"Born Free" M.I.A. Screams WAKE THE FUCK UP

This post is about artist M.I.A.'s new music video for her song "Born Free."

I cannot embed the file in this post via Youtbe because it has been banned on the site in the United States.

And that is exactly why I am writing.

However, there is a much better site than Youtube called Vimeo, and they are showing the video. Check it out now. Really, you need to watch it or else don't read the rest of this post.

The basics: M.I.A. is a worldwide superstar of experimental/world/hip hop/popular music. She is not for everyone, but I am a big fan of hers. Her music is vastly unique. She uses it to (mainly) explore ideas about politics and what happens in third world countries. She herself is a genuine artist, a rare talent, an actual creator with something important to say. She is a true original and she has spawned many imitators. I actually saw her perform two years ago and it was quite a sight to see.

So the big controversy is that her new video for her song "Born Free" is too violent. Well, ok.

The actual issue is that her video depicts a USA version of what kind of torture and brutality minorities face all over the world -- and yes, that sort of thing does not happen in the USA. M.I.A. replaced prisoners of war or Jews or Africans with gingers, and people were horrified. They were mostly horrified when a beautiful 12 year old boy who looked straight out of a Hidden Valley ad got his head blown off.

However, that kid actor has something to say about it:

"I think she was trying to show violence to end violence," Hamrick told the site Thursday. "The video is definitely not for kids — I haven't even seen the full video myself — but for all the adults and people in different countries who are doing that in real life ... doing the genocides to whatever: Italians, Africans, wherever it's from, it's still genocide. So it's showing violence to end violence."

The kid makes his point, and likely her point, very well. She is using her position as a pop culture figure (and one that appeals to a so-called progressive generation) to show us, not tell us, what is going on. A Sri Lanka refugee herself, she is no stranger to the violence and injustices of war and minority abuse.

The BIGGER issue some people seem to be taking with the video is that she chose to depict the minorities with white, red haired boys. I'll get back to that point after this video, a discussion and debate about "Born Free."

Coincidentally, I wrote a massive argumentative essay about

"gingerism" being the last acceptable form of prejudice. I wrote

about the agreed upon definition of prejudice and of racism, and

I compared it to the way people with red hair are commonly treated.

Granted, we don't see much ginger hatred in the US. It is much,

much, more prevalent in the UK, where most of the redheaded

population is located.

I conducted copious research for my argument and found numerous

accounts of violence, discrimination, and torment against gingers

in the UK, so much so that it is a clearly stated problem in their

society. People have created support groups, written editorials,

and one photographer even published a book of photos, capturing

portraits of red haired people and writing their testimonials of

how they have been treated as freaks, or been harassed, or

generally made to feel ugly because of their hair.

As you can see, I could go on about how I think gingerism is the

last acceptable form of prejudice, but I won't. But because of my

information and familiarity with the topic, I found the argument,

that M.I.A.'s choice to use gingers as the targeted minorities

dulls the message, weak. In the UK, these people are targeted.

It seems silly, but it happens to be true. So what does that say

about other minorities that are targeted? Not as silly, right?

So, M.I.A. is being criticized for putting out music and media

that has a message, a purpose, and a HUGELY important one at that:

she is showing a demographic of listless, naive kids who don't

read the paper or watch the news a video about cultural violence

and she is not keeping it tame. God fucking help us that Lady Gaga

shows us her crotch and dances around a prison. M.I.A. just wants

us to wake the fuck up and see what happens beyond our borders.

And for Youtube banning it in the US? That's just adorable. Keep

us complacent and try to shield us from the ugly violence. No,

please, post hundreds of videos of people chugging hot sauce

and jumping off their roofs and squeezing their zits, but don't

let us see any political commentary that portrays the United

States negatively.

"Be Fierce and Crazy"

That is exactly what Brianna Moon, the lovely lady pictured, told me and 8 other models as we stood, crammed into a tiny stairwell in the dark, waiting to take the runway. It was dark, we were smelly, we were uncomfortably clad in itchy lace and tight corseted tops and stiff, spray painted heels.

We were licking the poking the frosting on the cupcakes we each held: tasty props to illustrated the collection's title "Let Them Eat Cake."

Brianna is the mastermind and wizard behind the collection, and while I may be biased, I think her work was superb. She's a senior at our university in the Textile Merchandising and Design department. Her collection was presented at the annual Fashion Merchandising Society fashion show, of which I have attended every year. She created 10 beautifully ornate, dramatic, fun and charming looks, which really stood out against the sea of ill-fitting tube tops and halter dresses that other design students were showcasing.

