Monday, June 15, 1998
The Bruin provides means for investigating the world
It’s 1:30 a.m., Thursday night. Three years ago, I would have
watched Letterman and gone to bed an hour ago. If I’d had a more
conventional (read: less nerdy) freshman year, I’d be perusing
Gayley under the guise that one frat party was different from the
next.
But somewhere along the way I became a writer. The wee-hour air,
somehow distinct from the sunny predictability of noontime Bruin
Walk, creeps through my window and whispered words to me.
And the story that does not want to be told – because it means
the end of something – spills from my fingertips onto the
screen.
One day I wandered into a gothic building, buzzing with people
who had Things To Say. It looked vaguely like the college newspaper
office in a mystery I’d read, so I picked up an application and let
my thoughts crawl with grandiose ideas of print jargon and
strapping young men in 19th century newsie caps.
They were quickly replaced by Arts and Entertainment editors
John, Robert and Mike. I had a sort of collective crush on all
three, or maybe just on The Bruin in general. And though I moved
from mousy newsroom assistant (read: office whipping-girl) to
mighty section editor, my love affair with The Bruin has only grown
stronger.
I’m aware that it’s not en vogue to love the media. My English
class has re-christened the Daily Bruin as the "Daily Hate Speech."
We staffers even affectionately – and only half kiddingly – refer
to ourselves as "journalistic whores." But slurs on sensationalism
cannot obscure the personal. By this I mean both the people I’ve
met and the person I’ve become.
The two are intertwined, thankfully. Who would I be without my
co-editors Mike, Nerissa and Stephanie as friends and role
models?
A year in a cubicle with Mike has taught me that everything can
be interpreted sexually and that there is a raw beauty in simple
honesty.
Nerissa and I both believe, fervently, that a leather hand bag
and three bottles of Westwood nail polish beat losing 50 bucks at a
poker table any day. She also reminds me that "advertorial" is a
dirty word and that the right people can inject dignity into even
the Lifestyle section.
Stephanie is the sort of free spirit who will assume a pseudonym
and run off to the desert for the weekend in a very odd theater
ritual. And no matter how hard you try to make fun of her, you’re
jealous. Because she Gets It – that sometimes you have to go into
the woods in order to live happily ever after.
Then there are the rare, treasured times when I leave Kerckhoff.
It feels a little funny, my pupils wincing, vampire-like, at
natural light. But usually, I’m on my way to an interview or a play
anyway.
Journalism, in many ways, is a socially accepted form of
voyeurism. And how wonderful it is. The goal of most of my articles
is to give you, my readers (Hi Mom. Hi
Dad-if-Mom-reads-it-out-loud-to-you), a glimpse into the passion I
encounter every day. Granted the luxury of quizzing experts on my
own favorite topics, I’ve had ups and downs. But for every awkward
pause or regurgitated press release, there is a Ron Dennis or a
Brent Davin Vance.
I met with Ron at Coffee Bean; he stopped by after a doctor’s
appointment. Lately, the news has been good, but he’s paid his dues
– no less than four years of full-blown AIDS. I sat there as he ate
a croissant and mulled over the duties and beauties of being
alive.
At one point, he turned the tables on me, asking me if I ever
worried about contracting AIDS. I imagine my lips sort of sputtered
as I tried to take in, all at once, my own mortality and the power
of having a job that is all about asking the hard questions.
Ron was in the audience the opening night of "Chicago." He was
wearing the same purple earrings. His distinctive voice echoed
heartily through the orchestra section. This, I thought, is what
it’s about. Not celeb-spotting with the paparazzi, but laughing –
singing – in the face of adversity.
If you still fancy us A&E-ers merely star-struck, let me
remind you that my other favorite-interview-ever, Brent Davin
Vance, plays The Waiter. But he plays The Waiter in "Rent," so he
is a god. No – even that’s a little simplistic. Because when Brent
detailed his own first time viewing the musical, his realization of
the central character’s overlooked and unending loneliness proved
to me that Brent Gets It too.
If it weren’t for The Bruin, I never would have seen "Rent." If
it weren’t for the little musical about a diverse, scrappy group of
Bohemians who plant their podium in the center of a tent village,
maybe I wouldn’t have spent an evening in Freedom City this
week.
And who knows what that will lead to? But I can say firmly,
loudly, that Kerckhoff has been the shelter that showed me the
world. I know what’s out there now, or at least what bus to take to
find it. I know what you can learn when you listen – in the plush
seats of a darkened theater, in the third world weirdness of
Hollywood Boulevard. And I know how to make people listen to
me.
It’s 3:12 now. Time to pop a toaster strudel in the oven and
Sondheim in the CD player. Time to cry a lot, the way only someone
who truly appreciates the drama of life can do.
Cheryl Klein