Dear Mr. Potter,

The story is old hash, been done a million times over. Girl finds solace in the stories of things that could not be, like magic and wizards and spells. Because it’s better than being a student at Ramblewood Elementary School where the girls criticize you for not wearing the right khakis and the boys think you’re odd for having read all the books in reading group already. I was not an orphan in a cupboard and I did not know hunger or neglect, but we were soulmates by page 20.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was a gift from my parents – another book that I would no doubt voraciously devour. And I did, begging for the next. Sometime later I read the third as well. Not long after turning 11, I wrote myself a Hogwarts acceptance letter, sealed it and shoved it into the mailbox. Harry Potter was never a bedtime story, but a complete immersion into a world in which I alone inhabited.

Fifth grade was a terrible year. One would think that being in the oldest grade would ensure a year of toddling 10-year-old swagger and untouchable arrogance, but it was a rough year for me. It was a slightly chubby phase and, for whatever reason, everyone hated me. Everyone. I don’t think I necessarily did anything wrong, but one person said this, another said that and, well, there you go. I recall that being the last one to see Bring It On was an important factor. Thanks a f*cking lot, Kirsten Dunst. But there was a new girl in school who couldn’t care less about any of that. I complimented Melissa on her Sailor Moon pencil case, and we played together for hours on the kickball field pretending Tuxedo Mask was within arm’s reach from our pre-lustful grasp. She liked Harry Potter too, so we talked about that until our friendship was as solid as they come for having only known someone for a couple months. She is to this day one of the best friends I’ve ever had.

Melissa and I as Luna Lovegood and Cho Chang, respectively, at the Deathly Hallows midnight book release party at the now-defunct Borders in Coral Springs, FL.

This was also around the same time that I discovered The Wonderful World of Harry Potter message boards (later to be hosted by Cinescape in a paradigm shift that caused a massive disruption to our daily routine). There were Houses and newcomers simply picked the one they wanted to frequent. I surveyed the Houses and each seemed alright, but believe it or not, Hufflepuff stood out. Not the usual shy and forgettable Huffs one would expect, they tirelessly joked about e-peaches, created the dance slash drink the Huffshake, engaged in Internet ADHD affectionately dubbed Veermania, and had pages upon pages of thoughtfully narrated food fights. Years passed and we still kept in touch. The boards were shut down, moved, and shut down again, but we stayed radically interested in each other’s lives through Livejournal and instant messaging. I swapped letters with a girl from the Midwest choosing a university and a girl in sixth form in Brunei. We had a token boy known as Snitch (real name being Riley, but we oft preferred nicknames) who unabashedly loved his dear Huffs, despite the House’s gender bias towards the fairer sex. We all drifted apart once a good portion of us got to college around ‘07, but I still think about them from time to time and the camaraderie we felt, even (if not especially) during the years that would pass between new Potter things.

Letters from Lana and Teah.

When the movies premiered, I went to see the first with my parents on opening night and cried silently at the end because I couldn’t fathom how beautiful my fantasy looked on the big screen. John Williams composed a score that to this day makes my heart sing. No matter my opinion on the films, I have gotten that knot in my stomach at the end of each and every one, that feeling that I am 10 years old again and my dreams are a reality.

Melissa and I had been active members of the Livejournal community, posting things in private journals and keeping up with communities. We were both into fanfiction, frequenting Sugarquill.net (I just found All That Glitters again and I’m about to re-read it to see if it’s as good as I remember) and laughing at some of the bizarre pairings that dipped into the shamelessly pornographic. But one stood out to us above all else: The Shoebox Project. While based on the popular Remus/Sirius slash ship, the story explored the four Marauders (Sirius, Lupin, James and Peter) on their mischievous boyhood adventures at Hogwarts in the 1970s through memories, notes, doodles and journal entries hoarded in a shoebox under the bed of a particularly neurotic werewolf. Undertones dwelled on their relationship, sure, but it was – at its core – a story of friendship, laughter and the intoxicating effects of smoking gillyweed written and illustrated in the most hilarious and endearing style. In the spirit of our fandom, Melissa and I referred to each other as Moony and Padfoot and spent the better part of our first two years of high school passing notes in like style. We embarked on an audiobook project in which we would read chapters into a shitty computer microphone with overzealous British accents. As with everything, planning the project was more memorable than the fact that we only got one chapter in before forgetting about it.

