The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
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An ode to coffee

SINGLE REVIEW

 OK, let’s talk about Gwen 
Stefani — because everyone 
should be. 
Her live 
music video 
during the 
Grammys 
(the first of 
its kind) was 
a brightly 
colored bea-
con of hope 
for continued 
experimentation in popular 
music — an idea the Grammys 
increasingly suffocate with 
each year’s ceremony.
 Stefani has always been a sin-
gular character in pop music; 
her vocals — equal parts growl 
and smooth pouting — have 
allowed her to successfully 
front No Doubt and embark on 
extremely successful pop solo 
projects as well. Her newest, 
“Make Me Like You,” is the 
song no one knew they needed. 
I once touched Gwen Stefani’s 
shoulder during her Sweet 
Escape tour in the fifth grade 
(was trampled by a vegan mom 
moments after), and this is just 

the track to prove we are for-
ever connected. She’s got her 
new beau Blake and I have my 
first-ever real person date this 
week. She’s unapologetically 
and simultaneously confused, 
frustrated, excited and grate-
ful. So am I, and I think most 
people experience a (hopefully) 
healthy mixture of the afore-
mentioned.
 The track doesn’t bring any 
revelations or real solutions to 
the feelings, but the lyrics are 

catchy without leaning towards 
the tepidity of much of today’s 
pop music; the individual beats 
and instruments blend to form 
well-oiled production over 
which Stefani frosts her laid-
back lyrics, completing this 
sweet, sweet pop tune. 2016 
was first supposed to be about 
Rihanna, then about Beyoncé, 
and, now, Kanye, but Stefani 
Season may be just around the 
corner.

- CHRISTIAN KENNEDY

A

Make Me 
Love You

Gwen Stefani

Interscope

The nectar of the 
gods is my life, and 

I’m fine with it

By SELENA AGUILERA

Daily Arts Writer

You know that feeling of 

excitement you get when the 
month of September strikes, and 
Pumpkin Spice everything finally 
comes out, and all you can do is 
sigh in sweet relief because that 
beautiful nectar of the gods is 
about to touch your lips? And 
then your taste buds wake up to 
the fact that school is starting 
again and the fact that another 
year of your life is coming to a 
close gets washed away because 
the only thought in your head 
at that specific moment is: “Hell 
frickin’ yes. I’ve waited so long. 
TYBG.” And the smooth warm 
coffee travels down your throat 
and almost gives you a sense of 
purpose for about .2 seconds? 
Well, that’s kind of how I feel 
about regular coffee. Which is 
why I have to drink it all of the 
time.

Aside from the fact that I get 

caffeine withdrawal headaches 
because I’ve cultivated a depen-
dency on this gnarly liquid, I 
drink coffee because I like the 
taste. It’s usually a hit or a miss 
for people, but when my mom let 
me taste a tiny sip of this stuff so I 
could feel like a “big girl” when I 
was about seven, it hit me like the 
smell of weed in East Quad. I just 
wanted to keep tasting it forever. 
And when I finally turned 14, I 
was allowed to drink it whenever 
I pleased.

So I did what any rational 

teenage girl would do and I 
decided to drink it more or less 
whenever I was able to. I drank it 
when I woke up. I drank it dur-
ing school (because let’s face it, I 
wouldn’t have survived that hell 
hole without something altering 
my perspective somehow). And I 
drank it when I would hang out 
with my friends. Coffee wasn’t 
always invited to hang out, but 
with a lack of things to do and its 
availability at anytime and any-
where, it found its way into the 
picture 10 times out of 10.

It’s because coffee is so uni-

versal. It works as an alarm 
clock. It provides motivation to 
do homework, to study or to just 
be a human being. It’s an excuse 
for a first date. It’s a conversa-
tion starter. Drinking it can be an 
act of relaxation or stimulation. 
And you can drink it any way 
you want: black, with sugar and 
cream, cold, hot, in the form of 
a slurpee. Do you like chocolate, 
vanilla, and hazelnut? Throw 
that shit in there and I promise 
you it will work out. It will still 
taste wonderful.

When I was in the primary 

stage of my addiction I liked my 
coffee sweetened with French 
Vanilla 
Coffee 
Mate 
*insert 

heart eyes emoji here* but as I’ve 
grown in to the better version of 
myself, I prefer it almost black. I 
don’t need anything extravagant. 

I just need it simple, like my per-
sonality. And I don’t mean that in 
a boring way. I’m far from boring 
— or at least I would hope so — I 
mean it in an I-genuinely-enjoy-
the-smaller-things-in-life 
kind 

of way.

