Hot Album: Blue Train

4.5/5 stars

Released in 1957, Blue Train is an established classic, and ranks among Kind of Blue and Time Out in popularity. But, as anyone who has endured a “Top 40″ countdown should know, that does not necessarily mean quality. Popularity typically signifies accessibility, not innovation, but this improvisational hard bop jazz album manages to achieve both. Whether you’re a connoisseur craving Coltrane’s wails in their purest form or a novice in search of a catchy introductory album, a ride on the Blue Train is sure to satisfy, expertly touring the familiar and boldly exploring the uncharted simultaneously.

Above: The cover of Blue Train, taken by Francis Wolff

Coltrane, joined by trumpeter Lee Morgan, trombonist Curtis Fuller, pianist Kenny Drew, drummer Philly Joe Jones, and bassist Paul Chambers, had not yet been influenced by the modal approaches of Miles Davis and McCoy Tyner when Blue Train was written and recorded. Thus, the album exposes a less influenced, refreshingly raw style that might be called ’standard’ if not for the subtle experimentation with chord changes and pedal points. But, even before Coltrane’s work was informed by his eventual stylistic uniqueness, he could certainly write a gripping and orderly tune, and Blue Train is proof.

Coltrane’s command of the saxophone was already recognized as remarkable by this time, and he shamelessly showcases his talent time and time again, through countless explosive and boastful solos. He may not make any apologies while his five bandmates take an obvious backseat, but why should he? His sound, though subtler than in the albums to follow, is strikingly rugged, urgent, and acidic. If anything, I found myself merely tolerating the contributions of others as I waited [in joyful hope] for [the coming of the savior] John Coltrane (note the initials…eerie).

According to Wikipedia, Blue Train’s title track is the crowd favorite. According to moi, this is largely due to its singable AABA chorus, which is repeated three times in a row at the start of the song while Drew comps along. Coltrane then interrupts without an ounce of modesty, pouring into an incredible blues scale solo that lasts four whole precious minutes; meanwhile, Drew softens the comping almost to the point of inaudibility. Accompanied by the cymbal, Morgan’s solo follows Trane’s and Drew’s follows Morgan’s. Chambers, who has been playing subtle riffs throughout, then takes the stage for a brief but endearing moment before the band collaboratively returns to the melody, ending the piece with satisfying familiarity. Overall, the tune in inviting and pleasant, but not overly so; there is a certain tongue-in-cheek, coquettish quality that steers it clear of conventionality.

But “Moment’s Notice” is the album’s true masterpiece, innovative in its ABAC structure (8 bars, 8 bars, 8 bars, 14 bars) and incredibly fast-paced, ear-tickling chord progressions. The song begins with its melody and branches into (surprise, surprise) another massive Trane solo, only fleetingly interrupted by a few ever-so-slightly less impressive performances by Morgan (Morgan should be flattered by this). True, from “Moment’s Notice” to “Giant Steps” is indeed a giant step, but both songs are on the same staircase; “Moment’s Notice” gave birth to the “sheets of sound” that Coltrane displays mastery of in “Giant Steps” and thus becomes known for. If all this hasn’t already won you over, the remarkable interplay between instruments certainly will; every player compliments his bandmates with absolute perfection.

“I’m Old Fashioned” is the only composition of Blue Train that Coltrane didn’t write (Jerome Kern and Johnny Mercer did), but trust me: he owns the song. Coltrane starts off with a sinfully silky, buttery solo. Verging on miraculous, it’s as therapeutic as “Rockabye Baby” but, at the same time, as sexy as “Let’s Get It On.” To my dismay, Trane’s heavenly wails end within the first third of the song, as Morgan undeservingly steals the other two. Morgan’s velvety whispers on the trumpet are certainly intriguing, but unfortunately pale in comparison to Trane’s rich and steady tones. On the whole, the song illustrates everything we love about gooey, sentimental romance without making us gag.

“Lazy Bird” and “Locomotion” are a bit less extraordinary, but are extraordinary nonetheless. The former gives Jones a chance to take the stage at last during a 80 second solo and also features an airy and frolicsome Morgan, an easy and tender Trane, and a passionate Drew. “Locomotion” gives us the trumpet/sax duet we’ve been dying to hear, and allows Trane to go wild with insanely fast-paced chord progessions as the song comes to a close.