Approximately half the notes passed between Melissa and I our first two years of high school ceremoniously saved in a shoebox decorated with drawings and notes from The Shoebox Project. Melissa has the other half. I also have a binder with printed scripts for the audio project.

Sirius Black, Professor McGonagall, Remus Lupin and…Sharon, circa 2005.

But Harry, you not only gave me Melissa – you gave me Ashleigh and Bonnie, too. You gave me the hours I’ve spent with them debating charm theory, discussing wizard rock and making off-hand AVPM references. You gave me the fire-in-my-belly jealousy of Bonnie attending LeakyCon, Infinitus, Prophecy and every other symposium known to man and wizard. I’ve sparked the fire in other friends, encouraging them to read the entire series over when they couldn’t have cared less (with special congratulations to Rich for reading the books, watching the films and nearing the end of the American audiobooks). And I’ve given my mom something to talk about and feel hip and my dad something to watch every single time it’s on television. They actually want to come with me to the movies to see the latest installment in your story. They asked me to go to Universal Studios Orlando to see Hogwarts, and I could do nothing by smile and oblige.

Lucius Malfoy (AJ Kagan) and Bellatrix Lestrange for a Halloween party, circa 2009.

Hogwarts with Mom and the Hogwarts Express with lady friends and one very eager conductor.

To this day I wondered what House I belonged to, but I always set sights on the blue and silver. It seemed an apt fit. I was quite content to call myself a Ravenclaw, having prided myself on skills of wit and bookishness, never giving any thought to ruthless determination or boldness or being...unafraid of toil. But a true friend – a new one at that – pointed out strength I didn’t appreciate. He saw my silence as discipline and reason and my stubborn independence as strength in the face of tension. I teared up when he said that he found me confident under pressure because I believed him. I believed that I had grown to be everything I thought I could never live up too. I’m not a coward, nor am I cold and callous. I am brave and I am loyal. I make thoughtless mistakes and I still have a lot of maturing to do, but I love with everything I have to give. I am a Gryffindor.

Thank you for everything you’ve given me, Harry and Jo. For showing me friendship, what it means to be brave and for allowing me the privilege of acquiring as much knowledge of your brilliant world as I have these past 13 years. You were not the subject of children’s novels; you were a child’s foundation for being the adult they are today.

With love,

Dear Mr. Potter

(x-posted to Facebook)

Early Millenia MTV Alters Young Teen Into OCD Freak

From time to time I have this habit of displaying extremely neurotic traits that shimmer dramatically against my otherwise laidback persona (if by “laidback persona,” I mean “overwhelming denial of brain’s internal short-circuiting on continuous basis”…and I do).

Maybe I’ll rearrange the way my bathroom soap lies in its decorative dish compulsively for a few minutes, or organize my bookshelf by height order at 3 a.m. But this is more comprehensive. I refer to it as Room Raiders Syndrome. Back in the early 2000s when America was just starting to embrace the whole creepy voyeurism trend and it was becoming more socially acceptable for telecasted airwaves, MTV was producing a show entitled Room Raiders.

The premise was simple: a sexy bachelorette would invade the rooms of three painfully oblivious guys and judge them solely based on whatever she found in their rooms, which would eventually culminate in a date with one of them without ever having seen or spoken to them. This situation could be reversed with a sexy bachelor, and the series even featured a few gay episodes.

