umber cashmere sweatsuit eating loads and loads of Now and Laters, JuJuBes and other impossible-to-chew candy. I’ve just finished a huge dinner of Chicken Tikka Masala and Naan with Mango Chutney, and I’m ready to spend some quality alone time.

Suddenly, the door bursts open, and in busts a slightly out-of-shape, nerdy-looking dude who is almost unbearably earnest when he asks if he can join me on my bed filled with piles of oversized plush Pound Puppies. He sits down and says he has brought something I’m sure to enjoy. As I gaze into his eyes and recall the lyrics of Bright Eyes and Death Cab for Cutie, he hands me a box wrapped in Rainbow Bright wrapping paper.

“I didn’t even know they made this sort of festive paper!” I exclaim. “It’s vintage,” he responds nervously. I unwrap the paper, careful not to tear it, because I’m going to save it later to collage onto my wall. Inside lies the first season of Adult Swim’s “Robot Chicken” on DVD. We watch four episodes in a row, stay up talking about the latest YouTube viral video, fall asleep lightly touching hands and become best friends.

No, it’s not the most titillating fantasy in the world. Yet every show and movie I’ve really enjoyed in the last few years has told me that this is the guy for me. A guy who is not in the least bit threatening and who most likely bruises like a peach.

First there was Seth Cohen on “The O.C.” I’m referring, of course, only to the first two seasons, when he was actually witty and not dating the hottest chick at school (Anna was such a better match, duh). Then came Jim from the American version of “The Office.” How I swoon when he smirks at the camera and looks longingly at Pam! Last but not least, there’s Judd Apatow’s all-male neo-Brat Pack of sorts, all of whom happen to be pop-culture referencing, Comic-Con attending, funny dudes who like to hang out and improvise jokes. (Oh be still my beating heart when I think about Paul Rudd as every Paul Rudd character, because he’s a comedic goldmine!)

“The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” “Knocked Up” and “Superbad” celebrate the awkward, the lumbering, the earnest, and the misguided with the nerd-tastic triumvirate of Steve Carrell, Seth Rogan, and Michael Cera. Respectively, they are the childish-man, the man-child, and the child-child. And I love them all.

But I don’t want you to walk away from reading this just thinking that I’ve maybe shared a little too much information about my crushes with the entire Yale campus. I want you to realize that Apatow stands among the best of the best when it comes to comedies made for our generation, because he lets the dudes be dudes, and in doing so, captures what it’s actually like to be young and weird.

For the most part, I’ve really disliked the selection of high-school/young people comedies I’ve seen that were made for my generation. “Never Been Kissed,” “She’s All That,” “Varsity Blues” and generally any other movie starring the Freddie Prinz Juniors and Paul Walkers of the world are not the least bit insightful into what it’s like to be in high school.

“Cruel Intentions” was fun when we were pre-teens, were still really into The Counting Crows and had never seen two girls kiss before. “Empire Records” holds a special place because it taught us to “damn the man, save the empire.” In my book, the only certifiably hilarious and smart comedies that take place in a world actually like high school (sorry, Will Ferrell vehicles) are “Clueless,” “Dazed and Confused” and “Mean Girls.”

What Amy Heckerling did for the 80s and 90s, and what Richard Linklater did for the 70s, Judd Apatow does for the 90s. He gets us, ya’ll! “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” “Knocked Up” and “Superbad” are movies with a boner AND a heart!

Yes, the females in these movies are relegated to playing the role of either boring straight woman (Catherine Keener, Katherine Heigl, that other chick I can only assume is some iteration of the name Catherine) or crazy and/or slutty (Elizabeth Banks’ bath tub scene, Leslie Mann’s drunk driver, that girl in Superbad who does a pitch-perfect pre-pubescent strip routine). Yet even so, I can forgive him, because the appearance of Charlyne Yi and the always-stellar Mann gives me hope for the heroines of his future projects.

And when it comes down to it, these characters could exist! At Yale! Right now! Do you want to come over and play N64 and talk about “Flight of the Conchords”?

Things that would grow in a Kindergarten, were it translated into its English Equivalent Children Garden

cabbage patch kids
thyme babies
brussels sprouts tykes
rhubarb offspring
yam infants
eggplant jeuveniles
tater tots