Most kids I knew in high school didn’t plan much of anything — unless it was who they were going to homecoming with or what they were going to wear to the big football game. So I always felt a bit alienated when I talked about my big plans for after high school. They were to study at a good university, get a degree in international business and marketing, have a Chinese minor (and become fluent), study abroad, and work for an international company in southeast Asia, then eventually for the U.N.

I put all of my energies into this plan — but mostly into the Chinese aspect of it.

I had always known I wanted to be involved with international affairs and did careful research back in my beginning years of academia to decide what language to take. I had my heart set on being fluent in more than one language but Chinese seemed most important to learn first, in light of the growing U.S. dealings with China.

I spent all the money I had tailoring my studies towards the Chinese language: my trip to Taiwan, and my Chinese language classes (I paid out of pocket at a university near home while in high school) and the hour four times a week I spent driving there. Plus there was the cost of books and the commitment of time spent in class and studying.

But I learned that you can’t plan for everything. I got to Drexel and the language I was so passionate about for the past three and a half years became less of a priority. It wasn’t sinking in. I lost my passion for it and felt that it was more of a hindrance and obligation than anything else. Of course, some classes feel this way — those ones you’re required to take that everyone groans about (i.e., accounting), but you’re not supposed to feel that way about your chosen area of study.

I knew what I wanted to do, what I should do, what others told me to do, and none of it equated to anything I liked. When the study of the language started hurting my GPA, I could no longer ignore my Chinese problem. Following some urging from my mom, I went to my academic advisor and decided to drop the minor and the language altogether.

After strategically planning something for so long, it becomes you. Everyone knew how I felt about studying Chinese. It was something I was extremely proud of and that I felt was mine. This made it extremely hard to give up. I felt like I had broken up with a significant other, or lost my favorite stuffed animal from my youth.

My only comfort was some by-proxy advice from my oldest and dearest Drexel friend, given to her by her sister years before: the time spent miserably carrying out the task just to meet the expectations of others is not worth that time spent being unhappy.

I will hopefully take up another language. And who is to say I can never study Chinese again? For now, at least, it is on hiatus, until I have the means and desire to take it up full time, if I ever do. I won’t restrict myself to a rigid plan again. Maybe I’ll fall in love with Russian or French and wonder why I ever limited myself at all.

Olivia Mae DiPasquale is a pre-junior at Drexel University studying International Business and Marketing.

When I was 16 I got my first job at a local Target. I was psyched to start making money, cleared my schedule to be able to work as often as possible and showed up 10 minutes early to my first day. I can remember having my Polaroid taken and hung in the employee lounge as a newbie – my smiling braced teeth, my perfectly styled hair, my vibrant red shirt. How little I knew about working with the public then.

I stood at the conveyor each shift sliding purchase after purchase into bags that I had separated the way my mother had advised me: wet things, dry things, personal products, clothes (FOLDED!) and greeting cards in a separate smaller bag. I greeted every guest with a smile, made small talk, pushed Red Cards (a Target credit card) and got them moving along as quickly as possible.

I started working at this dream job during the Christmas season. The store was always busy and buzzing with parents carting out brand new bicycles and other goodies from Santa. One day, a guest in my checkout line purchased a toy fire truck that came in a large box that didn’t fit in our undersized oversized holiday bags. After trying a handful of times and ripping three bags with the obnoxious box, the guest rolled her eyes and grabbed the box picturing smiling boys playing fireman from my inept hands.

“You know what your problem is?” she said to me, “You’re too stupid to realize that this box is just too big for that bag. Look at all the waste you made.” She took her receipt and huffed out into the cold December night. I seethed. The audacity of this woman! Not only was I certain that I was far from stupid, I was only trying to help her so that she didn’t miss the patch of ice that she potentially slipped on because the box was in her face. I’ll never know for sure, but I hoped that she did slip on the ice. I didn’t want her to be seriously hurt, of course, but maybe a sore rear and a sense of looming karma.

The berating at Target was fast and furious and for every pleasant customer there were three or four miserable ones. Needless to say, there is only so much one 16-year-old girl can take before she’s crying before and after every shift and her father finds her a new job. 

I quit Target and began working at a jewelry store in New Jersey for a family who hired me and after a few years claimed me for their own. In the five years that I have worked there I’ve seen countless customers get engaged, plan weddings and get married. In all of that time I had never seen a “Bridezilla” until this summer. Sure, there are times when brides were stressed, complaining, or cranky, but they always came back another day either apologetic or in a better mood. This particular woman, however, was always wretched.

She would come at least twice a week to complain. First, she handpicked her own engagement ring and expected her fiancé to surprise her with it. When he made some adjustments to the piece to make it more personal, more from him to her instead of her to her, she demanded that it be changed. When it came time to pick wedding bands, the groom chose his without any problem. The next day she came in and exchanged it because, “he doesn’t know what he wants.” Her ring would need to be custom made.

The happy couple planned their wedding in six months and waited until two weeks before the wedding for our onsite jeweler to hand make her wedding band. As you can imagine, this takes a lot of time and concentration and he made it after her set deadline, but before her wedding. 