As far as chart information goes, Blue Train makes appearances on several “Top 100″ lists; Jazz 100 ranks it #18 and Digital Dreamer ranks it #47. However, it doesn’t make All About Jazz’s list, nor that of 100 Greatest Jazz Albums.

Carrying on a conversation during Blue Train is like storing an original Van Gogh in your basement: ignorant and disrespectful. The album commands your full attention, and holds it despite Coltrane’s underdeveloped style. Overalll, the album’s vibe is mellow and energetic. If nothing else, it’s a satisfyingly swingy preview of Coltrane’s subsequent driving intensity.

Other reviews:
allmusic.com
onefinalnote.com
amazon.com

Sources:

Wikipedia

Mix It Up @ Nantucket Natural Oils

Most Bostonians associate Hotel Commonwealth (500 Comm Ave) with its popular restaurant Eastern Standard, noted for its lemon-drizzled fried calamari and ice-cold Arnold Palmers. Tania and I enjoy a splash of vodka in the latter, and once tipsily teetered into the hotel after our weekly lunch date. We were anticipating a wad of second-rate souvenir shops, but ended up stumbling (quite literally) into a true Beantown hotspot.

Nantucket Natural Oils felt a bit mystical at first, as we beheld the floor to ceiling shelves dense with tiny glass bottles filled with mysterious-looking potions. We half-expected to discover a witch lurking in the corner, and were taken aback when greeted by a friendly young man from behind the counter. We smiled back, and then began to marvel over each bottle with drunken enthusiasm, not at all restricted by our complete cluelessness. We did not know whether these strange liquids were hair products, medication, or beverages, but we were intrigued nonetheless.

Eventually, the man kindly took it upon himself to explain to our drunk asses where we were: in a specialty fragrance shop, containing the exact scents of every men’s and women’s designer name fragrance. The sole difference is that here, the alcohol (which typically stings our nostrils initially, seeming “too strong,” then quickly fades to “nonexistent”) is replaced with an essential oil, allowing for the purest and longest-lasting scent possible. Ordinarily, aroma lingers on the skin for about three hours, but here, a minuscule dab is guaranteed to last all day. With this in mind, I decided that the price (about $45 per 0.25 OZ) is not terribly atrocious.

It doesn’t end there. Nantucket Natural Oils also encourages custom scent creation, or the mixing of several fragrances to form your signature. It may seem like a complex task, but if Paris Hilton and Britney Spears can do it, so can you!

…and so can a monkey.

…and so can a rock.

Anway, after you’ve whipped up your perfect whiff, why not take it to next level and select a hand-blown bottle ($40-$90) in which to store it? (This is what the salesman asked me with a smirky smile.)

I’ll tell you why not: because $40-$90 is WAY too much to dish out for a perfume bottle, especially considering the additional $150 I’d have to spend to fill it. Plus, I’ll be honest: they aren’t even cute, so I recommend dodging the expense and saving your extra coin to host a party here. Guests enjoy mouthwatering platters of Eastern Standard’s fingerfood while fashioning their fragrance, making for an absolutely perfect girls’ day out.

To sum it up: You need not a witch to create a magic potion.

Fall In Love @ (& with) Tangerino

If Kate Hudson jumped off a bridge, I’d be right behind her…and something tells me I wouldn’t be alone. In fact, I reason that you, too, would at least consider following in the footsteps of the world’s MILFiest MILF, who charmed us to the bone in roles like Penny Lane and Andie Anderson.

Below: Anne Hathaway and Kate Hudson, currently in Boston filming Bride Wars (keep an eye out!)

That being said, when I found out Tangerino was one of Kate’s favorite Boston hotspots, I knew I needed to dine there a-sap. Located at 83 Main St. in Charlestown, it demands a pretty steep cab fare, but the minute you set foot in this divinely seductive, ornately romantic Moroccan restaurant slash Hookah lounge, money matters become a thing of the past; so much so that you might find yourself ordering $100 glasses of wine and $50 appetizers as your host seats you, trickling lavender-scented water on your hands from a fancy silver teakettle.

