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Columns
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Written by Sam Bowman
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At first glance, a quarter doesn’t seem like much. But look again. That quarter is indicative of society’s grossly misplaced priorities. By raising the MUNI fee from $1 to $1.25, the city is sticking it to those who can least afford it and undermining public transit in the process. This is bust one example of our government’s eagerness to balance the budget on the backs of the poor.
The 25-cent fair increase, the most shortsighted of these money-saving measures, is “pennywise and pound foolish,” applies. Three types of people commute in San Francisco: Those who only drive, those who either drive or take public transit (like me), and those who can only afford to take MUNI.
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Written by Sam Bowman
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I have devulged a great deal of sensitive information about my personal life in these columns, and, despite the effect such revelations may have had on my credibility as a street-wise G, I don't regret writing any of it. I am now comfortable with who I am, and no one can change that.
Publishing irrefutable proof that I am indeed a closet nerd was a liberating experience, and I hope I win that same category in the pop polls. I no longer suppress the urge to vociferously simulate photon torpedo blasts in the hallways, nor do I hide my Klingon dictionary behind issues of Punk Planet magazine any longer.
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Written by Sam Bowman
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What thoughts do the words "women's college" elicit?
Three years ago, when I first heard about women's colleges, images of catty girls, gossipy women, wild party animals, hard-core feminists, desperate women or obnoxious snobs instantly popped into my head.
I could not have been more wrong.
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Written by Sam Bowman
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any months and many nights and many days ago I had a dream. I was at an anonymous aquarium with my family. Then I was late for school. Then I stole a car to get to school. Then I crashed the car into a wall because in my dreams, as in my life, I cannot drive. The police were after me, so I escaped to a forest, where I holed myself up in a church tower. I had a sniper rifle with me, of course, and since the police were coming with a tank, I shot the tank with the rifle and the tank exploded. The explosion set the forest on fire, and I had to run away. Luckily, I caught a bus, and when I got off I was at school — but I was late.
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Written by Sam Bowman
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Almost a year ago, my friend Liz and her eight-year-old son died while crossing Devil's Slide on their way to Half Moon Bay.
Since then, several other people have crashed on the slide, littering roadside bushes with bumpers, broken glass and shards of metal. The police leave behind caution tape, which eventually entangles itself in the bushes on the roadside after they clean up the accident. Liz's teal car left behind bright teal scrapes on the cement guardrail.
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Written by Timna Zemel
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As a bus zoomed by advertising the new Daddy Day Care movie, a wave of pity washed over me at the sight of Eddie Murphy surrounded by nine menacing four-year-olds and a gaping St. Bernard.
"Why are there so many stupid movies?" my dad asked me. A veteran movie-goer and a frequent victim of this stupid-movie phenomenon, I have found an answer to his question. Movie companies have the same goal as other big businesses:: maximum profit. The writers, actors, directors and producers of Daddy Day Care probably don't care how stupid it is, as long as it makes them money, and if enough people pay to see Daddy Day Care, the people behind the production will have achieved their goal.
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Written by Stanley Koo
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You don't need to be an AP Environmental Science student or a member of Green Peace to know that our environment is in danger. But the problems of a dying environment are more severe than most imagine.
The planet's degradation is already damaging human health, slowing the growth of world food production and reversing economic progress in dozen of countries. By the age of 10, thousands of children in Los Angeles have respiratory systems because of the polluted air, according to Living in The Environment by Tyler Miller, Jr. The depletion of our ozone in the stratosphere in the northern hemisphere will lead to an estimated additional 20,000 skin cancer cases over the next half century in the U.S, alone. Worldwide, millions of lives are at stake — all human health is closely linked to planet's.
If we do not do something to save our planet, we will lose this place we call home. Unfortunately, some see the earth's waning state as a simple matter that a minor government policy adjustment can change. But 30 years of environmental efforts to save our planet have failed to stem the tide of environmental degradation, and our growth is unsustainable. We pollute our streams and oceans. We destroy precious earth capital — the earth's natural resources and processes that sustain us and other species. We cause the extinction of many species. This has to stop.
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Written by Yvonne Wong
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In seventh grade, I was standing at my kitchen station with my cooking mates, ready to begin preparing the dish of the week: golden shrimp shells. Ecstatic that I was finally head chef of my home economics group, I took out the pan from the cabinet, flicked on the stove switch and began sautéing the garlic and onion.
I could do this.
The flame wavered. Tina added the chopped onion. The heat rose and the oil sizzled loudly. "Are you sure the heat isn't too high?" Tina asked. My other cooking mates, Mark and Grant, appeared equally concerned.
"It's fine," I responded. "I know what I'm doing."
Within two minutes, the onion-and-garlic mix had blackened to a fine crisp, and Tina was coughing from the gray whirlwind of smoke dancing around her. Uh-oh. Ms. Thomson said that any group that burned its onion sauté would automatically get a C.
Mark quickly took the pan off the stove and dumped the burnt contents out the window into the courtyard two stories down. He sent Tina back to the ingredients cart to fetch a new tray of oil, onion and garlic, and declared that he would sauté the ingredients this time.
Ms. Thomson gave each of us an "A-minus," the minus for leaving wet towels by the sink. She never discovered my scorched sauté.
I'm sorry, Ms. Thomson. It's pathetic, but true: I can't cook. I can't boil an egg correctly; sometimes the soft yellow yolk spills out.
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Written by Erica Edwards
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Fluorescent lights illuminate a vast dressing room, where glitter sparkles and shimmers. Little girls run around in a frenzy, searching for costumes, makeup and false hairpieces. The smell of hairspray lingers with its scent of fruit and chemicals. Sound extreme? Welcome to a national dance competition, where girls are taught to flaunt it — whatever “it” may be.
Am I one of the aforementioned girls? My answer would have to be yes … and no. While I do attend national dance competitions as a voluntary dancer, and strangers judge and categorize me with by different colored medals, some aspects of these competitions have made me wonder who these little dance contestants will grow up to be. I have always believed that dancers should be judged on skill and stage presence, but the more contests I attend, the more I see decisions based on image.
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Written by Anna Huang
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Once upon an Ice Age, our hairy ancestors walked around on land covered with lizards, ants, pebbles and other obstacles. Over time, mankind eventually grew weary of complaining about frostbite and other foot injuries. Thus, shoes were created.
Our prehistoric brethren soon found that the shape and material of each person’s protective footwear varied. Everyone knew that the fellow who ran the watering hole wore cowhide sandals to show his ox-like dominance over his cow-like harem. The same could be said of the balding, overweight village dunce with rabbit-hide shoes — he certainly did not dominate anything.
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Written by Annalee Schafranek
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With my notebook covered in gal-band lyrics, my tired eyes and my anti-war tee-shirts, I might be labeled as a feminist, sleep-deprived Lowell student or a crazy liberal. While all these might be true, I have a secret identity that few know about. No, I am neither a superhero by night nor the reincarnation of Henry Clay. I am World Wrestling Entertainment fan.
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Written by Audra Stolz
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thought being single on Valentine's Day was the worst thing that could happen to anyone. But before the day was over, I learned how wrong I was.
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