This is when the proverbial matter hit the fan. Because he was in a time crunch, the ring was not crafted to her exact specifications. The ring was polished, glittering with thousands of dollars of diamonds, but there was no inscription inside as she had requested. Of course, the day she came to pick it up my boss was on vacation and the jeweler was off.

My coworker and I stood unprotected at the counter, anticipating the carnage that was sure to follow. We noticed the oversight when we were admiring her ring earlier in the day, but without any experience or training ourselves to scratch in the design she had requested, we were at loss to remedy the situation. Any normal person wouldn’t worry about what was inside the ring where no one would see, but from past experience we knew this would not go well.

We saw her car pull in, watched her sashay through the door, handed her the ring, held our breath as she turned it over in her fingers to inspect every detail, and covered our ears after she opened her mouth.

She may have screamed well into her wedding ceremony, I’ll never know for certain. My coworker and I tried unsuccessfully to appease her. We padded her with gift certificates and made a rush appointment with the jeweler to engrave her ring the moment she came back from her honeymoon. But I can tell you that as far as I know, this woman’s mouth did not stop spewing even after our front door slammed shut.

There was simply nothing that could be done to help this woman, and that’s when I recalled the customers I ran into at Target. There will be times that we run into people who are unhappy and unreachable. Maybe it makes them happy to belittle someone who is, for the most part, a perfect stranger.

I’ve probably overused this example in my short life time, but John Steinbeck wrote in East of Eden that he believes there are true monsters in the world with malformed souls. There isn’t anything you can do for them and they’re unavoidable. The woman determined to ruin my night at Target when I was 16? What a pity for her that she’s spiritually deformed. Bridezilla? Such a shame to be void of a perfectly formed soul.  A past professor who made me nearly cry in the middle of class and then actually cry later in the privacy of my bedroom? How unfortunate to be born with a personality like that. Accept these people and move on because, really, what else is there to do but pity them? Oh, and read East of Eden.

Laura Knoll is finishing her junior year at Drexel University, majoring in English with a Certificate in Creative Writing and Publishing.

On different occasions throughout my life I have heard people say they had a “Travel Bug.” It was only after getting a taste of independent travel abroad that I realized how strong this pull can truly be.

In high school, I knew I couldn’t stay in my tiny secluded town of Berwick all summer of my senior year, so I embarked on a journey to Taipei, Taiwan. Traveling across the world alone at the age of 17 was something I dove into headfirst without doing much thinking, but I’m glad I did.

Ever since then I have had an extremely strong and constant urge to travel. There is a feeling like no other when you are perpetually “lost” and everything is different from your daily routine. I believe being cultured, worldly, well-rounded and open-minded is the only way to be. It is also the best possible way to learn. And I’m talking about the multifaceted, life-lessons type of learning. When I meet a person who has zero independence (yes, girls who can’t go to the bathroom by themselves, I’m talking to you) and they say things like “I could never dream of doing this or that,” I suggest they take a trip, preferably by themselves.

When you travel you meet people who are on different levels who can offer you bits and pieces to take with you. Even if you are only left with the fond memory of them, that somehow always seems to be enough.

I once met a boy from Kosovo who, by the age of 17, had already experienced so many tragedies that I was instantly bowled over upon hearing them. Seeing your father blown-up by his own faulty hand grenade as you fight Albanian rebels side by side is not something anyone should ever have to endure. It is experiences like this, as an American, I have had the luxury of never knowing.

As depressing as the Kosovan tale was, my travels taught me that there are hundreds of other, more positive stories, experiences, and coincidences that unite. When I was in Taiwan I spent a day on a tea farm with Buddhist monks who oversaw and partook in the process of tea harvesting. The owner of the tea farm asked where I was originally from. I usually didn’t bother telling people “Berwick, PA” because it is literally on the other side of the world. Plus, other Pennsylvanians have no clue where Berwick is, so why would this random Taiwanese farmer have any idea? But by force of habit the exact coordinates of what I call home slipped out and to my utter shock he exclaimed, “POTATO CHIPS!” (My town is one of the largest suppliers of Weis Potato chips). It turns out that he did a study abroad program in Scranton, a mere hour’s drive from my house.

As of late this pull is stronger than ever. Being in a city at a school that facilitates the international lifestyle, I am often compelled to just pick up and go. I’m not sure where my next adventure will take me, and the best part is that that is the least important aspect of it. I would be content going anywhere that would allow me to broaden my horizons and make international connections. And that is the beauty of the bug—once you get it, you have no desire to shake it.

Olivia Mae DiPasquale enjoys the simpler things in life, among them: writing, growing her herb garden, and cooking obscure exotic dishes for anyone brave enough to sample them. She is studying International Business and Marketing with a Chinese minor.

I found myself with an insatiable desire for something dramatic. I wanted my life to take a turn in any direction. School was dragging on and I couldn’t recall the last time I had experienced anything noteworthy. I always had a passion for the horror genre and things macabre. Nightmares, ghosts, ghouls, and monsters were all interesting to me ever since I was a little kid. I wanted something interesting to happen, something otherworldly.

So, I tried to force a phenomenon on myself.

I lived alone in an apartment during my junior year at Drexel University. It was just off campus at 33^rd and Hamilton Street. It was a nice studio, with custom old gold-painted walls and decorated with a variety of black-framed pictures and paintings. The room itself had an Egyptian feel to it, felt mystical and rich. It was just enough room for one person and was dimly lit.

