Wednesday, July 1, 2009

The Final Solution and the Most Expensive Purse in the World

So I needed a new purse.

My old purse was a champion, a good soldier, withstanding harrowing encounters with all manner of weather, condiments, dozens of trans-Atlantic voyages, and (more impressively) frequent assaults by my monkey, who regards any sort of stitch, zip, or button as a personal affront to her desire to make the house into her own personal jungle of disorganization and shit. This purse has been with me through thick and thin. It has concealed more tampax, trashy romance novels, and illegal paraphernalia than I would ever care to admit.

Buckling under the ravages of time and the eight gabillion pennies lost in the lining that I never bothered to remove, the old girl finally gave in at approximately 7 PM EST, just in time for me to get on a plane to Miami. And so I began my quest to find a replacement.

I had no idea when I set out of a dangerous and insidious epidemic which speaks to the very unraveling of society itself, a terrifying cultural phenomenon which pits logic against lust, frugality against taste, and functionality against greed. If I had to boil my sociological observations down into one thesis paper title, it would be this:

Bitches be crazy.

So here I am looking for a receptacle to fling over my shoulder and hold all my crap, and I come face to face with this:

and this:

and this:


Firstly: what the fuck is this? What's with all the feathers and fringe and huge ugly bows? Was I somehow not informed about the new trend of adorning your arm with the grotesque offspring of a bridesmaid dress and a bag lady's kerchief collection? And although the hideousness of these purses kind of offends my aesthetic sensibilities, I'm ready for the reality TV crew to come out laughing and telling me how this is all a big setup when I discover that you too can own all of the above items for around $800 a piece.

$800?? What the fuck does a purse that costs that much money even do? Taxes?? I mean, come on now. Are you really going to spend the equivalent of a third world worker's entire annual wages on something whose function could be carried out just as well by an old sheet and a stick?



































And sure, the ol' sheet-n-stick isn't exactly high fashion. But is someone actually going to tell me that this bullshit is chic? It looks like some 3rd grader went slap-happy with big fake plastic rhinestones the color of bile.

And hideousness aside, what the hell can you fit inside this dinky thing anyway? There isn't a chapter book in the entire world slim enough to ride along. Then again, maybe Prada does know their demographics. Because it does look just about the right size for a tube of mascara, a bottle of prescription painkillers, and a toothbrush to help you purge.

I began to think that perhaps this is some sort of elaborate practical joke on consumers. Like the time they got us to pay for bottled water. Except times 800. And instead of hydrating us, the product brands us as a tacky gullible moron with nothing better to do than collect arbitrary symbols of status and vacuousness.

As if it couldn't get any worse, in my attempt to bolster my argument for this post, I stumbled across this beauty. It's the Louis Vuitton limited edition, signature, tribute patchwork purse. And the cost of owning this stunning piece of arm candy?


...
....
.....
......
.......
........
.........
..........
...........
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$52,000.

Hold on, let me give you time to recover your breath and sanity while looking at this picture of an adorable kitty.



Now back to business. Fifty two THOUSAND dollars. For a frankenstinean mess of shiny alligator flesh and gaudy gold rivets that looks like it was made by a sweatshop kid who was so malnourished he was hallucinating?


Here's my new plan for world peace. Are you listening corporate America? Here's your chance to start doing some good. Market more products like this. Hordes of them. Gobs of solid gold neckties and limited edition designer toilet paper. And then anytime someone purchases one of these items, promptly launch them into space. Please. For the sake of humanity. Stop the madness.


P.S. If you're going to pay an assload of money for a purse, at least let it be hilarious. Maybe some of these?


















































And for all you sarcastic subversives out there...


xoxoLVLV,

H

Monday, June 29, 2009

Flying's Da Bomb

So I'm standing in line at airport security wishing I were somewhere more pleasant, like maybe the Siberian tundra, when a whole mess of beeping wakes me out of my dog-sledding vodka-swigging trance.

Airport Guy: Excuse me ma'am, what's in this metal box?
Me: A camera.
Airport Guy: (eying me warily) A camera?
Me: A camera.
Airport Guy: What kind of camera?
Me: A video camera.
Airport Guy: For videos?
Me:... yep.