So how did end up modeling a super short, pouffy black party dress, with a feather in my teased up hair and cradling a pink cupcake?

I don't really know. I am NO model, that's for sure. I am short, wide and curvy. I could be a proper model if I was stretched out vertically, about a foot in length. I am also rather... ahem... endowed in the chest, in a way that makes my body proportions perplexing. Needless to say, I'm not a one-size-fits-all kind of girl.

Brianna was just an acquaintance; I am friends with a good friend of hers', and we knew each other socially. Miss Moon is very sweet and devastatingly adorable to look at. JEALOUS.

Anyway, she, our mutual friend and I were out at a bar about a month ago, slipping into the depths of sloppiness when she grabbed me with her tiny hand and shouted over loud music "YOU SHOULD MODEL FOR ME." So I laughed and put my hands on my hips and did a little catwalk and said "HOW WAS THAT?" She laughed and then said "NO FOR MY FASHION SHOW." And I was like, hahah okay sure.

And then before I know it I'm in message threads on Facebook about fittings and rehearsals and shoe sizes. In my head I was like "eeeek I am actually going to be a model in a fashion show. Cool? Yeah cool! Really? Oh shit."

Finally, after some fittings, I was set to model that little strapless dress that barely (and I mean barely) covered my ass and, due to my chest size, made me look like a squat, round wad of lace. She was convinced it looked great, and while I was extremely doubtful, I couldn't really bring myself to care too much. It was for her, after all, and she was being graded during our performance so all I had to do was wear it, walk and not fuck it up.

Awkwardness set in once all the models were brought together for final fitting and rehearsals. I only knew two of the other 9 girls semi-well, both girlfriends of male friends I had, and I wasn't close with them. Those two girls are as nice as can be.

The other girls were in two cliques. The first is URI's coffeehouse gang of Brianna's friends. These girls were all sophomores and best best best friends; they were obsessed with each other. They compulsively complimented each other, giggled and hugged, jabbered about their coffeehouse drama and drew much attention to themselves. Not exactly pleasant.

The other clique was made up of three super tall, super skinny and super cool Providence hipster girls. They were all enviably pretty and unique looking, and so waif thin. They were dry, quiet and stayed away from the rest of us.

I was pretty damn uncomfortable around these chicks in the beginning, mostly because I was out of the loop but also because I felt so un-model-like next to them. I've never thought I was "thin," I was normal sized, and with the curves, a bit disproportionate considering my very short height. But, who cares. It was a student show and I had no illusions of being a real model.

By the end, we all became friends, which was unexpected and really nice. Some, more than others. Some of them are annoying but tolerable, some turned out to be much cooler than I had pegged them to be. It was supremely odd to be thrown into a batch of foreign girls, as we curled our hair and bitched about our waistlines. I have tons of girlfriends, and we are all so perfectly suited for each other: we're not too preoccupied with looks, we are dorky, we are aggressive, we make jokes constantly and we like to be rational, intelligent and pleasant. We trust each other and we care about each other. It was frazzling to see such juxtaposition, but I'm just complaining. It really went well.

Plus, we were all doing it for Brianna, who remained humble and grateful the entire time, who deserved every single compliment she garnered. We did two shows, and both were very fun for me. Even though I thought I looked like a gothic and chubby Jonbenet Ramsey, I didn't have a care in the world as I walked the ramp.

In the end, we had fun, and I did make some new friends. One of the girls tripped and fell on the last show, and it was hilarious. We all added each other on Facebook. Brianna won the audience favorite award. But I won the award for "Best Usage of Authentic Interaction With Intimidating Females in Order to Stop Being So Judgmental."

The Artist Is Present and I Don't Know How To Feel

I had the fortunate opportunity to witness a legendary performance artist at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City over my spring break. Marina Abramović is iconic for her visceral and brutal collection of physical performance art, in which she is usually the subject. When I saw her latest installation, "The Artist Is Present," I was going in mostly blind. A friend tipped me off with news that there would be lots of naked people in the gallery spaces and that if I wanted to, I could participate by walking (squeezing, actually) between two naked bodies. I knew nothing else, none of the meaning, just the taboo shock value. Anyway, my friends and I entered the enormous gallery of her work, which was separated into numerous rooms. We did walk through the naked people (and yes, my leg rubbed against some woman's vagina and it was weird) and we took in all of the nudity, the violence, the ultra-awe inducing vulnerability of the models and the artist herself, who, despite the name of the exhibit, was apparently NOT present.
The show was a retrospective of her decades of performance art, highlighting her inspirations and personal history, her former endeavors (re-created by live models or presented on video), among other media.

