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The San Francisco art community got a
jolt in 1995 when the current location
of the San Francisco Museum of
Modem Art opened in the trendy South of
Market area, convenient to the downtown
Financial District (and to the subway
lines for suburbanites like myself).
The building, designed by
Jr
Swiss architect Mario Botta,
provides a perfect container
to the ever-changing collec
tion of 20th century painting
and sculpture, a collection that
constantly challenges the viewer to
see what’s really there.
This collection includes a white and gold
porcelain sculpture that, on first
glance, appears to be a religious
icon holding a child.
However, upon closer examination, it is
actually revealed to be Michaeljackson with
a monkey.
The museum also includes a Lichtenstein
print of multicolored polka dots - close up,
they’re gibberish, but from a distance, they
actually create an image of Rouen Cathedral
in France.
Another image by Andy Warhol silk
screens multiple images of Elizabeth Taylor
from “National Velvet.”
And also, one artist parroted Leonardo di
Vinci’s “The Last Supper” by recreating it in
caramel. Inspired or hereti-
I
1 i ■ *. '
\ ■ at Fran’s MOMA
Gazing up at- t?an
riving to Panama City Beach, 1 had three degrading it was for women. But then again, my
main goals in mind: get a tan, bond with friend was getting me free drinks, so I didn’t
my best friends and party. complain.
Unfortunately these goals came at a Our sextet enjoys having some drinks and
price: being subjected to catcalls and dancing but not enough to spend a lot to get
enduring wet T-shirt contests. into a club. That took Spinnakers and La
I knew Spring Break would be Villa out of our places-to-go list, but we
a little wild and crazy, but no A found a nice, less expensive club,
more than I had witnessed at - Latitudes was a fun club with a
Myrtle Beach during Senior \ huge bar and plenty of room to
Beach Week. In Florida, there were dance, either inside or outside on
only more beads, Confederate flags and K the deck that overlooked the gulf,
boobs. Underage kids were allowed in for $5 and
The Queen Bees never showed our good- indulged rigorously thanks to lax carding
ies for some beads, but my friend habits and a lack of ageism,
and her friends from school man- By KRISTEN WILLIAMS Our time there was great, but so
aged to find a better use for their Staff Writer was the walk back with my friend
tas, entering wet T-shirt contests and flashing bar- Stephanie. We had a few drinks, and when she
tenders for drinks. tried to smuggle one out in her pants, Steph fell
They are some really cool girls, and even as and found herself sprawled out on the wooden
“Oh, nothing,” my fellow traveler retorted, continuing to
walk, but not before turning to offer the man a mocking grin
and a wink. You would think a couple of second-rate ruffians
cal, it’s hard to say.
But perhaps the most surreal piece is called
“Things Fall Apart” by Sarah Size, which
involves a Jeep Cherokee hacked apart and
decorated with pipe cleaners and its own
insulation, among other items, to appear as
though it’s at the bottom of the ocean.
What complicates matters is that the
various pieces are situated on ascend
ing levels of the main staircase,
providing a piece of art that vis
*■ itors see in stages as they move
from one gallery to the next.
Call it postmodern or pop art or
whatever, but this is SFMOMA’s forte.
Despite that, other traditionally modem
artists can be found within the
museum’s walls. An impressive
selection of Matisse is housed in
By Allison Rost
Staff Writer
its own wing.
The current photography exhibit showcas
es Edward Weston, who did a lot of work on
the beaches along the Monterey Peninsula
but also photographed bell peppers and cab
bage in ways that made them unrecognizable.
But perhaps the most striking work of
modern art is the museum itself. The five-
story rectangular structure has striped granite
walls leading up to a central oculus that lets in
the San Francisco sunlight.
The top floor includes a metallic bridge
through the sunlit turret that
offers views to the atrium 75
—
feet below and to the equal
ly picturesque Yerba Buena
Gardens across the street.
The heavy stone walls
1 provide a calm sanctuary
I from the surrounding bus
-1 tie and, save for the occa
-1 sional sounds of nearby
1 construction equipment,
1 provide a serene bubble
1 in the middle of a hectic
I I city-
I 1 Much of the art in
I I SFMOMA makes you
steps of the club.