I often had a strange feeling in my apartment, one of containment and solitude. It was a place entirely cut off from other people and the hectic life I was living. Whenever I had this feeling I would immerse myself in the deepest, darkest movies I could find on TV. More often than not these would be old-school horror flicks like The Omen or indies like Donnie Darko.

I loved the way these movies could alter my state of mind and emotions; I could feel what the people in the films felt and I really enjoyed the connection. Because I had such a passion for these dramatic changes in my own state of mind, I decided to immerse myself further when I read online how diet and behavior can increase the chances for an occurrence of a nightmare.

I ate fried foods and sugary snacks late at night for an entire month. The dried-out taste in my mouth from all the caffeinated soda, and the incredible sloth I felt in every fiber of my being, soon propelled me toward what would become the most emotionally affecting nightmare I’ve ever had.

I began to feel extreme apathy. Just thinking about a homework assignment filled me with frustration and aggravation. Any little task I had to complete was a terrible bother to me and I could feel that my fuse was as short as the plastic end of a shoelace. I was edgy, irritable, and lazy. Dishes piled high in my sink, food containers scattered my desk and table, and the blue glow of the television bathed my face daily. My little studio quickly became a festering room of negativity. The constant mess, awful diet, and lack of sleep I got all came together in one mighty gust of wind one night when I had slept for only a few hours.

It had been nearly a month since I had begun to try to induce a nightmare when one finally hit, hard and personal. In my nightmare I witnessed the death of my father, my mother grieving over his body, and myself left with the inevitable because of the bite of a zombie. Overplayed as the zombie concept may have been at the time, it’s a horrifying experience to truly believe that you’re going to die or become one, or at least to think so in a nightmare.

I awoke with a huge void inside of me. I felt like everything I had was ripped away from me and I was left standing alone. The cold sweat trickling down my face was a physical remnant of a mental torture. It took me all day to come to grips with what had been going through my mind during that nightmare. I hadn’t expected to have such an affecting dream, but it turned out to be much more than just a crappy day after it.

Post-nightmare, I felt like a new avenue was opened to me. I hadn’t ever been able to experience a tragic feeling of loss and sorrow like I did in that nightmare and so I had something new to write about. I played the nightmare over and over again in my head over the next couple of days as I cleaned up my apartment and returned back to my normal lifestyle. Not long after, I sat down to write about my nightmare in a story format.

As I wrote I realized that I had never before given a lot of thought to the emotions I put into my writing. Now, all I focused on while writing was conveying these powerful waves of emotions to whoever would read the story. Typically I had always tried to deliver a plot loosely based on the emotional decisions of characters in my stories. Now I could feel the anxiousness in my knuckles as I typed away furiously, trying to communicate my own emotions with words.

What I took from this experience was how much thought goes into my writing that I don’t pay any mind to. I had finally tapped into my subconscious for the first time and was using it. I grew as a writer from that nightmare, and I transformed everything I wrote into what I would call much more mature pieces of work that hit closer to home for readers.

I return tonight from a promotional campaign cocktail party. Hosted at the mayor’s home, I welcomed the opportunity to observe the types that frequent these fundraisers, and their interactional behavior. My perch, as sole bartender, was ideal for a night of people-watching. As the six o’clock hour passed, I ticked off the token attendees: black lawyer, charismatic gay couple, and elderly female donning a power suit.

I enjoy dinner parties. I recently read Philip Lopate’s “Against Joie de Vivre,” in which he refers to such gatherings as “bullying social rituals.” And like Lopate, I too have encountered the joie doppelganger of bubbly chit-chat, trying my hand at intellectual elitism on more than one occasion. Having grown up in an upper class college town, with more than one friend whose family networks are governed by the academic arena, I’ve become familiar with socially encouraged pretention and general snobbery. It’s true that these individuals tend to identify as open-minded, and often promote theoretical eccentricities, celebrating when their children develop interests in medieval weaponry or dead languages. But as noted in “Vivre,” this fascination with peculiarity is a commonality, and their political correctness only perpetuates the smug egotism running rampant in most circles of moderately-educated “liberals.” In this crowd, a developed sense of socially-acceptable quirks is indicative of a certain cultural prowess.

Unlike Lopate, however, I do not find these obligatory events to be burdensome, but rather, a chance to humor myself. Once familiar with the rules, minimal effort is sufficient to become a master of discourse in the party realm. Granted, certain conditions are ideal (if not required) for success. Foremost, never let a close friend catch you in the act; the less you know or care about the individuals with whom you converse, the greater the possibilities for exercising your artfully developed persona.

***

At five I was given my first lesson from the book of party etiquette. My mother listed rules as we drove to a new friend’s home for a sleepover. “Eat everything, chew with your mouth closed. Napkin stays on your lap. Never put your elbows on the table. Say please and thank you. Wash the dishes when you’re done. Be nice; if you’re rude, they won’t invite you back.”—typical parental encouragement for even a hint of refinement or civility. Unfortunately, I was mistakenly taught to act appropriately. And at home, I was off-stage.