Airport guy is clearly not satisfied with this description and so he asks me to open the camera case, which, granted, is bulky and reinforced with metal and locks and all sorts of things which someone might want to surround their delicate video equipment with. Airport Guy does not wait for me to open the camera case before he grabs it back from me and bangs it down on the counter five or six times.

Airport Guy: Why's it rattling?
Me: I think because you're banging it.
Airport Guy: Are you kidding me?
Me: ...no.
Airport Guy: You think I don't know what a camera sounds like?
Me: What?
Airport Guy: What's in the box, ma'am?
Me: My camera!
Airport Guy: (opening the box) And what about this, huh?
Me: Padding.
Airport Guy: Padding for what?
Me: Padding. It protects the camera incase it gets all banged around.
Airport Guy: Banged?
Me: Banged.
Airport Guy: Bang?
Me: What?
Airport Guy: Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step over here.

So I step over there, a little gray room with no windows, where I am introduced to Airport Gal.

Airport Gal: A camera?
Me: A camera!
Airport Gal: Please turn the camera on ma'am.
Me: I can't, it's out of batteries.
Aiport Gal: That's pretty convenient, don't you think?
Me: Not really.
Airport Gal: Where are you traveling to?
Me: I'm going to Florida to visit my publishing company
Airport Gal: Like, books?
Me: Books.
Airport Gal: You said this was a camera.
Me: It is a camera.
Airport Gal: How do you know?
Me: I... what?
Airport Gal: Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step over here.

So I step over there, and I am acquainted with Airport Man, who is distinguishable from Airport Guy by a massive belly and an even more massive mustache. I wait for nearly a half hour for Airport Man to get off of a phone call, and now he wants to know what's in the box.

Me: A camera! Look! Listen, my plane is leaving in like 15 minutes and I really can't miss-
Airport Man: This will take as long as it needs to take ma'am. What's this?
Me: Lens cleaner.
Airport Man: Lens cleaner?
Me: For the camera.
Airport Man: We're going to have to confiscate this.
Me: But it's under the liquid limit!
Airport Man: Would you be willing to taste it?
Me: What??
Airport Man: Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step over -
Me: Don't you think if I wanted to transport a bomb I'd pick something more discreet to transport it in? This box is plated in shiny metal with huge rivets and locks and it's massive! Who would think this was a good place to hide a bomb!? Duffel bag, sure. Baby stroller, very inconspicuous. But this? I mean, you might as well rollerblade through customs dressed as a giant stick of TNT.

And that's how you get you get your lens cleaner confiscated and your red sweatshirt triple x-rayed in the special back office in a little grey windowless room next to airport security.

God Bless America.

Monday, June 22, 2009

Party Off.

I went to a party recently, and it sucked donkey balls.

I cannot attribute this to not knowing anyone there, because there were at least two dozen familiar faces. And I cannot attribute this knowing but not liking any of those familiar faces, because among them were loved ones and dear friends. The food was pretty good, the dessert was great, mohitos and cosmos flowed like (insert your favorite flow metaphor here. Water/wine/tears/lava... it's that time of the month and I don't want to forcefully subject you to the metaphor that comes most readily to my mind. (Oops, too late.))

So anyway, lots of booze, lots of food, lots of flashbacks to me in middleschool hiding in the bathroom stall of some fancy catering hall.

I went to a "reform" temple on the wealthy side of town, which meant that people whose families had lots of money but not so much piety or tact invited me to a lot of Bar and Bat Mitzvahs where latkas with caviar on top were crucial religious celebratory ingredients. According to the 50 or so lavishly catered affairs I attended between ages 12-15, an ancient coming of age ceremony is simply not complete without novelty Groucho Marx sunglasses, miniature roulette wheels, caricaturists, fountains of chocolate, and sometimes three brand new ponies (no kidding.)

But hey, who am I to complain? I got 50 sweet goodie bags filled with personalized shirts, chocolates, light-up-pens, Tiffany bean necklaces, and sometimes even Bar Mints-vahs (because who wants to visit the holy land with a dirty mouth?)

