Zoe Camp

I first learned of "'George's'" disappearance last Tuesday. As I shuttled down the street to class early one February morning, I caught glimpse of a mudstained, soaked sheet of paper lying limp atop a dirty snowbank. Hours of constant contact with the rapidly melted snow had caused the ink to smear, leaving those familiar streaks, sad and reminiscent of tears from mascaraed eyes. Intrigued, I examined it more closely, noting the central image: an Internet stock photo of a mourning dove, perched furtively against a bright salmon backdrop.

On Saturday, we were asked to make a difficult choice: We could stay in the pillowy embraces of our beds—nestled in the world of "Downtown Abbey" and the usual weekend procrastination—or we could defy the odds, motivating ourselves to rise for 7:30 a.m. Bacchanal pre-gaming.

Last night, the 54th Annual Grammy Awards were held. There were performances by big names including the night's big winner, Adele, who took home six trophies. In what we hope will be an annual trend, Bon Iver won Best New Artist and, like Esperanza Spalding last year, nobody knows who the hell they are. It was an interesting night, so without further ado, the highlights from last night's awards. 1. Opens with a prayer for Whitney Houston, accompanied by a speech about "the power of music" and the first of many gratuitous Adele shout-outs. 2. Chris Brown dancing and lip-synching on top of what can best be described as a replica of the Aggro Crag from Nickelodeon GUTS. 3. Rihanna doing her best Courtney Love impression, dressed in a long denim vest and tights, and black lipstick and looking strung out on..something. The monotonous "We Found Love" doesn't lend well to the stage, although a bevy of torch-holding back-up dancers help to inject a little energy into what is essentially a frat-pop song. more 4. Coldplay performing against a black-lit wall of graffiti no doubt rooted in politicisms (or, more likely, that part of Nicki Minaj's "Super Bass Video"). 5. Adele performing a spot-on rendition of Rolling in the Deep, which sounds especially impressive considering she just had vocal surgery. Not suprisingly, she gets a standing ovation. 6. Pre-telecast, Tony Bennett picks up a Grammy for the record he cut with Amy Winehouse. Amy's parents join Tony onstage, and for once, the most commercial music program on television gets some heart. 7. The Beach Boys sharing the stage with—wait for it—Foster the People and Maroon 5. 8. Bon Iver wins the Best New Artist Grammy, hipsters everywhere prepare to donate their copies of For Emma, Forever Ago to Goodwill. Justin Vernon says he's uncomfortable, and the rest of us can tell: He responds to the news with as much confused enthusiasm as you would expect from a six year old hearing the truth about the Tooth Fairy from his friends for the first time. 9. The Nokia theatre turns into a rave, complete with David Guetta, Lil Wayne (donning a pair of slippers that looks like it was pulled directly from the corpse of a muppet) and Chris Brown. But wait! The Foo Fighters come back for a performance of their hit song "Walk," and just when you think you're watching a standard rock performance, deadmau5 appears to do... DJ stuff? Too bad Daft Punk didn't show up. 10. Nicki Minaj delivers easily the most entertaining performance of the night: an Excorcism-inspired opening video, a lavish stage setup designed to look like a Gothic Cathedral, and an insanity-tinged role play of Minaj's character, Roman Zolanski. There's even an excorcism halfway through, in which Minaj appears to float 10 feet above the stage. The only shame is the ending: The whole thing just kind of ends, with no thank-yous, bows or anything. Still, the best performance of the night. 11. Adele wins Album of the Year, Record of the year, AND Song of the Year, as pretty much every music blog in the country predicted. Not bad for a set of songs inspired by a complete d-bag. Bonus: Taylor Swift's performance that looked like a set from the Les Miz movie she isn't in and Deadmau5 wore that stupid mouse hat and a t-shirt with Skrillex's personal cell phone number.