I would come home every day from middle and high school, flip on the tube and there was a 90% chance at least a couple back-to-back episodes were on around 4 p.m. Day after day, it was hammered into my head that the only way I would ever get a date in this cold, unforgiving world is to have an utterly mind-blowing living space that could survive arbitrary guerilla raids from attractive young males. The notion that at any moment I could be abducted and hurled in the back of a van was inconsequential at this point, I guess.

Three bachelorettes anxiously await a date with Taylor Lautner lookalike or Augie Artiles.

From then on, at the very least subconsciously, I’ve been bordering on anal retentive as to how my room looked from outside my own perspective. This was beyond having a keen eye for interior design – it was bordering on Monk-like attention to detail.

While folding laundry, I’d wonder if someone kicked in my window wielding an AK-47 and a mutant attack giraffe and my life depended on their opinion on my wardrobe, which would make a better impression. Inevitably, the nicer shirt would go on top of the pile in my dresser and the lesser of the two would make its way to the bottom, out of sight from potentially armed suitors. Survival of the trendiest.

Cute, Brand New Abercrombie and Fitch Lion defeats Cousin Rachael’s Hand-Me-Down Buffalo. Lion 

will be worn tonight at a party. Buffalo will make friends with loose buttons in bottom drawer and has already begun writing suicide note in form of price tag for Plato’s Closet.

Perhaps there’s some logic to that madness. I’d probably be more likely to wear a more attractive shirt than one I’m embarrassed of, rendering its place at the top of the pack a reasonable organizational tactic. But that’s not the motive on my mind – for some reason, I’m more willing to default to spontaneous assault as a viable rationale to the organization of my T-shirts.

I’m also a packrat, which makes organizing my room to suit imaginary standards a particularly grueling task that requires constant vigilance. I’m not so much worried about the blacklight test (I do have some decency, y’all), but what if he got out those tongs. Those things are like the Jaws of Life when it comes to prying through your personal life. Every so often, I’ll thumb through the Mt. Vesuvius of archaic documents and papers that collect on my desk. I wonder if someone were to leaf through them, what they would think of me.

Painful realization of my inadequacy, in the style of Allie Brosh.

Monstrous manila folder of debate ballots – I’m talented and quick-witted. Scrapbook – my friends love me, which is good. Scholarship info – I’m resourceful. 8^th grade report card – fucking nerd who had an aneurism when she got a B once. Pile of marked up scripts vs. bulletin board of playbills – theatre geek who has no life vs. cultured aristocrat. Notes from Mom pre-unlimited texting threatening to kill me if I go over my limit one more time – social, but woefully repressed. Okay, maybe some of these things needed to go.

College is a temporary Band-Aid to this psychosis. Namely because I won't bring anything up from home that I don't actually want in my dorm. And because the realization that people I didn’t know would likely be milling about through my room came to fruition. I'm a trooper.

However, now that I’m back home for the summer, I still impulsively throw out things I wouldn’t want anyone to see. I’ll involuntarily twitch at the sight of old notebooks I inexplicably kept that are tortuously embarrassing…

But at least I don’t own stupid underwear.

Note: Sara Solano is an avid watcher of The Travel Channel and hasn't watched MTV (with the exception of a couple episodes of Silent Library two weeks ago) in about four years. When she isn't staring down all of her wordly possessions, she's sleeping with her stuffed tiger Drew or making prank phone calls to Slovakian telemarketers. 

It's not about winning -- it's about glittering

GLORY. OBVIOUS GLORY. I'm, of course, referring to my books. 

My mother handed me a roll of paper towels, a bottle of Windex and told me to hop to. A boring task though it may be, I’ve become used to the monotony of spray-wipe-repeat on every surface in my living space. I’m a college student and therefore holistically apathetic to the layer of dust comfortably settled on nearly everything in my room, yet I fear the earth-shattering wrath of a woman with a dirty home. 

After the dresser layered with knick-knacks has been rearranged ad nauseum to give the illusion of cleanliness and the desk piled high with outdated documents and school supplies I’ve yet to use or have the heart to throw away has been tragically ignored yet again, I’m left with one task: the second bookshelf (normal people need two bookshelves, right?) Spray-wipe-repeat across the shelves. But that leaves what adorns the top.