I also got hours upon hours of awkward 7th grade dance antics, where the girls and boys treated eachother like a hostile enemy species until some coked-up professional "dance motivator" in a sequined vest skipped over and insisted that everyone join in for a mortifying game of "Coke and Pepsi."

Did you guys play Coke and Pepsi? Does anybody else think that having middle school girls repeatedly perch on the laps of middle school boys in the hopes of winning a giant inflatable saxophone borders on inappropriate? Was this just the ingenius plot of some horny group of 12 year olds? Have we been fooled into lap-perching submission for generations at the hands of a pervy pubescent patriarchy?

I didn't really have time to ponder these issues when I was 12-15 because, as I mentioned before, I was usually in the bathroom. These fancy catering halls usually had really fancy bathrooms that weren't even called bathrooms but rather "powder rooms," and the powder rooms were full of perfumes and hairspray and complimentary bouquets of tampax. They were also very quiet, and I found them a welcome escape from the blaring ear-assault of 3 hours of Backstreet Boys and Ricky Martin ickiness, or whoever the terrible pop idol of the era happened to be.

I have tried to be awesome at party socializing. I have tried to steel myself against the blaring music and sweaty handshakes and vapid chitchat about the weather and that yummy guacamole over by the bar. I have tried to imbibe half the contents of said bar in an attempt to enjoy myself more, but then I usually end up right back where I started- in the bathroom- and this time it's not because I'm a wallflower.

It's not that I don't like people. I mean, I don't like a lot of people, but I don't discount them as a race entirely. I think it's just that people were not meant to socialize in massive sweaty hordes of anonymous shouting.

But maybe that's just me.

Am I alone here? Are there other fellow bathroom-dwellers out there who couldn't wait for their Mom to pick them up from the 7th grade dance so they could go home and eat pizza bagels and watch old movie musicals with their cat and-

Well I think I've said too much.

Just to let you know, this candid admission only serves to underscore my allaround social excellence, because only the coolest person you know would willingly tell thousands of people about how she'd rather stab herself in the eye with a salad fork than go clubbing. Right?

...right.

Hope all is well, folks. Party on. Or off.

xo
H

P.S. I'm in the process of editing the very last FINAL FINAL FINAL four pages of the book- a little "special features" section if you will, and I'd love a few more opinions. If you'd be willing to give me your two cents I'll send you the sneak preview. Email me at writinghannah@me.com

Monday, June 8, 2009

HannahWriting

How do you write a book?

As I mentioned on Youtube, a lot of people have been emailing me questions about the writing process lately. I figure now is as good a time as any to answer writing questions, because for the next month I will be an Author- a real live, true blue, pen-to-paper author, and after that my family will almost certainly re-dub me "get-a-job-and-move-the-hell-out Friedman."

The first thing that I learned is that writing is a job. It's not just that fun thing you do on the subway when you have nothing better to think about, or that indulgent hobby you store in a diary under your bed for all those times you're feeling très très heartbroken and poetic, or that rusty skill you dust off every time you have some bullshit homework assignment due. Writing is a job, and if you want to make it your job, you have to treat it with respect.

This means a few things:
1. You cannot wait until whimsy beckons you to your keyboard, because whimsy is a fickle muse.
2. You have to get used to the 1/10 idea. Nine tenths of what you write is going to be, according to you, total crap.
3. You have to wallow in a lot of supposed crap before you figure out what it is your subconscious is really trying to express. Don't give up.
4. In terms of raw creativity, your subconscious is valedictorian and your logical, literal mind, rides the short bus. And drools. And eats its own earwax. Leave her out of this.

To expand upon these ideas:

1 : Make yourself a schedule. (I will be the first one to call shenanigans here.) I will tell you that I work best under pressure of a deadline, but really that's a lie. I work only under pressure of a deadline, and if there hadn't been the possibility that I would get sued if I didn't finish this book, I probably wouldn't have gotten past chapter two.