While nearly everything we saw was outrageous and noteworthy, the sight most burned into my brain was an very large spread of various tools, items, weapons, foods, condoms, and more. It was an homage to her performance "Rhythm 0" from 1974. Here is an explanation far better than any I could conjure:

Abramović had placed upon a table 72 objects that people were allowed to use (a sign informed them) in any way that they chose. Some of these were objects that could give pleasure, while others could be wielded to inflict pain, or to harm her. Among them were scissors, a knife, a whip, and, most notoriously, a gun and a single bullet. For six hours the artist allowed the audience members to manipulate her body and actions.

Initially, members of the audience reacted with caution and modesty, but as time passed (and the artist remained impassive) several people began to act quite aggressively. As Abramović described it later:

“The experience I learned was that…if you leave decision to the public, you can be killed.” ... “I felt really violated: they cut my clothes, stuck rose thorns in my stomach, one person aimed the gun at my head, and another took it away. It created an aggressive atmosphere. After exactly 6 hours, as planned, I stood up and started walking toward the public. Everyone ran away, escaping an actual confrontation.”


This started to blow my mind a little. I am weary of performance art, the way one must think is such far-removed terms, the narcissism. Yet I began to understand and eventually admire her ability to commit, to become and suffer happily in order to explore her concepts of pain, performance and awareness. Art, maybe or maybe not, but her boundless aggression and fearlessness to understand, test, poke, prod and ravage the human psyche must be recognized.

I remember seeing one of her models in the gallery, sitting nude on a bicycle seat, arms spread, suspended 12 feet above the ground and fastened to the bright white wall. Diffused lights were blasting upon her. She looked horrified, her blue eyes wide and her mouth a grimace. I felt sick with worry for her. The plaque read "Alone" as the title of the piece. The description read something to the effect of... "this piece isn't about loneliness, but about alone-ness." I believed Marina, but I couldn't help but feel terrified for the model, wondering deeply if she shared this belief, if this is why she chose to be a part of such an ultra-exposed way, or if she was having her doubts. Was she too afraid to back out? Was she testing herself against someone else's standards? Was she an artist too?

Another jarring leap from the artist's "present" and our reality was another nude model scenario, in which a girl takes off her white lab coat, reveals herself to be naked, picks up a full-sized human skeleton, and then lays down upon a bare platform and moves the skeleton directly over her bare body. The skeleton's body positions is superimposed on top of the models. This was quite breathtaking itself. However, the model was crying, weeping this whole time. She sniffled silently and tears streamed down her face as she carried the bones and laid them upon her. It was disturbing, wondering why she was reacting this way, as the obvious reason hung around us all, the gawking masses, clothed, and judging.

Finally, as we made our way out of the museum at the end of the day, we found a gigantic crowd forming a circle in a large open space. Cameras were set up all around the circle.

It turned out that Marina Abramovic was there, sitting in a floor length, long-sleeved dress, hair braided down to her chest, in a chair in front of a very long table. She was allowing people, any spectator, to take the seat opposite her. They weren't allowed to speak, just stare into each others' faces. Marina would stare at you for as long as you could stare back at her.

The results of this live performance can be seen here . The intensity was palpable.

I'd really like to understand her work more thoroughly, but at least I can say that my opinion of Abramovic's brutal performances has changed. I don't think ego drives her work; I actually think the lack of ego is what allows her to take such risks with poise and confidence.

Depressing Poems from my Youth

I used to write tons of poems when I was in high school. It was nice to not be judged or graded on them, because I only wrote them so I wouldn't explode, kill myself or kill someone else. That's why many of the poems are downers.

However, I am proud of them. I'm a better writer now, technically, but I don't have that boiling urge to write like I used to.

My style of poetry was usually open, but I really liked to employ alliteration and sometimes rhyme, just to have the pleasant sounding rhythm. I really liked using line breaks and stanzas to highlight certain words or juxtapositions. I hunted for perfect words, browsing thesauruses and dictionaries for definitions for the words I was yearning to type.