I stared at my plate. A burrito. Rice and beans? I had never eaten beans. I find it remarkable that I have not yet come to an untimely death by coronary blockage, considering my childhood diet. Family friends often joke about my father’s invariable lunch: five bologna and cheese sandwiches. Mirroring his simplistic palate, my lunch requests never changed, either. My elementary school friends watched each day, appalled, as I unwrapped white Wonderbread, slathered in peanut butter and butter.

The beans looked like larvae—in my mind, a rational possibility; Charlotte’s father is an entymologist. But my mother’s haunting warning had hit its mark. I took a bite and gagged, my eyes beginning to water. I tried again. In a weak attempt to veil my disgust, I told Charlotte’s mother, Sharon, that the food was wonderful. Sharon smiled, “You’re so polite!”

So began the dichotomy of who I was (personality) and who I projected (persona). I’ve given serious thought as to whether or not we do in fact “create” our persona. In my case, the persona was (and is) equal-parts blend of maternal guidance and a seemingly innate coping mechanism. I did not, obviously, sit down as a child and devise one through existentialist contemplation and conscious choice.

However, I have known people in their mid-life to drastically alter their attitude, actions, and general appearance. The Internet world seems to support this notion—that persona is a construct, entirely autonomous from personality; WikiWeb even lists a “how-to” article with steps on successfully building one. At reading the article’s introduction, I couldn’t help but call to mind my coursework on image creation strategies and brand marketing. Successful brands are memorable, meaningful, adaptable, transferrable, and most importantly, likable. I wonder at how tonight’s guests have been branded; have they chosen to conform to stereotype branding via the persona? A party of this nature is, at its core, a self-marketing tool.

After the bean encounter, I began to develop new acting strategies; being polite does not denote universal likability. More important virtues surfaced, primarily, endearment.

By nine I had mastered the ability to feign an appropriate level of modest embarrassment. Once, upon arriving for a regular visit to a soccer teammate’s home, her father answered the door and abruptly shouted “Miss Manners is here for your lesson, Caley!” Secretly, I was rather smug. But as being humble, genuine or otherwise, engenders endearment, it is a crucial adaptation for socializing, particularly party-going. It is a common mistake, really, for humility or shyness to be confused with goodness of character. From my own life experiences, I’ll say with certainty that no such relationship between the two exists.

Ideally, this polite, humble, (to use a cliché, “good girl”) persona remains unchanged. But life happens. As we grow, we eventually encounter situations in which personality and persona expose one another. And when it does, we hope that the initial impression, if strong enough, serves to maintain the persona for us, even when we ourselves cannot.

Towards the end of our Eighth grade year, my neighbor, Natalie, wanted to go to her first keg party. She knew her parents wouldn’t let her out; junior high, or rather, junior high boys, had made her untrustworthy. She requested my services.

We’d developed a sinister relationship: her parents were confident that under my care, no harm would befall her. With her extended invitations, I gained access to social circles otherwise off-limits. And though neither of us particularly liked the other, the arrangement continued throughout most of high school. Even during those later years, when my own infractions surpassed the typical, her parents never thought twice about my character. A good impression, once solidified, takes countless exposures to reverse.

As such, introductions are paramount. If maintaining some form of relationship for an extended (or worse, indefinite) period of time is required, I reveal the time-tested, conventional self. If, by fortunate chance, it is an introduction in passing, I am free to practice, experimenting with traits to decide which hold the most caché in particular crowds. Although I rarely tell direct lies, I take advantage of any opportunity to heighten my virtue through the perfect balance of ambiguity and implication. And often make the mistake of believing it. I’ve wondered, at times, if companies begin to believe in their brand, their “corporate persona,” too. Do Hilton employees believe they’re “Filling the Earth with the light and warmth of hospitality”?

***

I know I’m not alone in my twisted neurosis. I have friends who for years frequented chat rooms, trying out various roles in both genders to elicit exciting online banter. A friend from college once confessed that she creates dramatic life stories to share with strangers on planes and in bars. I find, however, that inventing of this kind doesn’t hold much appeal for me. At 21, I’ve even shed most of my tendencies to exaggerate. I’m happy to eat food from all cuisine types, and have a decently respectable knowledge of wine. But despite the fact that I now genuinely enjoy taking part in vivre celebrations, it remains a game—the same stage. I will never be part of the inner circle, of which I am fully conscious. But I find myself amused at my lucky positioning: I am not a true partaker in puffery; I am merely an undefeated faker, and I delight in playing.

The bar is the ideal venue for a performance. Successfully corking and pouring wine takes only a degree of confidence, and it is easy enough to persuade oneself capable over the course of an evening. Confidence translates; it is highly adaptable, but counter-infectious. For example, if I were to appear nervous or bumbling, tonight’s attendees would immediately assume I had little to no experience with wine and as such, would feel especially knowledgeable, sensing an increase in their own acumen. However, by displaying a little confidence, there is an immediate sense of unease and nervousness on the part of the guest. Some, though, are impervious to this inverted relationship of wills. Generally speaking, these are interlopers, indifferent to the rules of the game.

One such man, an old-timer I’ll name Roger, didn’t seem to be able to hold a conversation. He frequented the bar, calling me “Red.” I liked it. He wasn’t acting, and I felt like Joan Holloway as I deftly poured him more Noir. My education tells me such terms are demeaning and anti-feminist, but I can’t be bothered to care. Because Roger didn’t mind if I lost the plastered smile or if I forgot to say “You’re most welcome. Enjoy your evening” as I handed him his glass. Roger doesn’t do puffery.