But I knew I had to finish, and I knew this was a big project, so I set lots of little goals. They add up. All you can ask of yourself is to dedicate a little time every day to your project. Every single one of my favorite passages in the book came after at least five minutes of doodling around writing nothing very interesting. I'd write my name. My address. I'd write "I have nothing to write I have nothing to write I have nothing to write." And by and by, my mind would quiet and my fingers would take over and these awesome pages came totally out of nowhere. If I had waited until I "knew" exactly what I was going to write, nothing exciting or surprising would have been written.

Set aside time each day. No page limit, no word count. Just set a timer, and keep your fingers typing (/strumming/stirring/dribbling etc.) for exactly that amount of time. And no matter what you've accomplished by the end of it, you've succeeded. I promise that by the end of a week, you'll be seeing results. It is the hardest thing in the world to start working, especially when your goal is to finish a whole book. But if your only expectation is that you sit down and write for half an hour a day, you'll accomplish it easily. You'll feel accomplished. You'll start to accomplish amazing things. Day by day. You have my word.

2: If I had waited for everything to be perfect in my head, I would have gotten frustrated and stopped months ago. It's happened a million times, with songs, with poems, with short stories- I have a hundred half-finished projects festering in the nooks and crannies of my motherboard. But guess what? Things don't finish themselves, and there's no such thing as a brilliant stroke of insight that fixes every plothole and character arc. Even if you do stumble across a really great idea, you're going to have to work and whittle and move things around before everything fits.

And here's the best part: everything will fit. The reason that you're having such a hard time finishing is the very same reason that you'll be able to finish. If you had absolutely no standards, if you could pull strings of incoherent words out of a barrel and be fine signing your name to them, you'd be finished with all of your projects by now. But you know what you're capable of. You know how great it feels when, on that rare occasion, you write something that's just perfect. That you're proud of. That you want to share with others. Your high standards are often what gets in the way of your finishing a project, because you don't allow yourself the freedom to muck through the ten crappy sentences it takes before you find the good one. But the good news is that these same high standards will allow you to know, to really know, when you finally hit upon something great. So you don't need to worry about whether or not your work will be good. You only need to worry about doing enough work to get down to the good stuff.

3. There is no wrong way to start writing, except to not start. As a die-hard procrastinator, I was not used to the idea of drafts when I began this project. At Yale I would usually not look at my assignments for months, then spend the entire night before a paper was due agonizing over every single word until it was perfect, then print it out never to be seen again. I did not leave room for growth- I just wanted to finish the damn thing. But if you have a project that you care about, you're going to have to nurture it. It won't be perfect the first time around, or the second, or the third. Not only is that okay, that's the only way to really achieve your creative goals.

For a perfectionist like me, this idea was hard to get used to. I wanted Chapter One to be perfect so that I could move on to Chapter Two. I wanted to check it off on my little anal-retentive checklist. But that's not how creative projects work. They evolve from all angles at different speeds. Sometimes your very first chord or lyric or sentence will be influenced by your very last, and you won't know how it all ties together until you get to the end of the process. Things reveal themselves bit by bit, and if you give yourself over to this process, its like solving a fantastic artistic mystery every single day.

This is liberating, people. I used to be Ms. Thesaurus, and I'd sit and stare at my computer for half an hour making sure I had the perfect word. This is NOT the way to write. It will kill your creative spirit and wear you down. It's a waste of your time. Through this process I've learned to trust myself enough to leave things loose. Sometimes I'll know that I need a very certain word, but I can't put my finger on what it is, so I'll leave myself an asterisk in the text and come back to it later. Or I'll make up a fake word as a placeholder. Sometimes I'll reach a spot where I want to touch upon a very broad idea, an entire philosophy which needs to be artfully distilled, but I know that it will take me a long time to find the perfect format, and I'm in a good story flow and I know that wrestling with it will just trip me up. I leave myself a little note, one or two words which will remind me of the big idea I was intending to grapple with, and then later I'll come back.

This approach seems very messy, but it's actually quite relaxing. On the first pass you can just let yourself go crazy- you can write down every single thing that comes into your head without having to insist that the inner critic/editor have approval over every line. The inner critic/editor will be very helpful around the fifth or sixth draft, but in the beginning she only serves to make you feel like crap. When you feel like crap you don't give your ideas a chance, and very soon after you give up completely. Then you don't write anything and you feel worthless. Then you feel worthless so you don't write. Sound familiar?