Here are a few of those poems from the depths of my teenage years:

Cold Thoughts Over Breakfast

It seems That recently Dreams Can materialize with ease If one pries eyes wide And grieves holes in old lives To what do I owe This esteemed grace of His That brings bounty and bliss To those worthy Or missed? And while I lounged solitary Pensive, I wandered I sifted through thought and Sketched skeletons Drank medicines Stood frozen and fixated On the tips of my lips I recall touching each mirror I had the privilege to meet; “Oh, how she flaunts her frosted frailty” I’ve tested the surfaces For spots of weakness (For faults furrow meek) That proved I could hold What I’ve seen What I’ve schemed My own grace esteemed But to me, it’s a strange thing It’s not quite sad It’s the sound of walls sighing Why was I dozing When He delivered these dreams?

For this poem, I remember that I was feeling really down about not being able to achieve any success or happiness, unlike what I believed everyone else was accomplishing. It felt like every other asshole was succeeding in love and friendship and I was stuck, alone and unnoticed. These ideas weighed on me heavily.

This poem identifies my belief in God, which reoccurs in my other pieces. I chalk up the most universal questions and decisions to my maker, and I believe God is a poet like me. God the the being with the burden of making things live and die and succeed and fail. So in this poem I ask him, why was I overlooked? Why aren't my dreams realized? Am I not strong enough?

The Beauty of Buoyancy

To lie in a pool of green, still water

To watch beads of bile roll across her palms

To drink the juices of a cancerous sea

All is quiet, as all is smothered.

Who would recognize

Or understand

The beauty of a body’s buoyancy?

There are diamonds in the murk

Calling to the gray in her skin

The snakes in her hair try to will their way free

The brown lace on her back

Dissolves at the waters’ teeth.

To float facedown in a pool of green water

To look upon her guiltily

As she is carried along rows of brittle trees

Collecting their secrets and sailing with peace.

This morbid little ditty is probably one of my favorites from then. Yes, it's about a dead body floating in a pond. But I think I captured (what I imagined were) the stunning visuals of such a sight. This marks one of my best points of visually vivid writing, which has come to serve me well in my creative writing. I also quite like the title. As a depressive girl, writing this poem allowed me to celebrate my "unconventional" ideas of beauty and peace without leaving me begging for my own death.

The Edge of It All

Nothing led me to the edge of it all

And I stepped forward on bated soles

“Do you see now,” he breathed into the wind-

“Do you see now what you could have been?”

Abandon all faith, for we believe in nothing

Ours is a time of acting without tact.

I am not of their denomination

Their generation, their reputation

They rest with ease in seats

of decay

Diseased and soured with saccharin smiles

Yet if I were to expire

in the arms of indifference,

Would they recognize the flight as a cry for help?

Or could they see my blitzkrieg leap as

an act of living poetry?

My ‘‘actual reality’’

Is to be with Nothing himself

So if I drink ale of a darker brew

And bathe in the waters of a darker blue

And realize that I don’t need any of you

Would you look down upon me too?

When the heavens open and the fires descend

Believe in what you see

My courtesy

Arms spread, skidding on weary feet-

I, unlike you

Will

Bend

at the edge of it all.

This one became my most popular poem on the art/networking site called deviantART.com. I had a little gallery of works going, and when I posted this one, on January 27, 2005, it got a a bit of attention from other users. To date it has been my most viewed and commented upon poem. Again, it's strange looking back at this writing, because it was five years ago and that's a long time when you're young. I was sixteen years old and I thought I knew every-fucking-thing. I didn't, but I did know that I was very much alone in my thoughts and convictions at that time and place. I suppose there were others like me, but I felt like an alien in high school, surrounded by straight-up fools, being forced to works towards an undesirable end and challenging myself with art and writing. Ever the abstract thinker, I know this poem is a bit nonsensical, but it was liberating to declare that "I am unlike you, and I will not need your validation."

Quite the trip down memory lane! I'll finish off with a poem I actually wrote in college. It is hard to find inspiration once your life starts getting good, and it did get good in college. However, you can always rely on asshole boyfriends to bring out the worst in you. This poem was written specifically for and inspired by my last boyfriend (shudder).

Binge and Purge

Binge and purge

My feelings for you:

Jealousy

Makes me sick from every tip

Insecurity

Tethers me to the chair

Curious fears rewind and play

Over and over and over

And holes burn into my stomach

With the hint of your betrayal

And yet

You've given me nothing to lose

Addiction

I need to feel special

Your reluctant gift to me

Always breaking your promises

And I

Just smile like a pretty pet

And try to mesmerize you

With confidence

And charms

That I do not possess

I am as ugly as corpse

When I am

With you

The Festival of Hemp

I woke up late in the day today, sleeping off a night of drinking and dancing. I heard music from down the road, bubbling into the windows of my just-off-campus apartment.

