The 1880

Emm Tee, Eh?

Uhhh... Wha?

Have you ever had trouble with the T? You know, shuttles on the Blue line, slow trains on the Green line, delays due to icy tracks, etc? When you first arrived here, did you ever get on the wrong outbound Green line train accidentally? Well, next time something bad happens, just thank your lucky stars you’re not in New York.

I, like many others, had previously been under the impression that the New York subway was glorious, efficient, and convenient. I was proven hopelessly wrong on one fateful evening.

My girlfriend, Grace, and I were on our way back to Boston from DC after break. We elected to take Chinatown buses to cut down on expenses. After taking a bus from DC to NYC, we found (much to our dismay) that the last bus to Boston had already left. We were, officially, stranded in New York City with about 800 pounds of bags. After walking to a Popeye’s that was open late, at about 12:00 am, we decided to call my friend Marissa. She was the only person we knew in town, and she very graciously let us come over to wait out the 8:00 am bus. (Thanks again, Marissa!) There was only one small problem: we were on Canal Street, in Chinatown; Marissa lives in Astoria, way at the end of the N/W lines. No big deal, right? Just hop on the subway at Canal street, get an N or W train, and ride it to the end. Piece of cake, eh?

Well, as we would soon find out, not really. See, the New York Subway system is bogglingly large. Unlike most subways, it is organized by letter, number, color, AND shape. If that wasn’t enough, All of those things change depending on the time of day and day of the week. Also, the names of stops are not distinct - for example, there are THREE Canal Street stops, all in close vicinity to each other. (Yes, there are “St. Paul’s St” stops on both the B and C lines, but it’s understood that on those lines the stops are named after cross-streets of Commonweath and Beacon, respectively.)

Upon entering the station, we discovered the turnstiles are almost impossible to enter with bags. They look like something from a high-security prison. I know they used to have problems with turnstile jumping in the past, but COME ON. I was almost trapped in one when my bag wouldn’t fit through. Thankfully, a nice man came to help us. Jeesh.

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A Response to Hand-Me-Down Night Brouhaha: Lucy Goldberg

Lucy Goldberg is the Elections Commissioner for the SGA and is “not a voting member and [does] not have a constituency to represent.” She’s e-mailed us this response, which you, our readers, are more than welcome to do by sending it to the form on the lower left.

I would like to applaud those students who have expressed their interest in the Student Government Association of Emerson College. This is partially in response to the controversy that has erupted over the budget allotted to the 2008 Hand Me Down Night Committee, but it is in response to something larger that plagues the nation at large as well as our own direct democracy- the utter lack of communication.

Until now, we have not heard many individual voices with a genuine complaint or concrete concerns as to how our small government is run. As the board gathers every Tuesday in between class schedules and work schedules to discuss the newest appeal or the ever-present business of dealing with Aramark’s services without comment, it becomes difficult to remember that anybody actually cares about the decisions we make. Even the staff reporter from the Beacon becomes ambivalent as we all fill in our governmental roles, nothing more than practice for the day when we will become professionals in the real world.

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Music Shop

Rapid City.

I must preface this piece by reminding the reader that I am from Rapid City, SD. It’s about the size of a suburb around here, but without the actual city in proximity. It’s not a bad place to live by any means, but the culture and interaction is…different to say the least. Unfortunately, there is a lot of typical, Chevy-driving, Keystone Light-chugging, lets-go-kill-some-shit-while-blasting-Toby-Keith culture and a lot of assholes from the nearby Air Force base. And this is a very commercialized, very corporate, very Top-40 kind of entertainment store. In a mall.

Four thirty-eight. One hour and twenty-two minutes to go. Nah, the last five minutes never count. One hour, seventeen minutes.

Deep breath. Some asshole is on his way up to the counter. That’s a really killer visor he’s wearing. His swagger is somewhere between a rapper and a Musical Theatre stroke victim. Wait for it…

“Find everything all right?” (Like I give a shit if you found the most artistically devoid piece of garbage that some TV personality told you was good this week)

“Great.” (Disgusting) “Are you a customer rewards member? No? It’s a great way to save money and get cool stuff. You really should be.” (No, you absolutely shouldn’t, you’ll just show up more) “Want to join?” (I’d really love to suck nine more dollars out of your pocket so you can replace it with a piece of worthless plastic that will never earn its keep. I’ll sweet talk you though. I get better numbers, and hey, if I’m already a corporate lackey, I might as well be a shameless one.)

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Fed Up With Hand-Me-Down Night? Take Action TODAY!

This is a topic that hasn’t been taken lightly around Emerson’s campus.

As John Tyson says in the Facebook group, Official Hand-Me-Down Night Boycott:

Every year, the SGA spends progressively more and more money (this year, nearly $40,000) on, essetially, a giant one-night catered party for themselves and their friends. It’s a giant “pat yourself on the back” fest. To put that amount in perspective, it’s about the same that FPS or EIV receives for their budget for a whole year.

Despite efforts on the parts of many voting members this year to decrease the expense and scale of the event, it’s cost has only gone UP. This is in direct opposition to the general consensus of students, who, when surveyed, mostly agreed that they were not interested in the event, wouldn’t want to go again, and thought the expense was too great.

In light of this argument, the SGA has asked that any students who would like to state their case about the brouhaha can come to the meeting TODAY at 2PM in the upper lobby of the Little Building.

Here is the Facebook event for the SGA Student Initiative on Hand Me Down Night.

Of course, this post is open to any comments in support or against the SGA meeting, Hand-Me-Down Night, or the SGA as a whole, but keep it relatively clean– any lecherous fuckery will be taken care of.