Awarded one of Boston’s top ten romantic restaurants, Tangerino indulges in every luxury when it comes to decor. Lavish tapestries, pillows, and lanterns fill each room, as do gorgeous antique tables and even belly dancers (7:30pm to 11pm). The vibe is utterly mesmerizing, distinctive in its combination of dark sexiness and fairy-tale allure. My girlfriends and I were captivated.

“I want someone to propose to me here,” I said, a little tipsy after my third glass. A collective “Ohmygod, that would be AMAZING!” followed.
“No, I mean right now!” I said.

So Suez and I darted into one of the nearby, wildly stunning booths, drew the curtains, and fake-proposed to one another. Only truly romantic restaurants like Tangerino possess the capability to create the illusion of love between any two people, even allowing for temporary changes in sexual orientation.

Below: Our table’s belly dancer

The menu offers authentic foods such as spiced lamb and seven vegetable couscous, as well as contemporary dishes like seared duck confit with foie gras and roasted red snapper. My taste palette is quite basic, and I do not often enjoy foreign cuisine; however, I considered my exotic entree not “weird,” but uniquely satisfying. Even Allie, who believes sandwiches are “bizarre,” branched out and ordered lamb, which she absolutely loved (or was she merely beguiled into thinking so by the dazzling ambience?)

Below: The gang and I. Everyone wants to be us.

After dinner, drift into the evocative 18+ hookah lounge for an evening of supreme relaxation. On weekends, you’ll need to come early enough to reserve your own hookah; word is, the lounge fills up FAST. While waiting for a hookah, though, smoking cigarettes and cigars is permitted, and you’ll find it’s well-worth the wait. Smoking beautiful hookahs, surrounded by beautiful people, in a beautiful room, you just might find yourself a bit overwhelmed. Just remember, too much of a good thing is great.

To sum it up: Seductive decor, exotic music, Moroccan masterpieces, and a chill hookah lounge make Tangerino Boston’s hottest date spot.

The Girly Girl’s Guide to Fenway

I’m not a fan of sports.

That’s the understatement of the year. Let’s be serious: I fucking hate sports. Athleticism and I are ancient enemies, and have been ever since the birth of Middle School’s cruel “Skill Tests,” which are clearly designed solely to humiliate the awkward and/or fat kids. Honestly, can you think of anything more demeaning than being forced to climb a rope in front of 60 viciously judgemental tweens?

If you answered yes, you’re what I call a “Skill Test Prodigy,” and are clearly designed solely to further humiliate the awkward and/or fat kids. You should be ashamed of yourself, and your ridiculously high standing long jump score.

For me, the absolute worst was the “Free Throw.” We were each alloted three minutes to score as many baskets as possible, all while our savage and bloodthirsty peers looked on. Brilliant, huh? Not surprisingly when considering the conditions, I scored a perfect ZERO. Everyone was stupefied.

“That was a fluke,” the PE teacher said, masking her snicker with a bogus cough. “I’ll give you another try.”

Did she genuinely believe she was doing me a favor? More likely, she found my astonishing incompetence to be amusing, and simply wanted three more minutes of unsurpassable entertainment.

“I’d rather just take the zero.”

“Well I’d rather not be a gym teacher, but I ain’t whinin’ about it.”

Nine minutes later, I hobbled off the court. I had made 1% of my shots and lost 100% of my dignity. A passionate hatred for everything resembling athletics fermented that day, and has not since dwindled in the slightest.

But when I was offered 10th row tickets to the Red Sox/Yankees game last night, I decided it was time for sports and I to make amends. Watching them is far eaiser than playing them, but still requires a few Know-How’s. I thus present to you The Girly Girl’s Guide to Fenway:

1. Disguise youself as a die-hard fan @ the Yawkey Way Store, the souvenir store across from Fenway. With over 100 sweatshirt designs to choose from, you’re sure to find something cute, but that’s not to say it’ll be cheap; one zip-up sweatshirt and a baseball cap cost me $150. Don’t I look legit, though?