Today was HempFest on the Quad, a sometimes annual event at URI organized by Students for Sensible Drug Policy.

I've been to past festivals, which were weak excuses for "festivities." You'd have a few food vendors, a few tents and tables filled with corduroy bong bags and hookahs. A band would be playing, but mostly the local smokers and freakies would just wander, lay in the grass, and then eventually move about their day.

This morning, my roommate told me she wanted to check it out, because she had never been before. I joined her, and with greater interest after I heard from other housemates that the crowd was big and the live music was good.

DIGRESSION: I used to smoke a lot of pot, true. I was very fond of MJ, and it climaxed a year or so ago. Lately, I've dropped back into the realm of "light-weight" occasional smoker. It's been like this because I now take mood-altering medications that make me feel damn strange when I smoke weed. Regardless, I was in the mood to toke before we left. My roomie hardly ever puffs so she's the lightest of the lightweight. She often finds herself fully incapacitated after just one whiff. MAGICALLY, she whips out a little nugget of green, which she found in her couch after a party a few weeks ago. She had forgotten about it. So what did we do? We ripped it: I filled my lungs with the tasty smoke and my roomie puffed more hits than she had in years.

THAT BEING SAID, she and I took off down the street in the warm sun towards the quad. This is when things got a little strange.

Yes, we were stoned, but as we walk down the sidewalk we couldn't help but notice how the other pedestrians were sort of odd. You know people who don't move out of the way when they're talking up the whole width of the sidewalk, and they see you approaching? Lots of those people. That's also when we began to notice a lot of funky, well dressed boys that definitely do not attend URI, because we would have already located them. En route, we encountered a group of people, including a baby, who were huddling in the middle of the walking path. The baby of the bunch hopped into the street, in front of an oncoming car. My roomie and I were like "WTF?"

The long and short of it is we moseyed on down to the quad where there was quite a large gathering. Tents with authentic hippie paraphernalia, lots of people chilin', and a large stage with decent and loud live music. We awkwardly found a spot on the grass, near the edge of the crowd, to sit and people watch.

First, we realize that we don't recognize any of the tons of people in the quad. That's saying something, considering my roommate and I know a lot of people around here, and people we would think would come to this event.

There were lots of hippies in tie dye, bandana wearers, hackey sackers, dreadlocked folks and long beard-wearers. Also quite a few good looking scenesters types. Many of them looked high-school aged. At the same time, there were many old hippie types with babies: babies in strollers, strapped to their chests in carriers, or walking them on their tiny feet. Lots of dogs, too. We saw a giant husky and smaller doberman(?) get into a fight, scary.

As we looked around, saw two girls in flowy skirts and tank tops dance barefoot in a circle, we started cracking up. We both felt like we were inside a giant, free loving cliche.

Then, the band shifted from background fuzz to full blast. They are called The Abominables, a punk/ska/rock and roll ish band that sounded tight. Albeit a bit boring. UNTIL, of course, they started SPEAKING. Screaming, actually. They were like stand up comedians on coke (so, Robin Williams in the 80s or so), jabbering on and on, cracking jokes, shouting "FUCKING FUCK" and warbling about sparking doobies and fucking up the government.

This, radiating across the campus from a giant sound system, as toddlers shuffled around the "make your own bong" station and straight-laced men in suits darted across the quad, holding their attache cases and aluminum water bottles. This, broadcasted live without censorship on a zero-tolerance campus. Bizarre, to say the least. I was in stitches, clasping my mouth shut as I watched and listened to the band rant and rampage.

As my roomie and I sat, she; with her perfectly blow-dried hair and vintage horn-rimmed sunglasses, I; with my pink lipstick and a venti quadruple shot iced espresso from Starbucks, stoned onto our butts in the dewy grass, we started getting a little existential.

With the young girls floating around with pot leaves painted on their cheeks and the cluster of dudes smacking around a hackey sack, to the 1 in 3 women wearing a tie dye ankled length skirt, to the obligatory police officer in uniform hassling them all, we began to debate what kind of bullshit we were witnessing.

