“There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women,” Taylor Swift said in a recent Vanity Fair interview. If you have been living under a rock, you might assume Swift was referring to some serious girl-on-girl crime, perhaps bullying or gossip.
After being named an All-American as a high school senior at Menlo School, a stone’s throw from Palm Drive, senior Scott Platshon earned the starting goalkeeper job this season for the Stanford men’s water polo team. Platshon allowed just one goal in his first career start and has No. 3 Stanford set to make a run at a NCAA Tournament berth when the Mountain Pacific Sports Federation Tournament begins on Nov. 23.
I discovered Taylor Swift in eighth grade. Actually, it wasn’t so much a discovery as it was a desperate attempt to understand what my pop culture savvy classmates were gushing about every day at lunch. I was a TV, AIM and MySpace ignoramus, and since those were the prime social currency, I was clueless as my friends sang “Our Song” on mind-numbing repeat.
This is going to be a simple column. That is what I have to tell myself as I sit down in front of the keyboard and write this column every week. I know I could spiral effortlessly into the black hole of unintelligible hyper-intellectuality, something only possible when we remove ourselves from real life. I’m tempted to be over-comprehensive and cover all theoretical corners to prevent potential criticisms against my ideas. But, more than that, I want to write something clear. I want to be understandable, in the hopes that you, my reader, happen to relate to me
I often can’t believe that people think using Twitter has some social stigma attached. Look, if it’s good enough to be a source of breaking world news and facilitate political revolutions in Iran, Moldova and Tunisia, I think it’s good enough for all of us, okay?
This relationship has been going on for almost four months now, so I feel like there’s a lot you need to know about me before we can take things to the next level between us. So grab a bag of Doritos and some ice cream and read on…
The MTV gods ought to be glad for Kanye West because their bland production had little more to run on than the fumes of last year through its three-hour-plus runtime.