But then there’s the abso-

lute best cup of coffee you could 
ever gift yourself with: diner 
coffee. You know what I’m talk-
ing about. It’s 2 in the morning 
and under circumstances you 
can’t explain you’re sitting in 
that 24-hour rinky-dink diner 
that’s only known by its acronym. 
You’ve been here far too many 
times to count and across from 
you is a person who you don’t 
exactly mind sharing every piece 
of nonsense in your brain with.

The walls are permanently 

stained yellow because they 
haven’t been re-painted since 
before smoking in a restaurant 
was banned in every state. The 
same waitress who you’ve seen 
each time you walk in is pour-
ing you your cup of sanity. She 
was there before you could drive, 
before you went away to school, 
before you even became your 
own person. You ask her how her 
kids have been. “How’s your hus-
band?” you say. She says “Oh you 
know, same as always.” You both 
share a laugh because you know 
exactly what she means. You’ve 
shared a few cups of the same 
coffee she pours for other people 
because you happened to be there 
on her a break a few times. You 
make sure that even though the 
coffee is only $1.06, you tip her 4 
dollars or more because her kind-
ness is genuine and she always 
refills your cup.

She refills it so frequently 

that after two hours of being 
completely immersed in this 
conversation about how life has 
been changing with your friend, 
you notice your hand is shaking. 
You’ve probably had more than 
four cups now and you’re just 
now realizing it. But, you don’t 
mind.

See, to even be in this circum-

stance you have to be on some sort 
of break from real life. Whether 
that be a holiday break, sum-
mer or even nothing more than 
a weekend, you’re just sitting on 
that pleather seat not worrying 
about anything else. The coffee 
aroma wraps you like a blan-
ket and you’re living life how it 
was meant to be lived: leisurely. 
Enjoying every sip that prevents 
unnecessary meaningless word 
vomit while creating some sort of 
punctuality to every one of your 
syllables. Enjoying your friend’s 
company. Enjoying the familiari-
ty of everything around you. And 
then the nostalgia hits you.

And all of these events, all of 

these people I’ve encountered 
out of pure chance in my life are 
shoved into the front of brain 
just by one sip of that plain black 
diner coffee.

It tastes bitter, reminding me 

of how I felt the night everything 
fell apart and I sat in my booth 
for hours. It feels hot, reminding 
me of the sticky summer nights I 
spent on the wire chairs outside. 

It gives me tranquility, reminding 
me of the days I’ve witnessed the 
sunrise through the windows. It 
goes down smooth, reminding 
me of things that don’t and of the 
people who never were.

The people who had sharp 

edges like the table at booth num-
ber 3. After countless conversa-
tions and after countless cups 
of boiling hot coffee, I watched 
their edges melt. And I melted 
too. I melted into that pleather 
seat. I melted into those people. I 
melted into my cup of sheer sanc-
tuary.

Maybe I am too fascinated 

with coffee. Maybe it’s just an 
utter coincidence that a lot of my 
favorite people have been poured 
out of a pot. Maybe I just sound 
crazy placing this much empha-
sis on a beverage. Maybe this is 
all because I haven’t had enough 
coffee today.

Here’s the thing, I tend to get 

complacent without my fix of 
caffeine. Irritable. Tired. I start 
melting into the wrong places, 
and everything I do is slightly 
off. I can’t empathize with peo-
ple who don’t drink it all of the 
time. It helps me function as a 
normal human being in society. 
It’s become a personality trait 
of mine. Hey, I’m Selena. I drink 
so much coffee that I have self-
induced insomnia now, but it’s 
fine because I can drink more cof-
fee to help with that issue. If you 
don’t drink coffee, I don’t know 
what we’ll do together because 
one-hundred percent of the time I 
will want to be drinking coffee or 
doing something that involves get-
ting coffee and talking about what 
molded you into the human being 
you have become.

When I’m having a bad day, 

I can drink some coffee about 
it and it will instantly be better. 
Failed that test? Drank some cof-
fee about it. Got three hours of 
sleep? Drank some coffee about 
it. The boy I’m in love with kissed 
my best friend? Drank a lot of 
coffee about it. Needed to finish a 
paper? Drank some coffee about 
it. Needed to finish this article? 
I am currently drinking coffee 
about it.

Coffee is my ideal go-to for 

anything if you haven’t been able 
to tell. And I think that’s how it 
always will be. I will encounter 
more lovely humans through the 
steam that floats off a fresh cup. 
My future apartment will always 
smell like coffee. I will have the 
best coffee mug collection a per-
son could ever lay their eyes on 
because besides wanting a dog, 
having a great coffee mug collec-
tion is my only goal in life.