DIGRESSION: I am a real cynic, but I can't help it. My dad was a real "hippie," but he wouldn't call himself that. He was a "freak." In the late 60s, he liked to wear his hair long and argue about Vietnam and drop the acid that his chemist roommate made fresh at RPI in upstate New York. He didn't wear fucking tie dye. Tie dye was a uniform of the peaceful, fun-loving, tuning in and dropping out types. My dad and his friends were stuck in cold-as-shit Troy, New York in the snow belt. He and his friends were a small alliance of rock and roll loving idealists, who grew and concocted their own stash of drugs, hiding them in the walls of their apartment for fear of incarceration. My dad didn't strum guitars and run around nude, he studied science and spread the message of nonconformity and intellectual freedom to the duped frat boys of their ultra-conservative town.

My point? Tie dye is a poser symbol of a time and place none of my generation can understand. Wearing it is just a uniform that displays followership and not individuality. It is a society-induced cliche. So is the kicking around of a small, bead-filled ball. So is the frisbee tossing. So is the Bob Marley strumming on the acoustic guitar. So is the obligatory love for all things hemp. So is the excuse for girls to not wear bras and put wax in their hair and load up on silver bangle bracelets and roll around in the grass. It's not meant to be protest, it's meant to be SEXY.

The conversation started bumming me out. We both agreed that this incarnation of the hippie lifestyle is definitely far removed from the original version. And how could it not be? Back then, the oppression from the government smothered the ideals of exploration and questioning, of love and peace. Today, most hippie kids have Blackberries and drive Volkswagens.

Then, a lighter thought came out: you can't expect things to stay the same as time moves forward. Sure, the 60s are over and we can never return to that time. But the lifestyle choice can still be genuine, even though it has morphed dramatically. If you like tie dye, then you should wear it. If you find hackey sack fun and challenging, you should be free to play. Jam out to Tom Petty and sway back and forth. We cannot sit here and judge others on authenticity, and not because it's unfair, but because that battle was already lost. What we can do it create our own pleasant present. I cringe to think of subscribing to such a played out lifestyle, but who am I to criticize someone's happiness? (Especially since I'm still searching for mine). I'm a bitch!

Then it was 4:20 pm and everyone started screaming and clapping, and the lead singer of the band was acting crazy and the people near the front of a stage sparked a few blunts together. In the middle of the quad.

The next band started to play, this time a URI based band. They play really smooth, melodic, chill music. Their fans range from reggae heads to jam band freaks to the in-betweens. Not to me though. My roomie and I scoffed as we noticed the band's bassist, a foolish looking white dude wearing baggy orange pants. This chill hippie guy came to our house party last week and got so drunk, he aggressively forced himself on me and whacked my roommate as she tried to stop him. We eventually dragged him out of our house with the help of some friends, but not before he insulted my appearance and called my roommate a "trifling bitch."

Then, all of my cynicism came rushing back, and we decided to leave, so I could write this post and listen to disco music.

So, in conclusion: Hippies aren't real, everyone drinks and smokes too much, the only real pacifists you meet are commonly referred to as "fags," wear a bra, listen to better music and if I see your dumb, stinky ass wearing a tie dye t shirt I'm gonna beat the fuck out of you.

ABDC = America's Best Dance Show

1. Dancing is fucking awesome, there's no debate. Especially when a bunch of super funky young people form dance crews.

2. There are a lot of terrible reality shows on TV. Even a lot of bad dancing contest shows (Dancing With The Stars?)

3. America's Best Dance Crew, despite the stupid name, is not a stupid show. It's a very, very fucking good show. And it's on MTV! You must think I'm crazy. I'm not! Let me explain:

ABDC, as it's called, is a genius concept that works perfectly on TV. Why? Well first, unlike some other reality shows, the contest is based on actual talent. Much like my other favorite reality TV shows, like Project Runway or games shows like Jeopardy, the competitors need to posses true talent, ability and creativity, or else they will fail. Flashy gimmicks are sometimes present in this series, but they cannot carry a team to win.

So. Dance crews. Real kids who like to throw down, battle and boogie, and they're damn good at it. This show features a lot of B-Boys and breakers, which is just so cool and always entertaining. However, they feature some unique acts too, like a group that dances on roller skates, a group that combines dancing with jump-roping, a voguing crew, a latin dance crew, among many others.

So we got the dope crews. Next, we give them insane challenges, in which they have to incorporate specific styles, themes or moves into their routines while still representing their unique style, while also increasing the difficulty of their routines each week. Some past challenges have been a dance tribute to Michael Jackson, incorporating magical illusions, using trampolines, using moves from Bollywood dance styles and styles from the disco era, as well as my favorite, the "Whack Track Challenge" in which each crew was assigned to dance to some of the worst songs in pop music history and make it rock.