My debate trophies.

During my run as an active interper on the state and national circuit, it was my parents’ duty to proudly festoon the den with my glittering accomplishments. Plaques adorned the wall and my statues of greatness beamed as the sunlight struck them on the table. But once I waved farewell to high school, I come home during the Jewish new year in September to find them all staring back at me in my room. My room.

What were they doing here, I wondered.

“Well, they are yours, so we figured you would appreciate having them in your room,” Mother mused, as she eyed the plentiful collection of nude wreath-bearers. “Besides, you’re not competing anymore, so what’s the point of having them all displayed somewhere else in the house?”

But now here we were, a couple weeks later – them a dusty mess and me armed with Weapons of Mass Cleaning. These golden beauties had never been my responsibility – it was Mom’s proud duty to keep them polished and pristine. While dusting trophies doesn’t seem like anything worth mentioning, to me, there was something about the notion of maintaining them that makes me feel like a washed-up high school football star polishing his Mayor’s Cup with the corner of his soiled wifebeater, a lone tear in his eye, as he hollers at his 7-year-old son to drop and give him twenty.

There were very specific ways debaters interacted with their trophies. For some, they were great towers of wonder to be cared for with kid gloves and ultimate pride; they were humbled by these masses of plastic and marble. For others, it was essentially their sole reason for competition.

Alas, for many of my peers who were seasoned, talented and placed at nearly every tournament they entered (or double or triple entered), it was yet another nuisance to tote home. Some even collected them in the backseat of their car until the end of the year when their trunks looked as though they had just pulled off a major gold heist. There was, I suppose, little space left in their bulletproof, sliding glass door display case at home.

Not having reached my stride until the beginning of my junior year, trophies for me were the former for quite some time – sacred and humbling. As the year went on, my collection grew, and I did as well. Namely, I grew weary of my parents’ gushing and having to take company to the Trophy Room to give explanations of how I came to inherit such worldly possessions and talents. If I happened to be wearing a polo shirt at the time, I must’ve looked like a disgruntled museum tour guide.

But now, a year or two after many of the remnants of greatness were acquired, dusting off these holy relics while I have friends competing in national finals in Kansas City as we speak makes me feel something like a has-been. What used to be so precious now has empty meaning. The new competitors coming in will have no recollection of my “accomplishments” in the world of speech and debate; I am destined to be forgotten on wrinkled schematics and my name embedded in a database of endless code. My precious ballots scrawled with 1s and “this is the best HI I’ve ever seen!” lay in a manila foldered heap on my desk. I’ll continue to haphazardly dust off my trophies to keep my filth-fearing mother at bay, as well as use my 1^st Place 2007 Nova Titan Invitational in Humorous Interpretation as a charging cell phone holder. At least it’s still good for something.

I wonder if Cher has this problem when she has to tidy around her Oscar.  

Note: Sara Solano was co-captain, webmaster/historian and interpretation squad leader throughout her four years of competition on the J.P. Taravella High School speech and debate team. She has competed in Humorous Interp (her main event), Oral Interp, Duo Interp, Extemporaneous Duo Interp, Original Oratory and Domestic Extemp Speaking. The latter of the list made her want to cry and to this day she reads “The Economist” with a look of anxiety. Her debate career was NOT completely successful as this may imply, and she did not place or break at plenty of tournaments -- she’s not a demi-god by any means. When Sara isn’t being totally conceited, she’s sewing patches on hobo’s trousers and serving leek soup to Ukrainian exchange students in a Texan youth hostel. 

UF COMEDY TEAM LAUGHS ITS WAY TO VICTORY

(From left to right) Rudy Mendoza, Calvin Cole, Brian Amos and Tim Keck.