As she hobbled back to the motel with me,
she also managed to fall multiple times because
I kept making her laugh. Every time she’d end
up on the ground, we’d draw a crowd of specta
tors, especially when she tried to go to the motel
next door.
To be honest, time spent laying out on the
beach, the drive down and hanging out in the
we cheered
them on
i during the
\ contests, I
\ couldn’t
\ help but
t \ think
\\h o w
HT he n >ght was cold, and the
gray moon cast blue, wet
shadows on the concrete
before us. My two friends and I
were engulfed by New York City,
wandering around in its bowels.
We were in some kind of
weird park where a giant stat
ue of George Washington
watched over us as we
walked along, silently wait
i ing for some kind, any
kind, of adventure to
unfold. It didn’t take long.
Two men in dark
clothes appeared from
nowhere. “Looks like
you guys need a cou-
pie ounces of hydro,”
one sneered, seeking
some sort of cheap
intimidation-based
thrill.
“Only two
ounces?” I mut-
tered, within the range of
their ears. “Let me go find an ATM.”
One chuckled back, “What’s that, guy?”
Thursday, March 21, 2002
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Instead of rough, dirty sand
I got pure, perfect snow;
instead of salt in the eyes and
shark attacks I got the wind in
my face and an adrenaline
rush; instead of sunburns
and a hangover I got rolling I
moguls... and a hangover. I
Next year try something
new for Spring Break. Get
in your car and drive more
than 1,000 miles in the
opposite direction from
everyone else - Canada
has a lot more to offer than
maple syrup and high
taxes.
After a grueling 16- L
hour road trip through
some of the most boring
landscape in the country (New York City is the only
thing in New York), most of which I spent sprawled
out on the air mattress in the back of my Chevrolet
Suburban, we pulled into the quaint Mont
Tremblant Ski Resort only to be greeted by a rag
ing blizzard and howling winds. I think my two
friends and I actually chimed the exact same
expletive in unison and with the exact
same inflection.
But after a huge dinner and a
good night’s sleep we woke up to
find the sun shining, the snow glis
tening and the mountain calling.
Even though Neil kicked my bed every
two minutes and howled “Nicolaaaaaa” in
imitation of the Ricola commercial,” I man
aged to refrain from stabbing him in the belly
and dragging myself onto the
slopes.
And thus the pain began.
do a double take, requir
ing further inspection.
I There’s no better place
l to find the atmosphere
I for such heavy contem
-1 plation.
1 The Arts &
1 Entertainment Editor
-* can he reached at
artsdesk@unc.edu.
We confidently attacked the black diamond runs
on our first trip down the mountain and I ended up
launching a preteen who decided to cut me off
about 30 feet down a cliff and into a tree. Punk
should have watched where he was going.
We made it to the bottom, winded and sore only to
realize that we had another five hours of skiing before
the lifts closed. So to assuage our bruised egos after
being burned by a 4-year-old strapped on to a pair of
rockets, we followed the beginner’s ski school class
would appreciate such tactful humor on this crisp night.
Perhaps these two were different, I thought. Perhaps they
would laugh it off and join us later for cocktails. Perhaps.
We kept walking. And with that, the savagery began.
In an instant I was flanked by one of the men, while the tall
one swung like a wino in the direction of my friends. Engulfed
in shock, I smashed my fit cigarette into the man’s cheek, and
he flailed away like a wild animal. I cursed him as he ran,
his burning face-flesh convincing him to keep running.
Now scared, I blindly implored the spirit of
old George to come to my aid. After all, a 12-
foot granite statue of America’s first presi
dent is always a valuable asset to have in
a street fight. However, when I came to my
senses, it turned out to be a non-issue.
My two friends had run away like cowards.
“Bastards," I yelled into the night. “Lousy bastards!”
My shirt was tom, and my buzz was all but lost. And on
top of that, my cigarette was completely out
The second would-be aggressor had given
up on chasing my two friends and had appar-
endy retreated to whatever loathsome hole he
came from. I was left alone. I suddenly felt like Holden
Caulfield, alone in The City That Never Sleeps.