It’s the dinner party in particular that separates those who conform, (relying on their persona, their “brand”) from those who don’t. I’m guilty of the former, but always choose the latter for friends or partners (whether out of respect, admiration, or jealousy, I am unsure). I wish I had the necessary real confidence, not the projected confidence, to disregard the impression I leave. I used to believe that confidence is acquired with age, or better yet, with the beginning of senile apathy. Though I try to suppress the revelation, I am now fully aware that it is merely strength in character that allows some to not fear the rejection of friends, family, and new acquaintances. I repress the notion knowing that the next time I visit Charlotte, I will likely eat beans and later, wash her dishes; I have no desire to change my habits. It is at the dinner party, though, that I may give my silent Hurrah! to those who care more about the meaningful and memorable, than the likable brands. To those who create disharmony in joie and the celebration of constructed identity.

Maia Livengood is a Drexel sophomore with dual majors in Business Administration and Hospitality Management.

One of my closest friends, who I will refer to as “Jack,” lived in a quaint community in Ewing, New Jersey.  Last year, he decided to put his house up for sale. An inspection was performed on his home, and Jack was told that his basement contained dangerously high levels of radon.  But, according to the inspector, so long as he didn’t spend long periods of time in the basement, Jack did not have to be too concerned. Unfortunately, Jack was a mechanical engineer, and as such, spent countless hours in the basement tinkering with gadgets and tools.  He was advised to visit a doctor immediately. A ventilation tube with a built-in detector was installed before the next residents moved in, but it was too late for Jack.

My intention in sharing this story is to disseminate information regarding the dangers of radon. Radon is a radioactive gas given off as uranium decomposes.  It is odorless, tasteless, and colorless.  Because it is formed in the ground and is heavier than the normal air we breathe, radon tends to collect in the basements of homes.  High levels of radon can form anywhere that uranium is present in the soil, but this natural phenomenon seems to occur more frequently in southeastern Pennsylvania and western New Jersey.

At a Fourth of July party last summer, Jack took me and a small group of our closest friends outside. Standing in a silent circle around him holding our beers, Jack told us the news: selling his house, the home inspector’s findings, and his recent doctor’s appointment.  None of us understood where his story was leading until Jack tearfully revealed that he was diagnosed with cancer in his lungs, his liver, and part of his small intestine. Without surgery, Jack would be dead before his 29^th birthday.

Fearing that a donor would not be found in time, Jack decided to live out a lifelong dream.  Just a few short weeks after our conversation, he was on a flight to New Zealand.  From there, he visited China, Japan, and Hawaii. If Jack was going to die, he wanted to see as much of the world as possible. But soon after returning from his travels, Jack received a shocking phone call; a suitable donor was located near San Francisco. Jack would be moved to the top of the list if he was willing to relocate to the Bay Area.

In early September, he flew to California in preparation for the risky surgery. There was one catch however— the donor was still alive.  In a morbid battle against time, Jack had to hope that he could outlast both his cancer, and the life of his donor.  In October, the donor passed away, and Jack underwent extensive surgery.  Both lungs and his liver were transplanted, and the cancerous section of his small intestine was removed.  It was the riskiest procedure ever performed at that hospital.

In the months following the surgery, Jack made a slow yet remarkable recovery.  Fighting a 50 percent chance of living beyond five years, his family and friends simply enjoy each new day that we get to spend with him. But not everyone is as fortunate.

For two weeks straight in the mid-1980s, Stanley Watras set off alarms as he came in to work at the Limerick Nuclear Power Plant. These alarms are triggered by Geiger counters designed to detect radiation on workers as they leave work each day. This baffled the plant’s safety staff.  How could a worker be setting off the alarms indicating high levels of radioactive contamination prior to his shift?

An inspection team decided to investigate Watras’ house, and quickly discovered that his basement was filled with the deadly radon gas. Trace amounts in the home are equivalent to receiving 200 chest x-rays in a year; Watras was exposed to levels over 1,000 times greater than this. Experts estimate that he was exposed to radon levels equal to smoking 130 packs of cigarettes per day, or nearly two cigarettes every minute for 24 hours. While the details of this story are quite fascinating, the overall implications are nothing short of terrifying.

The adverse effects of radon are preventable.  For as little as 20 dollars, a radon detection kit can be purchased from a local hardware store such as Lowe’s or Home Depot.  If dangerous amounts are detected, simply opening windows or sealing small cracks in the foundation can significantly reduce the level of radon in the home. Awareness and knowledge about the dangers of radon are keys to avoiding this silent killer. For more information, please go to the Environmental Protection Agency’s website located at http://www.epa.gov/radon/pubs/citguide.html

Daniel Savage is a freshman at Drexel University majoring in English with a minor in Legal Studies.  Immediately after graduating from high school, he served in the Air Force for eight years, which enabled him to live in Germany for three years and travel all over the world.