My best advice is to trust yourself enough to have fun during the writing process. When you stop fixating on what your project should be, you get to discover what it is. And it is NEVER the same thing. Never. Your creative ideal is just a flagpost for the direction in which you'll begin to search, and once you begin to think about it as the search for Tut's tomb instead of the construction of a pyramid, you'll start to feel more sane, have more fun, and get more done. I promise.

4. You know way more than you think you know. I have never come up with a great idea banging my head against a wall willing myself to produce one. It just doesn't work that way. Most of the messages and information we absorb are not processed by our conscious mind, and the reason dreams are so nifty is that they weave together all sorts of snippets which affect us, but which we aren't completely aware of. When I was really "in the zone" while writing the book, it felt very akin to a dream. Things were unfolding in real time, and I recorded my narrative experience as I went through it in my head. And every single time my conscious mind got pissy and started to tell me "that's not funny," "that's not relevant," or "that just sucks," I would totally jar myself out of the zone and into self-doubt and panic. It wasn't fun.

I've mentioned it on the blog before, but I think I should reiterate this because it's such a fantastic writing tool. Get a Suck Jar. Mine is a sugar bowl with a little slot for a spoon. But instead of a spoon, I slide pieces of paper into the slot with every writing insecurity I come across. If I think a passage, paragraph, or project sucks, I write down why, and I put it in my Suck Jar. If I think I'm not funny, I put it in the Suck Jar. And then it's out of my head and I don't have to think about it anymore. I can just move on.

The jar is full of dozens of notes, and when I look back at them now, they all seem ridiculous and hyper critical. If an editor or a friend were to tell me a fraction of those things, I would never let them read my stuff again. But we're all our own worst critics, and we can't get away from ourselves. Which is why it's so important to delineate between pure creative time, and hardcore editing time. Don't start poking holes in your quiche before it's even in the oven.

The best thing I've learned over the course of writing this book is that if you give yourself the space to play out all of your craziest ideas, a judgement-free-zone, you will surprise yourself.

Please let me know about all of your other questions, and do keep me posted on whatever you're working on. Was any of this helpful? Hope all is well!

xox
H

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Forgive me!

Forgive me for my inexcusable absence. I was frantically finishing up my book. And guess what? I freakin' finished! I still can't really believe it. I keep expecting to leave it in the back of a taxi and then have all power in New York get shut down for weeks by an earth-shattering earthquake so that the internet is down. Then I have to strap the manuscript to my back and embark on an epic quest down the crumbled remains of I-95, during which I will face ravenous hillbillies and giant spiders and evil wizards to get it to my publisher in time to throw it into the volcano. (I also haven't been sleeping very much over these past 2 months, incase you can't tell.)

So in terms of big news, I launched the book yesterday at Book Expo America in NYC, and the reception was absolutely amazing. Thanks to all who came out and got advanced reader's copies. Thanks especially to Mr. McMegatron & Unk Terry for schlepping all the way to the west side before noon.

But first, WHY THE HELL WAS THAT ALL UNDERLINED? I can't find an underline feature here in blogger, and I don't know what the deal is. Thoughts? I'm not typing that over again, so those of you who stuck with me through all of the extra unnecessary emphasis, here are a few pictures from BEA:








Also, HannahFriedman.com got a little bit of a polish in anticipation of BEA, so check out some of the new links.


I plan to start right back up where I left off- I'm terribly sorry I haven't been around and I promise I'll make it up to you. If you have any burning questions you've been dying to get answered, do let me know and I'll keep you posted in the next post. I can't wait to tell you all about the writing process, as I've been contacted by several people in the last few days asking for publication advice. The short answer is: writing is fucking hard. Keep at it, because if you listen to how badly you think it sucks, you'll never give yourself the chance to fix it. And fixing it, (surprise surprise) is fucking hard. The fantastic part of the equation is that as long as you hold yourself to a high standard, you'll know when you're done. You'll know when it's right. It's just a matter of getting there. So shut up and keep writing. There's my short answer. As I mentioned, more to come.

