written by yours truly, Jessica Poter, and Doug Lieblich for Class Day 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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