The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
the b-side
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.