Send me questions, let me know what you've been thinking. Hope all is well and that you're enjoying these sunny summer days. If you're not in a sunny summer place... what the hell are you thinking? New York is just starting to feel like the land of the living instead of some frozen ice-age wasteland, and I think we're all pretty grateful.

Love & Laughter & Lots of productivity,
xox
H

(also, I'm getting sick of blogger... it's tricky to customize format and I hate the settings. And the rogue underlinings. Are you all loving wordpress? Do you have other recommendations? I think I'm ready for a change. Let me know.)

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Airline Lie

A treatise:

I contend that there should  be a sound-proof, padded tunnel underneath airline seats in which babies are stored. Toss down some applejuice and Cheerios every few hours and then shut the hatch again and save us all some aggravation for God sakes. I paid good, hard earned money to be ceremoniously crammed between an obese racist and an incontinent octogenarian with muscle spasms for half a day in a seat which-

Hold up. I was going to finish that sentence but I'm too hopping mad. New sentence. 

If you can give me a good reason why (WHY?) they even bother to build in that smarmy little half-inch seat incline capability when they know perfectly well that it only serves to make the seat a hair more bearable before the guy behind you decides that his knee and your spine need to become intimately acquainted for six hours, and why (WHY?) it is so essential they wake you up from the merciful slumber it has taken you six hours to settle into only to have you contort yourself back to the original "upright" position to give you the privilege of experiencing an odorous concerto of your fellow passengers' digestion processes as that marvelous airline dinner takes a triumphant last stand, set to the dizzying swerves of a pilot who is either too young to drink or too drunk to think missing the optimal landing angle for the first, second, third loop, losing the scheduled runway opening, running out of fuel, and then deciding we need to divert to fucking Scranton Pennsylvania... if you can tell me why all these things have come to be synonymous with air travel, then I will apologize for telling a little white lie a little while back. 

Sure, I'm not pregnant. Sure, the faintly rounded rim of my midsection has more to do with Cheese Whiz than jizz. But I don't feel bad about lying my way into business class last week with the claim that I had a bun in the oven. Nobody ever asked me whether or not it was a hamburger bun.


And, well... that's just not my fault. 


Sheepishly, (but with more leg room, blankies, and complimentary cookies than you could shake a stick at,)
Hannah

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Fennel Destination: College Matriculation Questions

Questions questions!


I'm always thrilled and tickled to receive questions on the blog, so please don't interpret my delay as a lack of appreciation for you, only an abundance of appreciation for pirated web television. Also, I'm in Miami at the moment. As much as I cherish you, dear reader, you're no mango margarita mingling with a balmy Atlantic Ocean breeze in the creamy center of a sunny April afternoon. Step up your game. 


My Yale posts (here and here and here) have once again garnered a disproportionate amount of attention as compared to, say, the post where I talk about seaweed. It's like I was challenging an almost universally lauded farce upon which our entire educational system is based or something... And as usual, I am happy to answer these question, but first off, I would like to set down some ground rules so that the jerkoff who thinks it's important to comment about how "biased" I am will have to root through the dictionary for another 100 point word they don't know how to use in context. 


Yes folks, the following opinions regarding higher education will be biased. Because they are opinions. This being the case, and because, sadly, I have not yet perfected the neuro-manipulation device brewing in my basement which will bend all humankind to my will, I expect that my opinion will not reflect that of everyone else in the world. Don't freak out if you don't like what you hear. Or do freak out, but save yourself  time and don't rant about how my experience was NOT the same as yours. Because I won't be surprised. Because you are probably seeing the world through douchebag-colored glasses. Hey-  is it like those red/blue, 3D lenses that cancel out the very color they are tinted? When you look in the mirror do you disappear? 



Moving on. Nestor writes: "I really appreciate all of this insight on Yale... however I still find Yale to be good for me, and I say "think" because I live in Cali and I can't afford going there to visit it. You say Yale is ugly, but I want to know if it is architectural-wise or is it because there's a trash problem or traffic? Or is it just because of the sucky weather?"