It is 7:30 p.m. on a Saturday evening. While the majority of their peers are crowding into bars and clubs downtown, these University of Florida comedy enthusiasts are packed into Weimer Hall’s auditorium, cheering on members of the University Stand-Up Comedy Club (USUCC) via live Web stream as they secured a national title at the Rooftop College Comedy Competition in Aspen, Colo. this past weekend.

Almost 2,000 miles across the country, Calvin Cole, Tim Keck, Rudy Mendoza and Brian Amos crossed the stage for their final shot at comedic glory. Mendoza sang his own rendition of the Jurassic Park theme song as the auditorium burst into hollers and applause. 

For the four of them, support from their loyal fanbase in Gainesville was imperative to their success so far from home. 

“We wouldn't have made it without them,” Mendoza said. “I was getting texts from them while I was backstage…they were giving me feedback on how they thought the show was going. It was indescribably cool.”

More than 30 colleges battled for spots in this year’s festival, according to the competition’s official Web site. In a showcase at the Orange & Brew in the Reitz Union earlier this year, members of USUCC performed and the audience voted for who they believed should continue further in the competition.

After multiple rounds of online voting, UF was named one of the Funniest 4 College Teams and the four remaining members made their way to Aspen for the second time in two years to compete in semifinals and finals. Having conquered Florida State University on their own turf at The Comedy Zone in Tallahassee, University of Virginia, Duke University, and the comedy powerhouse of Emerson College, the boys of USUCC can say with a clear conscience that they have successfully defended the Gator Nation’s comedic honor.

“It feels like a dream come true. All the three of us [Cole, Mendoza and Keck] have thought about every day since last year was coming back and proving ourselves,” Mendoza said. 

While the other three members of the team had travelled to the festival last year, this was Amos’ first trip, as well as his first year trying his hand at stand-up comedy. 

“The other guys were really helpful – we workshopped together, did multiple shows a week together, gave each other notes,” Amos said. “Aspen was a lot of fun. I was thrilled just to get there, but being able to perform twice and winning was really great.”

In addition to their national title, Cole was named the team’s MVP and will be heading to Chicago to compete for the title of Funniest Student in America at the TBS Just For Laughs festival next week. His set will be available online at rooftopcomedy.com and voting begins June 22. 

As for next year, the club’s primary goal is to get the word out about their current triumph, as well as defending their title. 

“We want to tour Florida as the national championship comedy team,” said Mendoza. “We want everyone in Florida to know about it.”

Even for the members of the club who did not participate in this year’s festival, the win can only mean more success in the near future. 

“USUCC may be a small and young club, but it proves to be very talented,” said Jordan Loar, a member of USUCC. “This is a sign that there are only more good things to come.” 





Note: The above article was written with the intention to be published in The Alligator, The Gainesville Sun, The Ocala Star-Banner and/or The South Florida Sun-Sentinel. Publishing status has yet to be determined. I might try some college magazines or websites. We'll see!

Stuff White People Like #134: Commenting About Stuff Other White People Like

"Ohhh, pweddy colors...GO ITALY!"

Although mankind has seen amazing feats of evolutionary progression since they’re descent from the genus of apehood, our innate territorial tendencies have a nasty habit of carrying over into the strangest of discrepancies. In a club downtown, a man will jump to defend his woman who was merely tapped on the shoulder to inquire on the whereabouts of a bathroom, and young children howl “MINE!” at the slightest inkling that their fellow playgroup member might be eyeing their Batman action figure.

But there comes a time once every four years in which the global community will unite under one common cause – the game of soccer. Or at least…it should.

Yet, as every World Cup passes, elitists scoff at the fair-weather fans that seemingly come out of the woodworks to chant “USA! USA! USA!” at their HD televisions while sporting their $75 jerseys that may see the light of day a couple of times a decade. However, if the purpose of the Cup is to connect these great nations, who are you to scold an otherwise apathetic fan who simply wants to soak in the good spirits? I’ll admit, I’ve shot a couple of eye-rolls at the obvious over-compensation of some fans who throw themselves into the red, white and blue and still think a red card is an alternative proof of U.S. citizenship. But we're all assholes sometimes, amirite? In all honesty, my bracket took me about three minutes to construct and having a group of improvisers, three-fourths of whom clicked the teams with pretty jerseys, is holistically entertaining. “RJHatesSports” as the name of a bracket is funny, but it's hardly worth wasting energy reprimanding and judging him for it.