While displaying your fanhood is important indeed, warmth should be your prime concern. For me, staying warm meant wearing two sweatshirts, knee high skiing socks, gloves, a hat, and two very heavy blankets.

2. Get drunk. Every time you polish off a beer, stack a new one inside its empty cup. This is a good idea for three reasons: 1) it makes you look eco-friendly, 2) your hands will stay warmer because of the thick barrier, and 3) you’ll always be aware of how many drinks you’ve had. When your stack of cups becomes too high to handle, it’s probably time to stop drinking anyway.

3. Familiarize yourself with the art of heckling. This step is critical and thus requires its own small series of steps. All examples were heard last night.

• Be brief. Remember that as a heckler, you’re performing for the sections around you. If your planned burn is a 5-sentencer with the punchline at the end, your audience will likely start laughing before you’re through. In said case, they’re laughing AT your drunk ass, not with it.

  Sufficient burn: “Yankees suck!”
  Mere blabber: “Hey Yankees, you’re from New York and everyone thinks you’re a bunch of overpaid prima donnas who haven’t performed in the post season in eight years. Basically, when it comes down to it, you pretty much just suck!”

• Attacks on a professional athlete’s personal life are open season. In fact, some of the greatest hecklers in the world get their material from athletes’ exploits AWAY from the field.

  Sufficient Personal Burn 1: “Hey Clemens, Canseco’s having another bash. B.Y.O.’Roids. Can I get a ride?”
  Sufficient Personal Burn 2:
  Vendor1: “POPCORN heah!”
  Vendor2 “Cotton Candy heah!”
  Heckler: “Hey A-Rod: Steroids heah!”
  

• Of course, uncertainties about an athlete’s personal life can be equally effective.

  Sufficient Personal Burn 1: “Gaaaaaaaay-Rod!”
  Sufficient Personal Burn 2 (Team Attack):
  Heckler1: “Jeter, you suck!”
  Heckler2: “Yeah! And A-Rod, you swallow!”

• *Bonus: Throw in a Boston accent for added effect.
  
• *Also note: The drunker you are, the wittier you are. Even if this isn’t actually the case, you’ll be drunk enough to believe it is.
  
• *Also note: Remember to harass not only the opposing team, but also any fans who may be in attendence.

4. Eventually, you’ll get a bad case of the drunk munchies. Stick to the basics with a Fenway Frank. Or, if you can muster up the nerve required to order something entitled “Fried Dough,” I’ve heard it tastes exactly like heaven. As far as Italian Sausages go, you’re better off buying one from the sausage vendor on Lansdowne St.

All in all, Fenway park is most certainly a hotspot. Red Sox players are sexy, and so are many of their drunk fans. Plus, it’s actually quite an entertaining game. Just be sure to dress warm, heckle wisely, and watch out for balls flying at your nose (”there goes your social life!”).

Catfight @ The Cactus Club

I tend to get extremely competitive when sharing either of two things: 1) chocolate or 2) scorpion bowls. So, when my group suggested ordering nachos with the Blue Mayan bowl, I secretly celebrated, hoping they’d be distracted enough by the food not to notice that I was downing the equivalent of 10 margaritas in one very long sip through a straw…and much to my enjoyment, they were. Retrospect won’t stop whining about this.

Anyway, the girls and I were sufficiently smashed (me especially) when a group of boys pulled up chairs to join our table. I introduce myself to the boy next to me:

“Hi, I’m Brittany.”
“Hi. How do I explain this…well, my last girlfriend went to Harvard.”
“Ooh, good for her! But how is that relevant?”
“You have blond hair.”
“True.”
“Blond-haired girls aren’t smart. That’s why I like her. She seems smart.” (gestures towards Suez, the only brunette at the table, who happens to be a natural blonde.)
“Is English your first language?”
“No.”
“OOH! You must be mixed up. You just told me that I’m not smart because I have blond hair, and that she is because she has brown hair.”
“Exactly!”
“Wow.”
“So…I just don’t think we should talk. We wouldn’t see eye-to-eye.”

I head to the bathroom to recover from the overwhelming ignorance I’d just witnessed. Suez comes along, and I angrily explain the story.