The middle of New York City is not an ideal locale, espe
cially late at night and after such a fiasco. My choices con
sisted of wandering around this raging hormone of a city,
aimlessly looking for my friends or trying to maneuver the
late-night subway system back to Queens and the unfur
nished basement with no bathroom that we called home.
“I need a drink,” I muttered into the wind.
Page 5
p t
Oy\ 4- U „ , PARKER [
" at Mont Tremblant
JMA.
By Nick Parker
Assistant Arts & Entertainment Editor
motel were the highlights of the trip.
We laughed about past trips as we smoked and
watched the planes with ads trailing fly above us
on the beach. The drive seemed short as we
joked around on the walkie talkies and laughed
every time someone said “breaker breaker.”
In our rooms, new jokes abounded as we
bonded over our drinks and talked to the
neighbors. You couldn’t walk out on the
balcony without talking to someone
standing on theirs.
Our male neighbors from Missouri i
frequented our room to hang out, and
Rick’s antics grated on my nerves as he
managed to pick up every bra he saw,
probably because every bra he picked J
up was mine. Also, Jake wore out his
welcome when he wouldn’t take a
hint and leave.
Sadly enough, these guys were
the cream of the crop we met down
there.
Despite the sometime skank
quality that permeated Panama
City Beach, I had a blast hanging
out with my friends, getting tan
and partying. I
Plus, all the flashing gave us a
new joke, yelling, “Tits tits tits” /
By Aaron Freeman
Staff Writer
Have You Hugged Your Skrat Today? Employing
squirrely goodness, scary cats with big teeth, a
sloth and a sullen wooly mammoth, "Ice Age”
proves to be solid family fun. page 7
around
for an hour and hazed the instructor.
It wasn’t until the third day on the mountain,
with a much deeper snow base and a few less snow
boarders on speed that we decided that “Closed
Trail” signs are just like speed limits - more of a
suggestion than an order.
After dodging the ski patrol and flicking off
a disgruntled old man who called us a pack
of “hooligans,” we found out exactly why
A
they use bright orange ropes to keep
people out - rocks. Big, sharp, evil
rocks.
But, after nearly breaking my thumb
and tearing a rivet in my skis that is longer
than my forearm (thank God for rentals), we
came out of the woods on a frozen lake and skat-
ed a half mile to the nearest lift.
It was so much fun.
Between the amazing slopes,
beautiful views, food that was distinctly non-
Canadian and a drive through Montreal that found
Neil in his helmet thrashing in my front seat, I
could not have asked for more.
If you want a break from bums, beaches and
lopsided boobs, head north instead of south - the
Canadians will let anyone over the border.
The Arts & Entertainment Editor can be
reached at artsdesk@unc.edu.
on our walkie talkies as we drove home.
Hopefully wherever we go next year, that
phrase won’t be shouted everywhere we turn
and the atmosphere will compliment our laid
back style. But if you enjoy debauchery, PCB is
the place to be.
The Arts & Entertainment Editor can be
reached at artsdesk@unc.edu.
e / /■ — —
/ / ■' . /
/ Oh —" /
Indeed. J
I wiped my brow and
walked toward the lights.
I found my so-called compatriots sitting at the far end of
a comer bar, swilling strong drink. They gazed at me with
surprise, sheltering their eyes from my contempt.
I ordered two beers for myself and slammed them down
on the bar.
“What’s wrong with you?" asked my friend Steve.
“Oh, nothing really," I said. “ I often enjoy fight
ing for my life while you two scoundrels run like
toddlers to have a quick drink.”
The barkeep overheard our hateful
exchange and shook his head with disdain. My
friends ordered more drinks and changed the sub-
ject. I brooded for a while and smoked until my lungs
hurt. There was no further discussion.
Truth be told, I did not see the night’s
events as unpleasant or foolish. New York
proved itself to me this Spring Break. The Big
Apple, as it were, kept us on our toes and made it abun
dandy clear that there are still adventures to be had - espe
cially when you don’t keep your mouth shut.
A light rain started outside as the bartender swept the
floor, and us, out. The jukebox played Miles Davis as we
finished our drinks and slowly ambled out the door. We
walked home under a yellow electric sky.
The Arts & Entertainment Editor can be
reached at artsdeskOunc.edu.