Then, oh my god, then we have the host and judges. MTV could not have picked a more absurd group of people to anchor this show. It's awesome and bad at the same time.

First, we got Randy Jackson, who produces this show. He only appears in the very beginning and at the very end of the season. He is so awkward and tries so hard to talk hood but he just can't do it. But, he's a legit dude and this show was his idea, so you gotta love him.

Next, you got Mario fuckin Lopez to host. He's really good at this job, because he's good at speaking into a camera, he always looks

unbelievably handsome and he dresses like he's going out to a nightclub in Miami every night. You can't help but enjoy watching him and listening to him talk about the crews even though you know he's probably dumb as shit and works out for 6 hours a day every day. Plus, his knowledge of the Spanish language pops up randomly in episodes, which is ... funny. Gotta love Mario.

Ok. The judges. There are three of them, each more absurd than the last.

First, there was Shane Sparks, an unknown but legitimate choreographer to the stars. He was a judge you could really trust because he obviously had a very strong background in hip hop and popular dance, and he made it happen for real. He was kind of nuts, wore hats that always concealed half his face, but gave great commentary. BUT, in this past season, he was replaced by Omarion, from the boy band B2K and later from his solo career as an R&B singer. Apparently, Mr. Sparks ran into to some trouble with the law. Something to do with child molestation charges. Eeek.

So MTV replaced with Omarion, who is so goddamn hot it doesn't make

any sense. He has that little boy voice and the fresh style and the best and cutest smile...Sigh. Anyway, he usually doesn't have anything productive to say, but he's frequently a positive voice from the judging table. Sometimes he just likes to call crews out on their bullshit. Gotta love Omarion.

Then....there's Lil Mamma. Can we just ask ourselves: Why is this girl on TV? Who gave her a microphone? Bitch is dumb as SHIT, but she really carries herself with so much poise and confidence, you find yourself actually trying to make sense of what she's saying. But she don't make no goddamn sense, EVER! Plus, is she even a dancer? All we know about her is that one hit song she had about lipgloss. In which she rapped. I'll give it to her, she's a gorgeous girl. And she is a girl, she's only just

turned 20 years old. Mammasita (as Lopez calls her) rambles in circles with the most absurd Bronx accent and her deep voice. She says stuff like "YALL KILT IT!" "YALL BRAWT IT!" The dumbest thing I can recall her saying is this, after We Are Heroes performed for the Champions for a Cause episode: "It's one thing to pop out of a box. But when you pop out of a box and dance like that, that's saying something." WHAT? She dresses like she's schizophrenic, too. Lil Mamma, you are so whylin. Gotta love her.

Finally, you got JC Chasez, or as I like to call him, Professor ABDC. You might remember him from a boy band called 'Nsync, of which he was a lead singer and a major

hottie. He's the oldest judge, in his 30s, and the person with the most accumulated fame and experience in the world of popular dance and performance. For god's sake, do you remember what 'Nsync used to do? He was like a mercenary of dance. JC is always SO SERIOUS. He ticks off names of dance moves that no one would know had names. He always brings the harsh critiques, and he always, always gets booed by the crowd for killing their buzz. He's often like, "Ok...I didn't screw up, don't boo me." LOL. He takes his judging very seriously and he's very intelligent with his critiques. GOTTA LOVE JC.

LBNL, there are the crews. What can I say? The crews are amazing. Let them speak for themselves.

My favorite crew ever is QuestCrew,

but Jabbawockeez are probably the illest of all time.

Other favorites include Jungle Boogie,

BluPrintCrew,

BeatFreakz,

and Vogue Evolution.

AND POREOTIX.

SO DOPE!!!

90.3 FM, WRIU

Now I will talk about the best decision I've ever made in my college, joining my univeristy's radio station. The station is called WRIU on 90.3FM. My show is called Mixed Nutz.

If you know me (and I think you do), you know I love music. I collect it, analyze it, experiment, I memorize it. I always want more and more. So, I've racked up a bit of a library on my iTunes. By the time I hit college, I was swapping my hand-picked mixes with friends and throwing the best jams into my student films.

That's how I got introduced to WRIU. In my first filmmaking class, I screened my final in front of my peers. A guy in my class complimented me on the soundtrack. He said I should be on the radio. He happened to be the general manager of Studio B, the internet station that trains people to ride the FM waves. I happily agreed. This was two years go.