“I can’t believe anyone would be dumb enough to think that, let alone say it to my face. He straight-up REFUSED to talk to me because I’m blond!”
“Brittany! Just because you decide someone is stupid doesn’t mean you’re better than them!” Suez snapped.
“Shouldn’t you be directing this comment at the boy?!”
“No, Brit! You need to chill out and stop judging everyone!”

I storm over to my friend Allie, who has been flirting with Patriot’s player Steve Neal.

“I’m leaving,” I say.
“But you’re wearing my shoes.”
“Here, take them,” I say as I kick them off.
“But you’re wearing my shirt too.”
I manage to slide it off under my coat in what I imagined to be a discrete manner.
“And my bra.”
“Allie, are you serious?!”
“It’s my only strapless!”

I fling it at her, whipping her in the face. We now have the attention of every male in the bar. I’m just praying Steve Neal doesn’t get involved. I devise a plan of attack just in case he does, though: bite him and scratch him simultaneously (my only hope of getting out alive).

“Oh God…I’m sorry Al, I didn’t mean for that to hit you.” I look over at Suez, who appears to be eating up every word Bastard McBlondeHater is saying. (”Last year, I made over $100,000, and my brother drives a Ferrari.” How he managed to slide that into the conversation is still beyond me. Maybe if I dyed my hair brown I’d understand.)

“What do you people put in your nachos?!” I demand. One of my friends is flirting with a 350 pounder, and the other with a horse’s ass. (Admittedly, I might not have hated him so much if I was brunette at the time. But still.)

I suddenly feel something swipe my face. I look at Allie - she’s giggling. I look at the ground - her bra is lying at my feet. I impulsively chuck it back at her, and she chucks it back at me. We then stopped throwing it and start simply whipping each other in the face with it. Our once light-hearted play fight morphed into a full on, rage-filled catfight. Suez tries to break it up, and I push her away yelling something about this being a blondes-only fight. Furious, she dives in.

The next morning, we all admitted the brawl was alcohol’s fault. Maybe I misunderstood the boy; afterall, he did have an accent, and I am blond (and thus not smart enough to comprehend one). Maybe Suez misunderstood my recount; afterall, I was probably slurring like a crazed monster. Who the hell knows.

Catfights aside, the Cactus Club is a great bar that boasts Boston’s Best Margarita and some pretty decent tex mex. But PLEASE beware the three B’s (blue mayan bowls, bastard mcblondehaters, and bras). Combining them is a very dangerous decision. Instead, I recommend an exclusively girl’s night out. The caramel apple martinis are absolutely fabulous, and let’s face it: the male species is highly overrated.

Epiphanize @ The Tam

The roomies and I love to philosophize; on a nightly basis, we cover topics ranging from Astronomy to Religion to Politics to whether or not Katie Holmes is a robot. Fourth parties usually assume we’re baked, but that’s not always the case. Questions like “isn’t it so weird how we, as creatures, are each assigned our own little names?” and “have you ever really thought about how BIG the universe is?” are apparently strange ones to ask, but we consider ourselves true theorists whose relentless philosophical discussions often result in groundbreaking epiphanies.

I woke up today with an unbelievable urge to epiphanize (the unofficial verb form). The roomies were passed out, which ruled out conversation. I considered faking a near-death experience in an attempt to see my life flash before my eyes, but decided that would be the half-ass route, and instead took a two hour, epiphaniless shower. Boo.

When the roomies finally awoke, I explained my longing; they understood completely. We all have these days, and we all know what they call for: a trip to The Tam, the diviest dive bar in Boston.

The Tam provides us with the cheapest drinks in town and a jukebox offering every cheesy 80’s single imaginable. There is no better way to epiphanize than to drown yourself in blue-bottled Bud Lights, blast some Blondie, and rub elbows with Emerson hipsters. There’s something about the cheap christmas lights and chilled-out bartenders that never fails to put all three of us into states of nirvana. We often find ourselves so floored by our own realizations that we scream them across the bar to random strangers.