I still vividly remember my first migraine. It was towards the end of spring term of my freshman year. It was a Wednesday – the Wednesday before final exam week. I had gotten home around 4pm. Following my normal routine, I quickly changed into my work-out clothes and proceeded to run on the treadmill for the next hour or so. During my run, however, I experienced what would be the first of many flickering-vision incidents. The bright-red, digital numbers on the treadmill began to flicker, slowly fading in intensity and then regaining their original appearance. I could no longer keep track of my running pace for my legs were fading in and out of my vision. The room seemed to disappear and then reappear, all within a matter of a few seconds.

Presuming that I might have been dehydrated, I got off the treadmill and rehydrated myself with a sports drink. By then, the dimming and flickering of my vision had ceased but, I admit that I still did feel a bit disoriented. Thinking nothing of it at the time, I got back on the treadmill and resumed my run.  After a few minutes though, the same symptoms recurred. I decided to call it quits for the day and then, after lying down on the carpet for a while, went upstairs to take a shower. I had assumed that a shower would cure the flickering vision and my sudden onset of lightheadedness; however, the shower only exacerbated my symptoms. The dizziness and lightheadedness got worse and a slight, almost-unperceivable throbbing had begun near my temples. After literally a five minute shower, I stepped out drenched and leaned my back against the cool, marble-tiled wall of my bathroom. The sitting position that I had initially assumed gradually switched over to a fetal position. The last thing  remember before my mom burst through the doors is the blood pulsating near my temples…the agonizing, excruciating pain in my head that could no longer be playfully termed an “ache” but rather a monster…

Since then, my migraines have become far worse in severity but increasingly predictable. For instance, I have a rough idea of when to predict a migraine; I have potential dates starred on my calendar just like any other regular event would be recorded. However, whereas a routine event , such as a piano recital or a meeting, requires 3-5 hours at the most on my calendar (aside from work), a migraine requires approximately 3 days or so to “run its course.” Should the migraine arrive on a “starred” day, then it is sure to come announced. As mentioned prior, the first sign for me that a migraine is to be expected is flickering vision. Photophobia, or the fear of light, follows closely after.

Any source of light or brightness is blinding and should I foolishly choose to open my eyes during this photophobic stage of my migraine onset, my eyes will begin to tear relentlessly. It is during this stage that I find it absolutely necessary to retreat to my room and lie down on my bed in the dark. Regarding the decorum of my room, I decided to “remodel” it following my first three or four migraines. What was previously a white-walled room with cream-colored curtains became a beige-walled room with dark gray curtains, or the “bat cave” as I fondly refer to it, in order to prevent the entry of any sunlight. Following these two stages, with the flickering vision stage lasting about a half hour or so at the most and the photophobic stage lasting an hour to two hours, the migraine arrives.

While lying down on my bed, I can feel the onset of the headache portion of the migraine. It begins with a forceful rush of blood near the temples of my head. If I listen closely enough, I can even hear my own pulse – the contraction of my heart, followed by the expansion of a given artery due to the increase in blood pressure. I realized during the headache portion of my first migraine that this headache is positional, meaning that should I choose to either sit or stand up, the pain will only become more severe. And so, I lay flat and supine on my bed, staring up at the blank ceiling wishing that it would just all end. During this time that I am lying down, although the headache is far less in severity than if I were either sitting or standing up, due to the repeated pulsating of blood near my temples, I am unable to think, let alone sleep peacefully. So, the three or more days that the migraine is in-house, I am completely incapacitated, reduced to lying in bed listening to my rhythmic pulse. As for what signals a migraine onset for me, I have yet to link my migraines to any sort of stimulus.

Since my first migraine had arrived the week before finals week, my physician and I had both presumed that the migraine might have been stress-related. However, following the next three or so migraines, which just seemed to arrive when I was possibly the least-stressed or not stressed at all, we figured that the migraines were probably not stress-induced. I’ve perused textbooks and read on-line medical journals searching for any sort of answer and I feel as though all of my efforts to discover a cause have been in vain. While most migraine sufferers are eventually able to pinpoint a stimulus, whether it be stress, a particular type of food, or any form of visual stimuli, my migraines are not known to have a cause. Along the same lines, regarding prescription medications, I’ve tried almost everything and none of the pills that I have tried have led to any sort of relief. My only goal now is to understand the underlying cause of my migraines and figure out at least a temporary cure before I begin medical school.

Inspired by my migraine history and as a current pre-med major and prospective physician, after obtaining my medical degree, I hope to eventually conduct migraine research so that I may discover a cure – not just for me but for all of those that suffer from migraines. Not only do migraines inflict physical pain, they also have a detrimental effect on one’s personal life. I am forced to plan my life around my migraines. I know that if a migraine is to arrive within the next week or so, then I have complete all of my school assignments prior to its advent. I also have to turn down many social events that I am invited to so that I will not suffer a public migraine onset.  I eagerly await the day that I will be rid of my migraines. For now, however, I will have to continue to suffer through my migraines and plan my life and daily events around them, as both medical school and migraine research are still a long while away.

Giby George is currently a sophomore at Drexel University, majoring in biological sciences with a pre-med concentration.