Well Nestor, I have three things to tell you. Firstly, if you think Yale is good for you that's fantastic, and far be it from me to tell you otherwise. I can only speak to my own personal experience, and there are plenty of blue-bleeding Yalies who would disagree with everything I'm about to say. 


1. Listen to me when I tell you that New Haven is a pit. Sure, it's safer than it used to be. Sure, there are some fantastic restaurants and art museums. But even the heroin-grade gentrification injections of sushi joints and quirky coffee shops pooling about the perimeter of campus quickly drizzle down into urban decay after literally two blocks.  Three blocks north of my favorite bookstore there was a shooting last year, and three blocks south there was another shooting this year. Now, if you're not wandering the streets alone and intoxicated whilst attempting to juggle your iphone, wallet, and Rolex at 3 AM on a holiday weekend, you're probably going to be okay, but that doesn't detract from the fact that New Haven is not a city I was sad to bid farewell to. It is dark and depressing in the wintertime, but if you're a Californian you're going to be bummed out by all the Ivy climates, so that's not exactly news. 


The Yale campus itself is bustling and there are all sorts of activities to attend every night of the week, as compared to things I've heard from friends at Columbia, for example. It seems when you live in a city which doesn't drain your will to live you're more inclined to branch out and explore, so to Yale's credit, the awfulness of New Haven does inspire a certain insular vibrancy within Yale walls. 


 2. All this said, if every professor and every class I encountered at Yale just absolutely blew my fucking mind, I wouldn't have cared if Yale were located in the Orc-forging pits of Mordor. But they didn't. So if you're coming to Yale for the architecture then perhaps you'll be contented three times over the course of your education.

 


-The moment you step on campus and behold the grandeur of Yale buildings before realizing you'll be expected to inhabit a room approximately the size of a microwave oven. And oh yes, you'll be sharing that room with a manic-depressive, hyperactive, obsessive-compulsive. And oh yes, she needs to practice her tap-dancing routine every night before bed. And oh yes, she has gas problems. 

-When your grandparents come to visit.

-When you see your college 'neath the first blanket of virgin snow before you realize you'll have to trudge through the damn stuff for the next four months anytime you want to see sunlight.


3. Sure, it's nice to walk outside and see pretty gothic architecture. But do you really want to lay down a quarter mil. just to see bootleg versions of things you could see for free at a tour of Oxford? I'm sure this is not the only criterion upon which you're basing your Yale decision, but it concerns me that it's the only one you mentioned. Too often when I worked in the admissions office I saw people totally bowled over by impressive facts that had no bearing on education at all... the prettiness of some buildings, the number of kids rejected each year, the fact that we had a Gutenberg bible. 


Think of college tours like Coca Cola commercials. They  conveniently leave out the tooth-dissolving, rainforest-raping, cancer-causing details in the lyrics of their snap-happy theme songs. So feel free to sing along, but don't forget to do your own research before deciding to... oh I don't know... bathe in the stuff for four years straight. 



Another question:

"Yale has been my #1 choice for a long time, and I was admitted EA, so you can understand that I am dismayed at, if enlightened by, this blog. Plus, it's way too late to change where I applied, though I haven't comitted to Yale yet. So, out of curiosity, where would you go if you had to pick from the following institutions: Yale, Michigan (probable full-ride), Iowa (probable full-ride), Amherst, Harvard, and Stanford..."


Well… I have no idea. Seriously. The only school I ever went to was Yale, so that's the only school I can tell you about with any real credibility. I can’t stand the ranking systems which claim to accurately rank some schools above others based on categories as despicably irrelevant as "peer review," (i.e. popularity contest stats.) If you take anything away from this post, please remember that the same school which was a perfect fit for one person will be a terrible fit for another. So start doing your research. Some people want a strong focus on classical core curriculum, some people want to have access to particle colliders, some people want to be able to major in digeridoo. The first thing you need to do is figure out what you really want. 