I'm all for tradition, but I think it's time we add the name of a musician to the Butler facade. Yeah, Plato, Sophocles, and Shakespeare are fine and dandy, but what Columbia really needs is to witness the immortalization of music in stone. Obviously, the question of whom to include is rather difficult: How do we decide between Mozart, Beethoven, McCartney, or Dylan? Well, I came across a truly ground-shaking realization the other day. One fateful Thursday afternoon, I was surfing YouTube (not in class, of course—don't be absurd!) when I came across the music video for a musical composition entitled "Call Me Maybe." I have watched it dozens of times since, and I am now unafraid of the contention that bubbled up in my brain the first time I heard the song. Forget Mozart—put Carly Rae Jepsen's name on Butler Library. more I don't care if you have to wipe Vergil's name from the facade. But this Canadian songstress—nay, poet—is the type of artist for whom our generation has been searching for years. Let's start with the song. Instrumentally, it's a thrilling mix of the best staccato, fake-violin sounds money can buy, the laziest guitar playing ever put to tape, all set to a beat so generic that it makes Britney Spears look like Aphex Twin. In other words, it's entirely mediocre, but also catchier than some type of Sub-Saharan hemorhhagic fever. Just try and get Madame Jepsen's high-pitched bleat out of your head—it's like trying to wriggle free from a doe-eyed, soprano Venus Flytrap. And the words? Pure poetry. We have a post-modern reconstruction of the 21st century relationship here, where nothing makes sense and Jepsen misses the just-met object of her affections "soooo bad" despite having just met them. But she acknowledges this logical gaffe with a statement that references what our dear friend Kierkegaard calls "the absurd." "I just met you/And this is crazy/ But here's my number / So call me maybe," goes the song's titular refrain, acknowledging the futility of social convention in a world devoid of any meaning. But wait! The dramatic allusions don't stop there, as Jepsen makes a Faustian deal with a wishing well in exchange for a kiss from this ripped-jeans-clad stranger (who, tragically and ironically for her, turns out to be gay in the music video. Maybe Mephistopheles will make Carly happy.) All in all, it's a deep, poetic ode to unrequited love and untamed desire, brimming with the intensity of a thousand Shakespearean sonnets and the musical complexity to match. I'm just waiting for news of Jepsen's impending Nobel Prize.

