Opinion

There’s this picture that sometimes rotates as my desktop background – the shadows of four girls splayed against a nondescript sidewalk somewhere in residential Willow Glen. I’m the one in braids and a skirt raising my hands like claws; my best friend is the hooded figure (this was during her Little Red Riding Hood phase). I guess everyone has a picture like this – one where the faces are not visible, but the memories are. I keep it there because it’s one of the few pictures I have of my friend Krystine where she’s not covering her face (probably because you can’t actually see her face). I keep it because the four of us used to call ourselves Los Banditos and roam the quiet residential streets in bandit masks and plaid skirts. And perhaps there’s some part of me that likes it because there’s a lack of clarity there – the blurred outlines of our 16-year-old knees and elbows serving as the only markers to a specific memory.

Social networking websites such as facebook.com and myspace.com have become a staple of our culture among teens and young adults. With such a plethora of information and multimedia readily available on the Internet, it’s not hard to believe a business owner or employer would use such resources to dig up more information about prospective employees.

The Social Security Administration has recently made revisions to their no-match letter in hopes of overturning a previous injunction that prevents them from using it. The injunction was instated because civil rights groups had protested the letter, which informs employers that an employee’s given social security number does not match their name. The new letter informs employers that a non-matching social security number can mean that the employee is an undocumented immigrant. This revision includes an explanation of this information, which they hope will be satisfactory to repeal the injunction.

I’m probably the lamest role model out there. For one thing, I love settling for mediocrity. All those camp counselors out there are probably thinking, “Well, she’s certainly not going to get anywhere with that attitude,” and they’re probably right, so suck it. I played the violin for 12 years, and all I got out of it was a CMEA medal that I had to buy myself. I also run this column, but I’ve never written anything worthy of a literary magazine or a scholarship. I don’t even understand why, considering I write so good.     My two life mottos are “It could be worse,” and “Good enough is good enough,” both of which have nothing to do with being your best because most of the time, you’re not. There will be someone out there who is smarter, faster, stronger and more gorgeous than you. And they probably have whiter teeth too and donate more money to charity or something.

It’s no secret that things aren’t looking good for California’s public education system. The state currently faces a $16 billion deficit and has found itself scrambling to make the necessary cuts to its already “spread too thin” budget. Unfortunately, budget slashing politicians and administrators are beginning to realize the severity of this problem and have set their sights on California’s public schools in an effort to make ends meet. As a result, thousands of teachers and school employees up and down the state have found themselves in the very unsettling position of not knowing whether their job, or even their school, will still exist next year.

In the middle of a troubling time, the regents of the University of California have finally selected a promising educator as the next leader of the top public university system in the world. Our officials cited Mark Yudof’s impressive record and his extraordinary vision in advancing the American higher education as the major factors behind his appointment as the UC’s new president. But with the UC’s present budget quandary, is Yudof’s $828,000 price-tag really worth it?

It’s midnight and I want out. The party’s been going, been “raging, dude,” for two hours now. Music is bumping. People are drinking their “dranks,” a few of them say, which is a reference to a song, an awful song, or so I’ve heard. The alcohol is wearing off, leaving me humorless and weary in a room full of laughing people. Offers come in from all directions. No, I don’t want a cigarette. No, I don’t want to finish your drink, nor your “drank,” which, yes, I will continue to put in quotes. No, I don’t want to take a shot, not even with you, my best of new acquaintances, who will be my friend forever if I pound just one.

Dear Math, It’s me, Rachel. I know it’s been a while since we last talked. I blame you. Seriously, Math, you’ve been a really big jerk to me throughout most of our relationship. I don’t know why it had to be like that, especially since our first years together were so good. We used to understand each other. Counting. Addition. Subtraction. Multiplication. You used to make so much sense. But then you had to get all long division up on me. Since fourth grade, I never knew what you wanted. I don’t know how I got through those rough times, but I managed to pass Algebra, Geometry, Algebra II (I didn’t understand why Algebra needed a part two), and Pre-Calculus. It was four years of hell. After that, I couldn’t even stand looking at you anymore.

Does anyone else think the word apartment is an oxymoron? They are pretty close together if you ask me. Okay. Bad joke aside, I promised myself that I wouldn’t reveal the name of the shitty apartment I live in, but so many things have gone wrong there these past few weeks, that I no longer feel bad about scaring it’s potential residents away. The Willows: it stood like a cute relic of the ’70s, manicured with white and sea-green paint, like an old boat docked in the San Francisco marina. On the corner of Lake and Covell, the place had vacancy for the upcoming school year, so my friend and I signed the lease. If I’d known that my signature would bind me to part of a student-munching corporation with no heart, I never would’ve put pen to paper.

The time-delay between the writing and publication of these columns leads to some interesting situations. Today, for example, you’re probably reading an article written by a dead guy. I’m typing this out on Tuesday night, making tomorrow Wednesday, Apr. 2. More importantly, this means Giacomo Casanova turns 283, Sir Alec Guiness hits 94 and I’ll turn 21. Finally. Plans are already in place for a proper weeknight celebration – I’ll spare you the gory details, suffice to say I’m starting at 12:01 with a six-pack from Safeway and it’s hiccups and hangovers from there. Quite frankly, I’ll be almost disappointed if I live through the night, especially considering the outrageous amounts of free drinks the local bars offer for birthdays.

The Starbucks corporation is being hit with a $105 million lawsuit for breaking a U.S. law barring management from sharing a percentage of the tip jar. The reasoning behind the law is to keep managers who have fewer serving duties from hijacking tips from lower-level employees. Rightly, those managers should not be taking tips that are ultimately not intended for them. The lawsuit objected to Starbucks shift supervisors from taking a share of tips, because it considers shift supervisors to be managers.

With a nod to Rob Olson, for giving me a reason to live… I once saw our chancellor Larry Vanderhoef at the ARC wearing a shirt that had a full beer stein on the front baring the words, Are you drinking enough? I’m happy to report that, yes, Larry, I am drinking quite enough. To everyone who supported the Iraq war back in 2002 and 2003: I told you so. I don’t normally praise conservatives for their ideas, but last year’s illegal immigrant capture the flag game was hilarious. If you disagree, you’ve died inside. Leaf blowers, escalators, motion-sensing toilets and Hummers are fucking stupid. Juno is a terrible movie; it’s only possible for an upper middle class white chick living in gentrified suburbia. A black girl living anywhere whose parents make anything isn’t getting anybody to adopt that kid.