I entered the radio station, placed in it's oddly hidden-yet-obvious location on campus. Far up on the top floor of a university building lay a haven of music, away from the meddling others. It was late at night when I arrived to my classmate's radio show, and I'll never forget what I saw when I entered the main studio.

The room was very dimly lit, as a giant bright green LCD screen ticked away military time and an old-school rotating red light hummed "ON AIR." The uneven walls were stacked, stuffed, piled from floor to ceiling with CDs. Graffiti covered every inch of the crumbling walls behind the soundboard. Microphones, zip-tied to gargantuan rotating arms, stretched around the DJ station like a huge, robot spider. The yellow and red lit keys on the mixing board glowed. My classmate was drunk on blackberry bourbon and offered me a shot as soon as he registered my face. His cohost was an evil queen type chick, with wicked cat eye glasses and piercings and a sexy deep voice. At a glance, I knew this was THE thing I had been waiting for at college.

I trained for a semester on Studio B, a small closet that embodied much of the charm as the main studio. I did it alone, for two hours, once a week. No one listens to the internet station, but I convinced my friends and family to tune in at least once. It was exciting in a way that something lame is exciting, before you realize it's lame. It was also kind of lonely.

Finally, a year and a half ago, I started training in the main studio. My classmate DJ friend abandoned his post by then, and I was in the hands of the main studio's general manager, a super unique guy named Tyler. Learning from him and getting to know him was an experience in itself.

How to explain Tyler. Well, he's in his mid-twenties but looks about 18, he's still an undergrad, pursuing a degree in Philosophy and computer science. He's nice as can be, but always has a pained look on his face. He is a vicious asshole when he doesn't like someone or something. His hair is sometimes long and shaggy, and he anxiously fiddles with it. He's kind of short but also kind of handsome. He's extremely nerdy, but also extremely hilarious. He likes to drink, a lot, and he likes to do uppers, a lot. He's a mechanical genius, as he built and engineered almost everything in the studio. He's ultra awkward to speak to, but he doesn't even care. He still runs the huge staff meetings, answering questions with lightning accuracy, peppered with large gaps of "UHHHHH...." He's a pretty awesome dude.

So, he trained me, with his friend Pat. Pat, aka George Moshington, is one of Tyler's oldest friends. He is a huge punk rocker, he's in his mid-twenties and has some kind of crippling illness that has him in a wheelchair. He likes to fight, listen to hardcore punk, smoke and drink. What else is there to say? He's a nice guy too.

With the blessings of the extremely eccentric heads of the station, I started my show, Mixed Nutz, on Wednesday (later switched to Thursday) nights from midnight to three am. I recruited my best buddy at college, Cass, to do it with me. She likes music as much as I do and her taste overlaps yet varies greatly when compared to mine.

Our shows are the ultimate mixed tape, pure in purpose: generate the most random and all-encompassing varieties of good, worthy music. Something that any kind of person could dig, if they had an open mind. We wanted to celebrate our wide span of music affinities while pushing ourselves to find even more obscure/popular tunes, all while providing our listens with the best and most fun listening experience. We've succeeded in all aspects.

Our genres consist of (and are in no way limited to): classic country, bluegrass, folk, rock hits from the 1950s-present, disco, classical, soul, blues, soft pop, psychedelia, electro, thrash, rockabilly, psychobilly, proto punk, punk, pop punk, hardcore punk, new wave, top 40, club hip hop, alt hip hop, underground hip hop, dance pop, metal, dance rock, techno, house, trance, blues rock, alt rock, reggae, reggaeton, comedy music, show tunes, other, and more.

We love doing our show so much: we sleep until 11 pm, obsessively create our playlists, smoke pot/cigarettes, drink beers, drive to the studio, chit chat with the DJs before us, and dig in to the night. The studio is always mercilessly hot, so you have to dress accordingly. When the phone rings in the studio, insane strobe lights go off so the sound of ringing won't be heard through the microphones. We beg and taunt people into calling up, so we can jabber on with them as long as possible. Sometimes we bring friends. We often dance around like we're being paid for it.

It's the best possible scenario: late night, blasting the best music you can think of in an awesome, isolated box. People call and tell you they love what you're doing. You drink and laugh with your best friend, talk music, talk about anything. You groove like nothing else matters. You focus in on your core -- your unflinching desire for amazing sounds and the feeling you get when your desires are fulfilled. No one is ever going to stop you or control you.

All I can say is, Listen to Mixed Nutz on 90.3FM, wriu, or stream it live on wriu.org on Thursday nights from midnight to three am.

!!!