So if I’m ever mean to you, I 

haven’t had my coffee yet. If I’m 
ever sad, I haven’t had my coffee 
yet. If I’m annoyed, tired, quiet or 
dull, I haven’t had my coffee yet. 
If I have no interest in our con-
versation, it’s because I’m think-
ing about getting some more 
coffee. And I’m not trying to go 
to Starbucks for some venti soy 
macchiato fufu lame shit, I just 
need a cup of black coffee. And I 
need a lot of it.

INTERSCOPE

By DAYTON HARE

Daily Arts Writer

‘i carry your coffee with 

me:’ A poem in the style of 

e e cummings

I love you
 dearly 

(mostbelovedbeverage)

 —you and your 

drug induced

clarity of thought, 

sumptuous flavor and

 pretentious nutty 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

undertones—

 even though you 

sometimes keep

 me 

awake

 at night (poor 

choices were made) and

 make me
 

(eversoslightly)

 dyspeptic.

Thursday, February 18, 2016 — 3B

By BAILEY KADIAN

Daily Arts Writer

This weekend, the School of 

Music, Theater & Dance pres-
ents Bruce Norris’ “Clybourne 
Park,” a spin-
off to the well-
known “A 
Raisin in the 
Sun” by Lor-
raine Hans-
berry.

This play 

first appeared 
Off Broadway 
at Playwrights 
Horizons 
in February 
2010. Fol-
lowing its 
opening, it 
premiered in 
the UK, at the 
Royal Court Theatre in August 
2010. “Park” earned multiple 
awards, including a Pulitzer 
Prize in 2011 and a Tony in 2012 
for Best Play.

The play’s first act begins in 

1959, as a Black family decides 
to move into a dominantly white 
Chicago neighborhood. Bev 
and Russ are the owners of the 
home in the white middle-class 
area. They are informed that 
the family trying to move in is 
Black and advised to get out of 
the deal for fear that property 
values will dwindle if it’s car-
ried out.

Neighbors suggest this in an 

effort to uphold the “commu-
nity” of the neighborhood and 
preserve its value. The second 
act begins 50 years later and 
presents a reversal of circum-
stances, when a white couple 

wants to buy into a predomi-
nantly Black residential area, 
as those living in the neighbor-
hood are fighting against gen-
trification.

The play’s events are set in a 

bungalow house that appears 
well cared for in the first act, 
and in complete disarray in the 
second. The same actors reap-
pear in the second act, play-
ing drastically different roles, 
under entirely different circum-
stances.

“The house is actually a 

character in the play, the trophy 
around which the action and 
racial conflicts occur,” Director 
John Neville-Andrews wrote in 
an e-mail interview with The 
Michigan Daily.

“The only overlap with ‘A 

Raisin in the Sun’ is the char-
acter, Karl Lindner, who in that 
play tries to persuade the Black 
Younger family, unsuccessfully, 
not to move to Clybourne Park,” 
Neville-Andrews wrote. “Oth-
erwise ‘Clybourne Park’ stands 
entirely on it’s own merit and 
circumstances.”

While discussing the major 

themes this work aims to com-
municate, Neville-Andrews 
notes that the cast has had 
multiple discussions surround-
ing this topic. These forums 
involved an analysis of every 
possible point of view from 
which the cast could imagine 
seeing the play.

“We’ve all done a lot of 

research and had numerous 
discussions on racial tension, 
racism, gentrification, segrega-
tion and integration,” Neville-
Andrews wrote. “The way these 
aspects of life affected people in 

1959, 2009 and present day.”

“Park” communicates this 

racial divide satirically, bring-
ing a comedic touch to issues of 
race and gentrifying communi-
ties. 

“The underlying theme is, of 

course, how racial enmity fre-
quently bubbles under the sur-
face as the characters clumsily 
scramble to say the most politi-
cally correct thing,” Neville-
Andrews wrote. “Eventually 
this ‘code speak’ crumbles and 
true feelings are expressed.”

The play doesn’t force any 

conclusions or solutions to the 
societal problems the work 
communicates. The work allows 
for the audience to reflect on 
what they have seen onstage, 
and rely on their own observa-
tions as a “take away” from the 
events they witness.

The cast of “Park” was also 

able to gain useful information 
from one who knows the play 
rather well.

“We are fortunate that Bruce 

Norris, the playwright, came 
to visit us and he revealed to 
the cast and me various valu-
able insights to the characters 
and their motives in the play,” 
Neville-Andrews wrote. While 
discussing his experience 
directing the production, Nev-
ille-Andrews explained that the 
actors have aimed to make their 
roles truthful, engaging and 
dynamic for the audience, all of 
which has provided a rewarding 
experience.

