This Friday, A&O (which stands for something, but literally no one knows what) is hosting a concert featuring a black musical act preceded by a white musical act that guy from Community, and some band that you don’t listen to, but that one girl from your dorm who ironically wears the same glasses as your grandpa listens to. It’s at some time, probably at night. There will also be Morty Schapiro a special guest. They actually do this concert every fall, they host it at our basketball arena (Welsh-Ryan), and they call it A&O Blowout.
The site of what will certainly be the greatest experience of the latter half of one of your Fridays.
Now, you’re a freshman, and the only concert experience you’ve ever had is that one time you went with your mom to see John Mayer and had to uncomfortably listen to her sing along with “Your Body is a Wonderland”. You’re in college now, and after almost four weeks on campus you think you’ve pretty much got everything down pat. So since there’s this concert being held very close to campus that’s like super cheap, you’re probably thinking, “fuck yeah, let’s go!” And you should go. Attending Blowout is a freshman rite-of-passage; you go your first year here, realize it’s kinda meh, and then never go again. That being said, it definitely doesn’t have to be meh; you can have a great time, as long as you know what to do and what to expect. So let Sherman Ave fill you in with the deets. You trust us, right?
As someone who was born and raised in Chicago (what up?!), it boils my blood that kids from the near suburbs claim that they are “from Chicago.” Just own up to the fact you are from Berwyn or Joliet or wherever, so I don’t have to rot your soul with my dirty looks. However, in the spirit of camaraderie I apparently have to feel toward other freshmen, I must look past these things, so I want to give you kids from the near suburbs (Sorry, Bourbonnais, you’re too far to make the cut) some tips on pretending to be from Chicago proper.
Learn to hate the people who love this
This is for those of you who will be brave enough to hurdle the biggest barrier to getting a date at Northwestern: actually just fucking asking someone out already. The journey from being the person who judges the couple holding hands while waiting in line for sushi to being the person who has a boyfriend or girlfriend to help you make fun of the couple holding hands while waiting in line for sushi can be long, strenuous, and very occasionally sexually satisfactory. The following guide will help immerse yourself in Northwestern’s insulated stultifying vibrant dating scene. Or at least help snag you a warm body to fasten yourself to during winter quarter.
The First Date
Kafein: Good place for hipsters to grab a caramel turtle mocha and split a warmed up cookie. If conversation lulls, you can always heckle the townies doing stand up on Monday nights.
This is probably how you want your dorm room to look.
This is probably not how your dorm room is going to look. Continue reading
McTrib, where only 14% of journalism students shrivel up and die annually.
“Hi, I’m a journalism student at Northwestern and I’m working on a story about ______.” Memorize those words. They will constitute the beginnings of probably like 80% of your class-related conversations for the next four years. Or something. I’m not sure, I didn’t like fact-check that claim or anything. In fact, this might be a good time to discuss Medill F’s and factual errors… nah, we’ll hold off on that. First, Continue reading
Dear Class of 2017,
Three short years ago the class of 2014
shuffled at the pace of a dehydrated desert tortoise because everyone’s parents felt the need to take photos every five steps marched through the arch and commenced the drunk, sweaty adventure that was Wildcat Welcome 2010. In a few weeks, we’re really looking forward to sitting on our front porches, drinking beer that isn’t Busch Light, and watching you wander aimlessly as you try to find that awesome party near the corner of Maple and Simpson.
Remember when you set up your first email address? You spent three weeks thinking of the perfect name, and another three weeks mourning when you discovered that firstname.lastname@example.org had already been taken by some douche who probably doesn’t even know who Professor Hugo Strange is. You finally settled upon a name and password, cleverly lied to Hotmail and said you were 13 years old*, and next thing you knew, you had your very own email address. Hardly able to contain your excitement, you logged in immediately and Continue reading
Bonus: Norris can double as a Soviet bunker circa 1977!
Rumor has it that Northwestern is full of nerds, but I bet you’re thinking that the class of 2017 is gonna be different. “We’ll socialize!” you say, “We’ll never set foot in the library!”, “We’ll skip office hours to go to impromptu jam sessions on the lakefill!”
Ah, how grand it is to be young and naive. I bet you also think that, during all of your so-called ‘free time,’ you’ll spend hours laughing and being merry with friends in the student union, pausing from your leisure only to accept a beer from your waiter, or to play with one of the freely roaming puppies.
I’m here to burst your bubble and tell you that Norris is nothing like the heavenly place you have been dreaming about.
Try not to think of everybody and their pledge mom hooking up on these.
Listen up. If you’re over 18 and your mommy still does your laundry, you’ve probably realized by now that you’re going to be SOL in the big scary world. Hey, it’s okay – at some point in your life, Momma stopped brushing your teeth, washing your hair, wiping your ass, and all the other things that kept you fresh-smelling and somewhat socially acceptable. You’re gonna learn to do laundry on your own, too, because the ability to remove Svedka and BO from your clothes is a basic function of self-sufficiency and personal hygiene.
So you’ve taken the first step and decided you don’t want to grow up to be Buster Bluth. But if you ask your friends how to do laundry, they WILL remember for the next four years and they will tell the hotties at da club and the hotties at da club will think you’re a pampered dumbfuck (you might be) and YOU WILL NEVER GET LAID. So here’s your (mostly) shame-free guide to being the independent fucking human you are expected to be in higher education.
Before you start, plan accordingly.