We're not used to doing this. We know what teachers want. What our parents want. We know what the traffic cops want and what the IRS wants. But rarely are we ever encouraged to really truly look inward and give ourselves permission to name what we want. And this is the essential first step to answering your question. Tell me what you want your education to look like and we can start planning from there. 


Let's be frank: I wanted prestige and I got it. I didn't reflect deeply enough to recognize that what I also wanted was artistic freedom and creative interdisciplinary curriculum, so I didn't really get it. Be honest with yourself. 


You mentioned the possibility of a free ride to several of your other college options. This is kind of a biggie, especially if you, like me, are going to be up to your ears in student loans until you're 30 if you decide to go with Yale. 


Was  it worth it?


Well here’s the thing. There is no significant distinction between the salaries of people who went to Ivy League schools and people who got into Ivy League schools but didn’t end up going. The Ivy Leagues take credit for the successes of a lot of kids who would arguably have been just as successful anywhere else.


But there’s more. Fascinatingly, there is also no distinction between the career success of people who attended Ivy League schools versus people who simply applied, even if they were rejected. If you have the balls to think that you belong at Yale, then odds are you’ve got the gusto required to kick ass in the real world no matter where you get your B.A. from, and if you’ve already been accepted then that’s just even more confirmation of your capability. So listen to me when I  tell you this:


You do not need Yale.


I guarantee that anything you will learn there you can learn on your own with equal parts curiosity and dedication. If you’re making an investment in brand name because you want to be affiliated with an institution that spits out more politicians than all the bustiest White House interns combined, that’s great, but don’t get caught up in the idea that turning down an Ivy will screw you out of the best life has to offer. Statistically, just the fact that you applied makes you a winner.



So here’s what you should do: remove the idea that attending an Ivy League school will make you a successful person from your decision making process entirely. There’s nothing you can learn there that you can’t learn with a library card and some intellectual curiosity.


If you plan to become a beat poet it’s probably not a good idea to go into debt just to get a silly Ivy degree, but if you’re eyeing law school I cannot deny the persuasive powers of those three little letters... I V Y


So now sit down with your folks and figure out what really makes sense for you. Do you want a stellar film studies department? Do you need to have a car? Are you planning on going to medical school? Do you want to be able to ice skate?  I know you’re going to hate that answer but it’s really the best one there is. Anybody who purports to know which school is better for you than another is not thinking about you. They’re thinking about brand names, spouting out propaganda, and exhibiting exactly the type of nitwittery that big businesses hope they can induce in the general population by showing us big tits and shiny objects and cool guys smoking cigarettes.


 

Final Question:

Hello :) what do you know about other Ivy League schools?... Are they all as bad as Yale?



I don’t know that much about other Ivy League schools other than the disparaging facts we were required to spout off to tour groups at the admissions office whenever anybody asked for an Ivy comparison. There isn’t a “campus life” at Columbia like at Yale. Penn  lacks our resources, Princeton our open-mindedness, and Harvard is socially stunted.  If that sounds like a crock to you then you’re absolutely right because none of these schools, including Yale are “bad.” They’re different. And each one is going to tell you that their differences make them better than all the other ones. But the truth is that no matter how perfectly some fancy Five Star Restaurant prepares the most succulent Roast duck leg with fennel and rosemary that has ever been served in the entire history of the culinary world, I am going to hate it.


Because I fucking hate fennel.




Hate it. Even writing the word fennel makes me wince. Fennel. Ugh. Fucking eiw. It’s like someone taking a dump in your throat.


And I will leave you with that lovely parting image. Not to gross you out, but rather to make you truly consider the subjectivity of preference, and to encourage you to discover and honor your educational goals and the things that make you want to hurl. Because guess what? No matter how important your parents and teachers and friends are telling you this decision is, once you graduate with or without a Yale degree in four years you’ll still have only just begun your educational journey. So figure out what you want to be doing now and start doing it a little at a time. That’s the best advice I can give you and it doesn’t require an Ivy League school, just the audacity to listen to yourself and to follow through.


If you really want to be happy with your decisions, listen, learn, and stay the hell away from your very own personal fennels, no matter how well respected they may be. 


Stay sane folks. Keep me posted and keep the questions coming.


xox

H