Last night, Suez hit me with this one: “A stereotypical image of a stoner is some doped up guy saying, ‘It’s all good, dude.’ Right? And we, as creatures, have come to understand this saying as one synonymous with, ‘I forgive you.’ But do you know what he’s really saying? He’s saying…it’s ALL good. EVERYTHING is good. Life is fucking GOOD!”

“Life is fucking good!” I slurred back, twirling around to Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’. “Especially if you’re a pothead! That must be why potheads always say it!”

“EXACTLY!” She roared with a theatrical fist pump as Brian moonwalked past.

But the epiphany of the night was quite simple: Nothing compares to Sinead O’Connor’s Nothing Compares 2 U.

Toga-Up @ MIT

Who doesn’t love a good toga party? There’s nothing easier. Grab a sheet, fold it in half, and twist it around yourself. It’s so simple, but somehow also looks so hot (honestly, don’t we all look ten times foxier in a toga?). Oddly, Keira Knightley is the only person who can’t pull it off.

Suez and I magically transformed our sheets into halter dresses with stunningly low backs. We were as close to the Red Carpet as lilac jersey and safety-pins could take us.

But our looks weren’t complete yet; we needed something ivy-ish. My brilliant solution involved two glittery yellow roses, which I purchased as a Mother’s Day gift when I was nine. I recently found them gathering dust in the basement and snagged them for my apartment. What a steal! I remember thinking as I proudly arranged them in the living room. The next day, I awoke to a drunk letter from Brian:

Brit –

I stared at these flowers for the last half hour, and concluded that they’re tackiest things I’ve ever seen in my life.

Your favorite roomie

But for some reason, I could never part with them. Subconsciously, I must’ve known they’d make perfect toga headpieces one day! I thought smugly, as we wrapped them around our heads.

“Damn, we look good,” Suez observed as we finished up our nymphy makeup and hopped in a cab.

“You look like a jungle,” Suez’s boyfriend Eric said to her as we entered the party. “What’s on your head?”

We were too dazzled by the surroundings to mind; ivy smothered the walls and hung from the ceilings, and white mattresses carpeted the floors, along with trays of Greek finger food and bags of Franzia (white, red, and blush).

Here are the rules, as explained by frat brother Fred Lucas:
1. You may not stand up.
2. You may only eat when fed by someone else.
3. You must drink directly from the wine bags, which someone else must hold. Futhermore, no bag of wine may touch the ground until it’s empty.
4. No food fights until the Baklava is served.

Suez went to town on the Franzia spout, sucking like there was no tomorrow. Interesting strategy, I recall thinking, I’ll do it too…but with two spouts at once! Clearly, we weren’t thinking clearly. Retrospect tells me I should’ve taken it easy. Retrospect is insightful, but only around when I don’t need it. This frustrates me.

Grapes and cheese started off our feast, and Suez and I immediately broke Rule #4. Hurling grapes at people’s faces was far too amusing to resist. The wine kept flowing, and our togas were soon soaked in it. I stood up to wring mine out, and was instantly screamed at by 25 frat boys. I sat down, defeated.

“Want some lamb?” offered Fred, holding up a slimy chunk of meat with his bare hands. If I was going to be this low-maintenance, one thing was for sure:
“I want my own bag of wine,” I said.

That’s the last thing I remember. However, I played detective this morning and gathered some interesting information about my night.

First, I’m told I was in bed by 11:30. Yes, that’s PM. Suez and I apparently decided to leave at 11, probably thinking it was around 3AM. This decision necessitated Eric carrying me down five flights of stairs and into a cab; evidently, I lost the coordination required to walk.

Next, I’m told I puked in the lobby of my apartment while waiting for an elevator. Lovely. When it arrived, I’m told it was packed.

“Sorry elevator, for smelling like vomit!” was the phrase I’m told I sang aloud when I walked in, and every time someone new entered.

“Get away!” is the phrase I’m told I screamed at Eric when he tried to put me to bed.
“Me?” He asked.
“No, the stuff on my bed!” I’m told I replied while throwing clothes, books, makeup, and shoes left and right.

I then crawled in…and haven’t moved since, except for a brief trip to Panera for some broccoli cheddar soup, which has successfully cured every hangover of mine until this one. Any suggestions?