You may know him best from his breakout role as A.C. (Albert Clifford) Slater on Saved by the Bell. From 1989 to 1993, we saw him literally wrestle his way into popularity at Bayside. We watched as he competed with, but eventually lost to, preppy Zach Morris for the heart of head cheerleader Kelly Kapowski. But, we were happy when he finally got together with his “mama,” Jessie Spano; we laughed when she called him “macho pig,” and he responded with a playful, “oink, oink, baby.” Some of us probably even shed a tear when the group graduated and went their separate ways (until “The College Years” anyway). While some of his co-stars’ careers may have plummeted, Mario Lopez has since become much more than a teen who could rock the jerry-curl-mullet.

He has arguably turned into one of the most-employed stars in Hollywood. At 36, he has maintained his hearthrob status, as Cosmopolitan magazine recently featured his face along with such stars as Zac Efron, Matthew McConaughey, and Johnny Depp as one of the choices for their “Make Your Own Naked Paper Doll” feature. But that’s only one of his many achievements — Mario has held almost every thinkable role in show biz.

Upon first glance, Mario may not appear to be the most versatile actor, but his résumé begs to differ. Yes, he has appeared on 83 programs as himself, but there’s so much variety among the programs he’s hosted. Randy Jackson Presents America’s Best Dance Crew, Pet Star, and the Miss America Pageant, to name only a few, have allowed his charisma to reach diverse audiences.

He has also played over 40 additional roles over the last 26 years. Two of his longest gigs were as Dr. Christian Ramírez on The Bold and the Beautiful and Police Officer Bobby Cruz on Pacific Blue. And neither would have come along if not for his very first role in 1984 as Tomas Del Gato on the episode of a.k.a. Pablo called “My Son, the Gringo.” But, according to the actor, his ethnic background shouldn’t be the first thing you notice: “I like to consider myself an actor who just happens to be Hispanic [...] I haven’t gotten labeled as a Hispanic actor.” His characters Lazaro Chaveco, Ramon Perez, Antonio Lopez, Raphael Banderas, Ray Sanchez, and Johnny Vega might disagree with that statement, but director Steven Hilliard Stern wouldn’t.

Stern directed Breaking the Surface: The Greg Louganis Story. He chose Lopez to star in his 1997 made-for-television movie, and Mario’s performance did not go unnoticed. In fact, he was nominated for an American Latino Media Arts Award, or ALMA, for his Outstanding Individual Performance in a Made-for-Television Movie or Mini-Series in a Crossover Role.

Even all that acclaim doesn’t begin to scratch the surface of this multi-faceted man. The rest of his résumé begs us to ask if there’s anything out there Mario can’t do. In 2002, he proved himself as a multi-tasker as he co-produced and starred in the film Outta Time.

His accomplishments go on and on: Dancing with the Stars runner-up; recording artist (on two different soundtracks for Saved by the Bell); team captain for Extreme Dodgeball team L.A. Armed Response; and trapeze artist on Circus of the Stars #14. He has even dabbled in Broadway as a cast member of A Chorus Line. Recently, the only speed bump in his career came when he lost out on taking over for Bob Barker as the new host of The Price is Right. Perhaps Drew Carey just had something to offer that Mario didn’t.

Despite that minor setback, America continues to watch as he builds his résumé, and it doesn’t seem that Mario is slowing down in the least. It’ll be interesting to see what this modern-day Renaissance man will take on next. So far, he’s proven that, while a great set of dimples may not win you an ALMA, they can get you pretty far.

Katrina Gaudier is a senior at Drexel University. She is studying English and Philosophy and is expected to graduate in June of 2010.

The good things in life make me age, like cigarettes and suntans, whiskey and one-night stands, painkiller dinners and glazed donut breakfasts. I hope in the end I can still remember those good things, instead of the fifty-hour work weeks or the thousands of nights I spent sleeping alone. When the devil comes for me, I’ll probably have forgotten my childhood. All the pretty sunsets. My very favorite songs. But I guess it could be worse; I could have ended up a homeless war veteran, or a soiled trophy on a shelf, or unloved. Existence alone makes me age, but I endure life like long lines at the DMV. I sit and I wait with my ticket in hand for the laminated card that never quite looks like me in the photo.

All the ones I’ve ever loved are gone. Some are buried beneath grass and granite or hidden inside airtight urns, sealed away from air and from me. There were some I got rid of before the expiration date; tossed them aside like a careless re-gift. Some I ignored, some I avoided; left things unfinished like a homework assignment. But the ones I wanted to keep the most, the few that still burden my memory, are those who were stolen from me forever, and let into other people’s lives. They walk the parks and city blocks holding hands with strangers. They never know I still think of that time on the boardwalks of Atlantic City; or that I kept the perfumed, paisley sweater left behind in the backseat of the Buick. Folded smartly, it stays tucked in the closet between the hat boxes and mothballs, waiting.

I scoop all the loved ones up in a fishnet inside my head. They dangle loosely amongst the seaweed and the pearls. Their ghosts haunt me in my bed of stiff insomnia pillows, until drink after drink breaks apart their molecules and they begin to disperse and evaporate. The sleepless hours creep like a thief until dusty rays of morning slice through the bed sheet curtains. And just when I think I’ve swilled enough to sink past the dreams to the bottom like a stone, the blackbirds fly to me. They come to sit on the telephone wires above my window so they can taunt me with their chatter and chips. I lay and I wait and after long I can’t take it, so I lurch to the pane and yell, “Damn birds, get outta here!” But I can’t scare them away. They squawk and they caw right into the bedroom, keeping me from sleep.

