Late night coffee shop or 24-hour library?

By Maria Michelli

Karaoke virgin’s first time

By Becky Polini

The men are trashy, the women drunk. The lights are just low enough that the sloppy girl sitting across from the equally sloppy guy can’t tell if his looks warrant him a trip back to her place later, but chances are she’ll give him a shot anyway.

It’s Saturday night at Pennsylvania’s Media Inn, and I’m dressed to kill. With my parents.

Dad, already four Rolling Rock Green Light girly-beers deep from dinner, orders himself another as he flips through the binder of songs. Why he bothers perusing is a mystery to me. Mom and I both know what he’s going to sing — Chicago’s “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?” He’ll write his name on the song request slip not as Dennis, but Grady — a tribute to his dream brand of boat, the Grady White.

Nick Luscious

By Alex Honeysett

We stand outside the theater hall. Neither of us moves as we cling to our sanity before entering. Girls’ perfume floods out of the theater doors. Holly thinks she going to pass out. I think I’m going to cry. We grab hands and walk through the entrance. No turning back now.

We’re greeted by all forms and ages of the female gender. Pre-pubescent teens gather in large circles. High-pitched screams echo throughout the entrance hall. Holly holds her ears and shakes her head. Poor thing.

Twenty-somethings gather around the bar, dressed in New York City club attire: high heels, long earrings and glitter. Glitter on their eyelids, glitter on their shirts, glitter on their purses, glitter on their shoes. Holly is still covering her ears. I avert my eyes.

“You can’t take it with you”

By Kaitlyn DeRoy

A plate-licker’s sushi experiment

By Kristin Vorce

I’m not a picky eater. In fact, when I was in elementary school my family nicknamed me “Trash Can” because I was so enthusiastic about food that I would finish off whatever was left on my cousins’ plates at lunch time.

Today I met my match.

I wanted to try something new, so I decide to go to a sushi bar. A sign in the College Square Shopping Center in Newark catches my eye: “amboo House.” Walking closer, I see it is crinkled where the “B” should be, and actually reads, “Bamboo House,” which makes much more sense.

Inside, the hostess seats me at a booth. The instrumental version of “Bridge over Troubled Water” is playing softly, which strikes me as very non-Japanese. My waiter, whose name tag says “Tim,” pours me a glass of water and hands me a menu.

I scan the sushi choices – tuna, salmon, bass, shrimp, clams – it all seems so tame. I want to be daring.

“Yes, I’d like the sea urchin, quail egg and eel and cucumber roll,” I say.

“I heard you put money in their pants”

By Dane Secor

The only warning people had Friday night was a bright-yellow sign that read: “Warning: Strobe Lights in Use During this Event.”

Two hours to show time, the tension and excitement filled the air of the Trabant multipurpose rooms, as people in street clothes sang and danced around the room every time the DJ tested the speakers.

Behind the scenes, performers got into character. Rainbow feathers floated around the room and landed on garment bags stuffed with a cornucopia of colored scarves, and ranks of styrofoam heads were lined in formation on tables, each with a different elaborate wig. The aroma of different perfumes filled the hallway.

“Girl needs to put her body on,” echoed down the backstage corridor from one bathroom. “I got to get myself together, girl.”

Thatsa spicy falafel-ball!

By Stefanie Gordon

The contestants looked down stoically at the task before them.

With their hands tied behind their backs, their eyes took in the sight of five paper plates, each containing 10 falafel balls arranged in a pyramid-like fashion.

The first annual falafel eating contest was held at the Chabad house on campus and hosted by JHP, the Jewish Heritage Program. Proceeds made from selling falafel to the crowd would go to benefit the organization. The five contestants brave enough to enter would race one another to see who could be the first to devour 10 falafel balls.

A test pilot in the Cockpit

By Michael LoRe

“Alright, let’s go,” I yelled. “Shirts off, boys. It’s time to paint.”

My friends and I were getting ready for the football game against No. 1 New Hampshire two weeks ago.

It’s taken me three years, but I’ve finally come to realize I have more fun being at football games with my shirt off and covered in blue and gold paint than going fully clothed.

At about two o’clock that Saturday, seven of us jammed into one bathroom and began making a mess like we were little kids finger-painting in elementary school. By the time we left to tailgate, our clean mirror and white sink were tie-dyed blue and gold.

I was happy it was not my week to clean the bathroom.

S.P.I.T. Open Mic

By Lori Goldson

“The first person coming to the stage is Lori.”

September 22 was a day of reckoning. Students held S.P.I.T. for the first time of the new school year, and I was the first victim of the open mic night.

It was day like no other as I had to ask even myself the unthinkable question — was I going to step to the mic at a Stimulating Prose Ideas and Theories open mic for the first time and allow, my peers, friends and foes to find out I have a voice?

An exclusive look at the dressing room before “Lend Me a Tenor”

By Steve Russolillo

One hour till showtime.

Junior Scott Pendergrass and senior Mike Husni are practicing their duet. Sophomore Mark Brainard and Jenny Saperstone are dying each other’s hair gray to fit their roles. Everyone else is in their own world, preparing for the performance.

The Bacchus Theatre dressing room, no more than 20 feet by 20 feet, holds the eight student actors of “Lend Me a Tenor” preparing for their Thursday show.

The room is cluttered with hair straighteners, curling irons, makeup and costumes, just to name a few items.