Schneep It @ The Boston Common

Note: This post is for procrastinators only. If you have not yet come to the dark side, stop reading here.

In my two years at BU, I have slept through two midterms and one final, turned in a paper a year and half late, attended a grand total of three lectures, and sent over 45 emails explaining why I can’t make it to today’s discussion. In fact, I am supposed to be in class at this very moment. But instead, I am here:

Below: The Boston Common

I am the reigning queen of procrastination. You may not think very highly of this position, but it does in fact have its benefits.

Do you often find yourself…
-suffering through miserably boring classes?
-overwhelmed with tedious homework?
-drowning in a sea of meaningless notes?
-stressed out?
-wishing you were somewhere else?

I don’t. If it’s not fun, I say, put it off! These are our glory days! Once we enter the harsh world of adulthood, getting away with procrastination will be nearly (if not completely) impossible. Thus, I present to you my favorite word of all time: schneep. Don’t bother looking it up; much like my excuses for missing class, this word is a complete fabrication. It can be used as a verb (“I didn’t do my homework, so I’m gonna schneep class”), an adjective (“I wasn’t in class on Tuesday because Tuesdays are prime schneep days”), or even a noun (“Dude, Prof. Schneebly totally bought my schneep…whoa, those words are oddly similar”).

The definition varies depending on the context, but schneeping generally conveys “successfully bullshiting your way out of a monotonous task.” My first monotonous task was attending High School, and schneeping it required only a forged note (preferably written in purple gel pen):

Dear attendence attendance office,
My son/daughter, (your name), has a dentist appointment at 9:00 AM and must be excused at 8. He/she will not be returning. I know this is the third appointment this week, but his/her toothaches are getting very serious. I hope you understand. Please feel free to contact me with any questions or concerns @ (your cell number).

Peace out,
Love always,
From,
Bye.
Sincerely,
(your name) (legal guardian)

The cross outs were sketchy. So was the idea of my mom choosing not to simply call me in sick, but instead write a note excusing me after no more than 20 minutes of class. Given the fact that I was 15 and had no license, she — presumably — drove me to school, drove home, waited about seven minutes, and then drove back to pick me up.

After successfully dismissing myself, I would hop in my older accomplice’s car. We couldn’t go home (our parents were there), but we made do. Every schneep day was a new and exciting adventure.

…And every schneep day still is. The only difference is that now, it’s even easier. We don’t have to come face-to-face with anyone; all it takes is a simple email. The best part is that our professors know nothing about us. “My sister’s not well,” we can write. “I have to fly to Australia to see her. It could be weeks.” You may not have a sister. You probably know no one in Australia. And yet, you’ll be taken completely seriously. I personally like to use excuses that couldn’t possibly pertain to my actual life; this way, Karma can’t teach me a lesson by turning my lies into reality. That’s right, I outsmarted Karma. Pretty impressive indeed.

The point is, schneeping is fun…and in college, it’s easy. If you don’t schneep, good for you! But if you do, the Boston Common is the place to do it. It’s gorgeous out, and Bostonians are no longer hiding from the soul-destroying weather and have finally emerged. The promise of spring is infecting everyone with delight, and it’s especially contagious here. If you want to feel less guilty about missing class, simply sprawl out on a bench with your textbook. Think of what you’d be doing in class: watching the second hand, tapping your pencil, perhaps being sprinkled with drops of your prof’s saliva? This option is smarter and far less painful.

Happy Schneeping!

Below: The Boston Common

Brutal Break-Up? Bounce Back @ Bon Bon

“Breaking up is hard to do.” If I had a nickel for every time I heard that proverb, I’d have about 75 cents. But I’m finally putting an end to this nonsense. Damsels, repeat after me: BREAKING UP IS FUN TO DO. Why? It provides us with a perfectly legitimate excuse to binge on chocolate. Validation for extreme overindulgence doesn’t come around often; we should celebrate it while it lasts!