If anybody is interested in writing a full statement, they are encouraged to do so in the comments/concerns box on the lower left corner of the main page.

Disclaimer: John Tyson, former VMA Senator in the SGA, is a staff member of The 1880.

The (Best) Worst of the World

I like the world, generally speaking. It fascinates me in many, many ways–especially the strange ideas we’ve come up with, like self-help books, hallucinogens, and Political Theory. (I’d recommend involving all three at once, at least once.) We come up with some pretty bizarre things as human beings, and beyond that, we do some pretty bizarre things. Thanks to my Reuters Odd News addiction, I’d like to share a few of those gems with you.

1. An anti-smoking extremist in Berlin recently doused his girlfriend and their apartment with the entirety of a fire extinguisher when she ignored his request to not light up. As soon as she lit her cigarette, he opened up and covered everything in sight, resulting in thousands of dollars of damage. He told reporters that he didn’t mind the damage, and that he was pretty sure his girlfriend wouldn’t light up again.
I’m pretty sure she’s not going to be his girlfriend much longer. I mean, as romantic as his concern might be, I wouldn’t appreciate a good soaking in chemical mist. I wanted those chemicals in my lungs, goddamn it.

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The Wing-girl Seven Commandments

A lot of praise has been given these days, with the help of some congratulatory beer commercials, to the wing-man. He is a guy’s guy. A bro’s bro. He’s always there to buy a round, to build up a dude’s self-confidence, and to keep a fugly girl busy while his best bud macks on her damn-fine friend.

In the midst of all this manly high-fives and rough pats on the back, a very vital part of the dating scene has been overlooked. I am of course talking about the indispensable wing-girl. To bring this ignored art form to light, I will share with you the seven commandments of every good wing girl.

1. Thou shalt let thy girlfriend look hotter.
This might be one of the hardest commandments to follow. No girl wants to be the drab one but if you friend is truly feeling down about themselves, one night out on the town wearing “capris” and a scrunchy isn’t going to kill you. If anything, let her at least appear hotter to the guy she is scoping out, otherwise you missed the point of your job completely: setting your friend up with a grade-A hunk.

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An Open Challenge To Josh Samataro

I’m not going to lie. I’m a big deal around these parts. Did you read my Securitas feature? It was down right incredible. People tell me I’m funny all the time. Hearing it bores me. You know what I’m also bored of? This no talent hack named Josh Samataro. Josh has made a career out of ripping me off. We both go to Emerson College. We both have late night talk radio shows. We both cried when The Patriots went 18-1. Now he follows me to The 1880? Enough is enough. I’m drawing the line in the sand.

Listen up Josh! I’m sick of your shenanigans and the fact that your last names has three A’s. You think you’re the new funny guy around these parts? Time to bring it. I’m issuing an open challenge to you. Try and beat me in any of the following:

-Lazer Tag
-Mini Hot Dog Eating Contest
-Go-kart race
- First Blood Match
- Home run derby
-Clue
- Evening Wear Fashion Show
- Hand Stand Contest

If Josh is man enough to face me in any of these events, The 1880 will provide full in-depth coverage. The ball is in your court Samataro.

Winter Weather Cancels Stuff On Campus

For the three Emerson students who have class today, as you probably already know, classes after 4 PM are cancelled. Additionally, the labs and the darkroom are closing at 4 as well.

The library will be staying open until 9 PM.

Enjoy the snow and stay warm!

Yo! Listen to This: Organized Konfusion

Organized Konfusion are ready to hit the slopes!

When people like to talk about early 90’s hip-hop, it’s common (no pun intended) for the speaker to usually get stuck on A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, or any other member of the admittedly expansive Native Tongues Posse. However, Organized Konfusion constantly existed outside of the Native Tongues orbit, offering a somewhat darker alternative to the predominantly positive raps kicked around by other artists, and each of their albums saw them delving into darker, yet no less intelligent territory.

Prince Poetry and Pharoahe Monch released their first, self-titled album as O.K. in 1991, an album that notable music journal AllMusic awarded a flawless 5 star rating. This album would exemplify the O.K. style, with beats and lyricism that provided a bridge between the manic pulse of Eric B. and Rakim and groups like A Tribe Called Quest. Tribe leader Q-Tip would later show up on Organized Konfusion’s second album, the extremely underrated Stress: The Extinction Agenda, providing one of the few guests spots on any of O.K.’s albums. Actually, on that note, their 1997 swan song, the somewhat-concept album The Equinox is pretty underrated as well.

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The New England Patriots Have Propelled Me Into a Nosedive of Depression

No one's perfect, Tom! Kill me.

There are certain things that I regard as “holy” in life. The Vagina, for instance. Jesus. The microwave. Breasts. Grain Alcohol—I could go on. But one thing that I could pray to every night was the New England Patriots football franchise, and I blew 18 weeks-worth of my life (and hundreds of thousands of dollars) betting that God wouldn’t bring down the hammer on Belichick, Brady and myself—but it seems Eli Manning serves a dark and a vengeful God. To top it off, I was COMPLETELY and CRUELLY SOBER when it happened—the lone loss that sent me careening into the depths of a personal hell darker than any hell I’ve experienced, and I’ve seen Dark Hells: the day after the Yankees toppled Boston in the 2003 ALCS comes to mind, naturally; as does the night my mom caught me masturbating. But as I and my companion walked aimlessly around Fenway, which just a few short months ago rang loudly with riotous and alcohol-aided joy, we found it now host to tearful and confused zombies and a handful of the worst Giants fans I have ever seen (one that was beating his chest was wearing an oversized leather jacket and had a soul patch). It was Sunday night, and all of the liquor stores were closed. God truly hates me.

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