I pick up the pen.

I get it all down before I’m too old or too senile to remember anything.

The pen picks me up.

It saves a little of what’s left of the good things I keep inside.

Meghann Jones is a part-time, online psychology student at Drexel University. She has a B.A. in Liberal Arts from Temple University.

In the music industry, there is no longer that fabled idea of getting “discovered” by an important person in high places. Musicians today know that their progress relies solely on themselves.   That is why so many current bands and musicians are self-releasing their albums. It would be self-inflicted sabotage for a band to write the best material it can, record it, then send it out to record labels in hopes that a producer will listen to it, like it, and offer them a contract; the band would be waiting forever to be noticed. Instead, musicians will do as much as they can by their own means in terms of recording and manufacturing their albums. Some musicians consider this self-sufficient process a beginning to their ultimate goal: grabbing the attention of a record label that will offer them a contract. However, it is becoming increasingly more common for musical artists to choose to self-release all of their albums with no intention of trying to “get signed”; it is entirely possible to sustain a successful career as a completely independent musician.

Self-releasing records has become the norm for independent bands. No new band would ever hesitate to distribute and promote their work simply because they are unsigned. Songwriters want people to hear their music; they do not wait for a third party to validate their work before others may experience it. They put it out for people to listen to, and in the listeners’ hands, the music will ultimately live or die.

Writers, on the other hand, know that if they self-publish their work, they may be inadvertently ruining their reputation. Some agents even claim that it is better to be unpublished than to be self-published. However, few editors are willing to publish their work unless they have already been published. In other words, the way to get published is to be published. It is the writer’s grand paradox.

So, why is it that writers take such a different approach than musicians? Why is it up to the literary agents and editors to act as the middleman when it comes to distributing writing? Why not let the end users – the readers – decide which writers are deserving of success? There is a multitude of celebrated books that have been rejected repeatedly by publishers, only to eventually emerge and gain the renown they hold today, to name a few: Carrie (30 times), Diary of Anne Frank (16 times), Harry Potter (9 times), Watership Down (26 times), and Gone With The Wind (38 times). Publishers may be the gatekeepers, but that doesn’t mean they are capable of detecting every literary hit, nor determining every work readers will dismiss. Often, manuscripts are rejected for reasons that have nothing to do with the writing itself, but simply because the publisher may not have the time or funds to take on another book at the moment.

Many hard-working musical artists will choose to create artful and intriguing packaging for their albums. The packaging is another facet of the product that musicians can design in a way that makes a statement, and thus take full advantage of their product and their image. It is not uncommon for bands to make limited-edition hand-made packaging for their CDs. This is a good idea not only because they are offering their fans something exclusive and valuable to people who want to follow the artist and collect their works, but also because they are putting something out there that will get people talking, thus building a buzz around their product. Musicians sometimes package their CDs in all kinds of clever high-concept unfolding die-cut flip-out packages that have the power to get fans excited, often before they even hear the music. The musician does not wait for the record label to do something creative for them. The truest thing about all art is that no one will ever care more about it than the creator.

What about writers? If they are lucky, they may get their book published. What will the book look like? It will probably be a rectangular stack of papers glued together on one side – a functional and effective format nonetheless – but in terms of design and presentation, there is more that can be done with the book-as-object? I would argue that the book form, in contrast to the CD, lends itself to greater possibilities of conceptual design. Just as we know that every major record label releases their music albums as plastic CDs in plastic jewel cases, we know better than to expect book publishers to put out artful book designs for their trade paperbacks. Publishers only try to produce and distribute as many copies as they can. But if musicians are taking advantage of their ability to creatively craft every aspect of their product, why aren’t writers doing the same? There is room for expression in ways that complement and enhance the words within. Die-cut, screen-printed, letterpressed, colored texts, and integrated images, could all be incorporated to create a product that visually intrigues.

True, there are some small presses putting out artful and conceptual works of literature as creative book-objects (Featherproof Books and X-ing Books, for example), but when it comes to books, creative packaging is the exception, not the norm. And still, those presses will only publish the writing that their respective editors accept. Even the most popular of vanity presses (companies that will print anyone’s book at the writer’s own cost) such as iUniverse, Xlibris, and Lulu, only offer formats in which the author’s only aesthetic choices during production are the book’s height and width dimensions. This method may be suitable for those who have written a book that they want to give or sell to their friends and family, but if they are writers who intend to publish books that compete with the ones they find in book stores, their best option is to ignore the vanity presses and have their book printed by a commercial printing company, such as Westcan or B&R Printing. This way may cost slightly more, but it is the preferred way to go if they are serious and dedicated writers who want to work hard to self-promote and sell their own books to more people than only their friends and family. Vanity presses, on the other hand, might be for them if they just want the thrill of holding a printed book with their name on the cover, without wanting to promote themselves and build a fan-base of readers. The vanity presses’ books’ cut-to-form format is far from intriguing, but a commercial printer will allow them to direct the physical design of their book, so anything goes. It depends only on what they are willing to spend.   Then, it depends on the readers.

Michael Filippone is a senior at Drexel University. He is studying Music Industry.