Don’t bother trekking to the North End for your fix. Bon Bon (197A Mass Ave) is a tiny, magical wonderland of candies, cookies, chocolates, gelato, and organic tea. The Italian owner traveled the world in search of unique flavors, and returned with a collection of secret recipes that is now worth thousands. Plus, this place is filled with men as tasty as the treats; maybe it’s coincidental, or maybe they know it’s a haven for freshly single babes. Either way, their presence is fine by me.

To sum it up: why wallow in self-pity when you can wallow in dessert?

Make Like MK&A @ MFA

Art Museums have always been a passion of mine, but only because I once saw Ashley Olsen at NYC’s MOMA.

The Olsen Twins are my guilty pleasure, you see. In my heart of hearts, I know they’re vain, selfish, and worst of all, dumb; I shouldn’t like them, let alone love them. It’s true that most of society refers to the fur-wearing/PETA-infuriating pair as “Hairy-Kate and Trashley, The Trollsen Twins.” It’s also true that their taste in evening wear is similar to that of a haughty 90-year-old.

But my love for MK&A is completely unconditional. I simply cannot help myself, even after reading articles with words as spiteful as their accompanying illustrations:

I know, they seem pretty terrible, but I dare you to watch this video and not immediatly fall in love with oh-so-chill Mary-Kate, in all her glory:

See? Don’t even try to tell me you’re not intrigued by her ridiculousness. Now that you understand the beauty of MK&A, I’m sure you can imagine my excitement when I saw Ashley IRL (I learned that this means ‘In Real Life’ from the Help Delete Online Predators commercial…is it creepy that I now use the lingo on a daily basis?). I was making my way down an extremely crowded staircase, and she was making her way up it. I brushed past her in the middle, but it didn’t hit me until I’d reached the bottom. I grabbed my mom.

“Mom!” I shouted uncontrollably, my voice followed by at least four echoes.

About twenty people turned and gave me a dirty look.

“Yes, honey?” my mom replied, but with a face that said, “What in God’s name was I thinking when I decided to bring you here?”

“That’s Ashley Olsen,” I said, desperately trying to contain my excitement.

“No it’s not! Her butt’s bigger than Ashley’s!” screamed my mom. She had already started sprinting up the stairs to get a better look.

We raced through the first three rooms, hurdling sculptures and small children, to catch up with Ash. Her boyfriend had caught onto the fact that she was being followed by lunatics, and had been hurrying her along. She was helpless now, though; my mom and I circled her with our knees bent and arms alert, as if in the midst of a fierce game of dodgeball. Terrified, Ashley looked back and forth at the two of us.

“It’s really her!” I called from my side of Ashley.

“I know!” My mom yelled back from her side.

We had no idea what to do next. I awkwardly cleared my throat. My mom darted over. And we ran off.

Ever since then, I’ve been an Art Museum junkie, secretly on the look-out for an Olsen each time. In the past, I typically judged a piece of artwork based on the technical skills required to copy it; if I could do it, then it wasn’t good.

Now, though, I’ve learned to appreciate painting as a true art form. Like a great song, a great painting should move you, but for no apparent reason. Our favorite songs are not our favorites just because of their lyrics; similarly, our favorite paintings should not be our favorites just because of their subject matter. In fact, my absolute favorite artists (Pollock and Rothko) are abstract expressionists, and aim to capture energy (not tangible objects) on canvas. Another temptation I’ve learned to resist is searching for meaning in the work, and analyzing which emotions the artist is trying to portray. Like music, art is largely subjective. It’s meant to evoke a distinct feeling in you, a feeling completely different from anyone else’s.

Keep all this in mind, and make your way to MFA. I’ll be honest; you probs won’t see an Olsen, or any celeb for that matter. However, you might find it to be a refreshingly pleasant experience. And guess what? This activity, unlike your usual favorites, has no potential of giving you a hangover or getting you preggers. Pretty impressive.

*Note: Are you currently entertaining the wonderfully romantic notion that you could meet a cute guy @ MFA? In an act of fate, you’ll both be inexplicably drawn to the same piece? Give it up. If a boy is alone at MFA, he’s probably deranged.

Rothko, 1968

P.S. Go to my “About Me” section (there is a link on the right, under “Top Posts”) and view the new video I added.