 

Is there really any harm done by these so-called bandwagoners? If there’s such a harsh protocol on the matter, I call bullshit on anyone who tuned in to the Super Bowl who wasn’t from Indianapolis or New Orleans. The Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet had much more exciting offense. So unless they’re violating DBAD, then I say no harm, no foul on those who simply want to take advantage of the fun of the game. The Cup is supposed to represent hope, triumph, a sense of community and positive relations between the world's great nations. Sure, we can be myopic and focus on the minutiae and technicalities about true fanship and dedication; we as a people seem well-versed in complaining. But that seems like a waste of time when there's a bigger picture to be seen. 

Americans may never truly embrace soccer, but I sure as hell am going to enjoy it when they do.

Note: Sara Solano is the occasional soccer fan, who is currently supporting England in the 2010 World Cup. Although she is Hispanic, her experiences playing the sport are limited to playing FIFA on the Wii. When she's not engaging in sports-related philosophical debates, she’s participating in one of her many hobbies, such as spelunking and tuna fishing.




http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2010/06/01/133-the-world-cup/

Tumbl'd down the Rabbit Hole

I've been keeping a blog over the past seven weeks for MMC 2100, my Writing for Mass Communications class. The semester is practically over and, thus, my time with the blog has come to an end. I only cross-posted two entries and I'm much too lazy to x-post all of them. So here's the link if you're interested in some readin' about my journalistic catastrophes. 

newsschmooz.tumblr.com

I Am the Blogosphere and So Can You!

The following is an essay I submitted for multiple journalism scholarships about ten minutes ago. They always ask the same questions -- why are you pursuing a media degree and what do you want to do with your sorry life since a media degree practically guarantees you a permanent address under a bridge in a cardboard box with a lovely Styrofoam foyer? So, I answered them the best way I knew how. "I'm stubborn and I don't know how to do anything else."

As a young girl, my diary was never a diary. It was a journal – not to be confused with any other synonyms that many assume hold the same connotation. The name “diary,” for me, invoked a sense of petty insignificance and a preteen outlet for bad poetry. My journal was never hidden beneath a pillowcase or locked away from the meddling hands of a younger sibling. It was simply left out for general viewing because, even during the age of rebellion, I simply didn’t think it practical to shield my commentary on the world from the world.  

Technology advanced, as did my tastes, and I relocated my musings to the Internet. LiveJournal, one of the first major blogging apparatuses to take off, provided a channel for me from awkward middle school years until the last entry during my first week at the University of Florida. Even with this change, my words remained available for public consumption.

Now as a freshman journalism student, these odd behaviors of my youth shed a light on who I’ve become as an adult. I am neither embarrassed nor ashamed of my desire to write, nor do I see keeping my words under lock and key as a sensible means of self-expression. I currently tweet, compose Facebook notes with increasing religiousness, have a news and personal blog and have begun yet another blog to document my recent foray into the world of improvisation and sketch comedy. I even have an internship as a food critic on a website that utilizes blogging to post restaurant reviews. To me, it is only natural to share opinions, thoughts and ideas with those around you – especially if they are interested in your words enough to read them in the first place. I decided to channel this through media and put them to a better, more refined use.

Ideally, I’d like to pursue reporting and perhaps have my own syndicated satire column. Spreading knowledge for the public shouldn’t be for personal reasons – it’s almost selfish to say that one wants to be a journalist to fulfill their own need to be heard, while simultaneously hypocritical to deny a sense of accomplishment from being read. In the end, I want to utilize my skills to their fullest potential in order to provide honest, dependable news and educated opinions to readers with a desire to be both informed and entertained.