“It’s been a delight to work 

on such a complex, scintillat-
ing and extremely funny play. 
Everyone should see it, for a 
variety of reasons.”

An intriguing version 
of ‘Park’ by SMTD

Clybourne 
Park

2/18 7:30 
p.m., 2/19 & 
2/20 8 p.m., 
2/21 2 p.m.

Lydia Men-
delssohn 
Theatre

$22/$28, $12 

with Student ID

COMMUNITY CULTURE PREVIEW

COMMUNITY CULTURE NOTEBOOK

By ALLIE SCHOLTEN

For the Daily

In this digital-savvy age, 

many of us are married to our 
technology; one can’t walk 
through campus without 
seeing someone glued to their 
smartphone. Yet despite its 
old-fashioned tendency, my 
heart belongs to the United 
States Postal Service, a system 
traced back to the founding 
fathers. USPS vows “neither 
snow nor rain nor heat” will 
keep them from their job, six 
days a week.

Though a mailbox can 

be found in front of almost 
every residence, and one 
doesn’t have to look far to 
find a mail truck stationed 
on a street, letter writing has 
become an archaic form of 
communication in this digital 
age, so much so that the USPS 
faced an almost imminent 
collapse in 2011, threatening 
to shorten their work week 
and closing post offices to 
combat their deficit. Not 
even the eternal existence of 
junk mail could keep them in 
the ring, as this was quickly 
becoming electronic as well. 
“Snail mail” has become an 
endangered species since the 
uprising of email, awaiting 
its ultimate extinction at the 
hands of the digital age.

Many of my relationships 

revolve around a mailbox, 
rooted in the United States 
Postal Service and the archaic 
forms of correspondence. 
Letters and physical 
documentation are vital 
in stringing together my 
life events. The letters I’ve 
received remain squirreled 
away in old shoeboxes and 
desk drawers, a sort of 
personal time capsule lacking 
a “to-be-opened” date. While 
they are not poured over 
and read continuously, the 
mere preservation of these 
thoughts proves enough for 
my sentimental heart.

My string of 

correspondences can seem 
laughable when compared 
to the convenience of text 
messages and emails. Rightly 
so, for who would choose 
to wait two to seven days 
when the option of instant 
delivery is available? I can 
expect a text from my friends 
regularly – sentiments sent 
within the confines of 140 
characters or less. I’ll watch 
them flash to my screen, 
scrolling through them with 
the good intentions of storing 
them away in my phone to be 
revisited. Subsequently, I’ll 
end up deleting the record 
of correspondence during a 
debate over what I can part 
with to make room for the 
newest trending social media 
app. I crave the tangibility 
that comes with hard copy 
letters, creased within 
the envelopes. There is 
permanence in pen and ink, 
where digital communication 
can be lost at the first hint of 
water damage or inexplicable 
shutdown.

For now, postmen around 

the country will fill mailboxes 
with bundles of envelopes, 
emptying their blue canvas 
bags. These envelopes carry 
the documentations of 
holidays, birthdays and small 
sentiments. Personally, they 
have become lifelines of 
correspondence between those 
I care for and myself. While 
a text or email could have 
done justice to my thoughts, 
the idea that another person 
took the time to sit down and 
compose a letter has yet to 
cease being flattering.

We can hastily compose 

a text that will be delivered 
only seconds later, yet a letter 
takes time and consideration 
to compose. “Snail mail” hints 
at a sort of permanence; I have 
kept letters from a decade 
ago, yet I am slow to keep 
most emails for longer than 
a week – depositing them in 
their digital trashcan after I 
have gleaned all I could from 

The lost art of real, 
handwritten letters

POETRY

them. I remain nostalgic for the 
sending of handcrafted letters 
that surpass the emotional 
depths of a pre-printed 
Hallmark card.

The sending of letters has 

become a dying art; even my 
grandparents have put away 
their stamps and envelopes, 
turning to social media to learn 
of my goings-on. Despite its 
impending end, I have found 
immeasurable comfort within 
the lines of handwriting sent 
by my long-distance friends 
and family. They are filled with 
advice, sentiments and stories.

These words have been saved 

through the years. I find the 
letters carry both positive and 
negative memories interwoven 
between the lines, and I can 
trace my own history, as well 
as those of others, through 
their words. While the sending 
of letters may be a backwards 
step in our progressing society, 
technology has yet to match the 
warmth and sincerity I have 
found in mail. 