Richard Ruperto wakes up in the morning with one goal in mind: to become a hip-hop sensation. He's been hustling for years, tirelessly releasing mixtape after mixtape, remix after remix, and maintaining a large social media presence without the dozens-deep entourages rap stars typically have. A lifelong resident of the projects of Spanish Harlem and raised by a single mother, Ruperto regards his community with the diehard devotion of a mayor. He wants to give back to the people of Spanish Harlem, get his mother a nice apartment, and sign a record contract with Young Money. Ruperto's bio is not too different from those of other hip-hop artists—he wants to use his music to tell his story and give back to his neighborhood and the people in it who gave him the strength to succeed. And that's where this story takes a turn: Richard Ruperto, also known by his stage name, Loco Ninja, is openly gay. In the world of hip-hop, where "faggot" is still a common diss track insult and machismo reigns supreme, Loco's sexual orientation is quite possibly the greatest commercial disadvantage possible. To date, no openly gay male hip-hop artist has signed to a major record label. While there have been some successful female rappers who identify as LGBTQ—Lady Sovereign and recent breakthrough rapper Azealia Banks have been open about their sexualities in interviews—out male rappers have had a harder time breaking into the community. This is a business standard that is not difficult to understand within the context of a musical culture in which "no homo" is still a common tagline and chief figures ranging from Chuck D to Eminem have, at some point or another, declared their discomfort with the gay community. Yet, within American culture, discomfort with homosexuality is beginning to wane. In 2011 alone, the gay community gained the right to marry in New York, saw the repeal of "don't ask, don't tell," and won the support and acceptance of the largest percentage of the population in years. In the realm of rap, Lil B pushed the community out of its comfort zone by titling his latest LP I'm Gay (I'm Happy), forcing listeners to re-examine the cultural connotations of the term. Big names like Kanye West and the Game voiced and tweeted their support ("Who run the world? Gays!" said the latter, putting a spin on the Beyoncé smash to indicate a larger acceptance of the LGBTQ community). In the past decade, more and more gay artists have entered the rap world, each declaring their intention to be "the one" to break into the mainstream and challenge the archetype of hip-hop success. They know that the cultural momentum is shifting and that now is the time to act—by re-defining traditional interpretations of the genre, by releasing quality material on a constant basis, and by reaching out to new audiences while holding on to the support of the communities that accepted them. So, is the day a gay hip-hop star graces the cover of XXL in the near future? The answer to that question is not entirely clear, but one thing is certain—the status quo of hip-hop is being challenged in an unprecedented fashion. The Masculine Ideal How did we get to "no homo?" To understand the cultural incongruity between hip-hop and homosexuality is to dig into the core of the art form itself—not a retrospective glance but a trip back in time, before hip-hop was epitomized by extravagant music videos, harems of scantily clad women, and champagne fountains. Former MTV producer and entertainment executive Terrance Dean published the most widely read book on the subject to date: Hiding in Hip-Hop, a revealing account of famous gay men's lives in the music world. Dean himself has spent the past 15 years working with the likes of Spike Lee and Rob Reiner and producing live award shows and events (including, notably, the MTV Video Music Awards and VH1's Hip Hop Honors)—he is also openly gay. In his book, Dean sets out to prove not only that members of the LGBTQ community were involved in the emergence of hip-hop but that they have been instrumental throughout the process: not simply as artists but also as producers, managers, and other executive positions. Dean attributes the origins of homophobia in hip-hop to the masculine nature of the art. He defines hip-hop as a reassertion of pride and power in the wake of recent political victories, but also as an attempt to reverse the political and cultural emasculation begotten by the civil injustices of decades (and centuries) past. "For so many years, we people of color have not had anything to claim as ours," Dean says. "Hip-hop was a badge of courage, our chance to say, ‘This is ours—it belongs to us.' We have been emasculated so long as a people. It goes way back, back to the days of slavery—it was an emasculating experience, especially for the men. We'd been stripped of our manhood. We didn't have anything. Now we have something, and people in the community equate homosexuality with the loss of what we tried to gain back: our masculinity." That masculinity is framed and displayed by the music video, a medium that Dean regards as a major shaping force of hip-hop's identity and image­­­­—and, even more importantly, as a visual representation of the values and ideas held by urban communities. "Before, the black community had made its claims in music—jazz, R&B, soul—but there was no visual outlet," Dean says. "And then MTV and BET came along, and people began to see images of who we were as a culture, and a visual representation of the lyrics and the experiences inherent in them. It gave people a glimpse into what the African-American experience looked like: how people live every day, how people make it. With the rapper in the music video, we see someone who's done that, who's managed to have it all." The experiences shown in music videos epitomize stereotypical male fantasies of power and wealth: 50 Cent's "Candy Shop" comes to mind, with its literal housefuls of women and candy-painted Lamborghinis surrounding the mink-coat-clad rapper. Then there are the classic videos of gangsta-rap mainstays like Ice Cube and Mobb Deep, where the only thing more plentiful than guns is the number of times the artist mentions them. "So many men use this as a way of saying, 'For me to take charge of my art, I need to represent myself in this machismo, manly way,'" Dean says. "For many rappers, success is equal to how many women you have. It's showing how much testosterone you have. It goes hand in hand with having a criminal record or selling drugs. It's all about the masculinity." However, some experts are quick to point out that the male typologies present in hip-hop are not exclusive to the genre. Dr. Shanté Smalls, a founding member of hip-hop duo B.Q.E. and an English professor at Davidson College, doesn't consider hip-hop to be intrinsically male and points out that "we often forget that rap music and hip-hop culture involve aesthetics, business interests, and a host of compromises." Rather, she attributes the masculine nature of hip-hop to an economic model. "If you look at the music industry in general, you can see the overwhelming maleness of that industry, and it seems to like to replicate itself, not because music is intrinsically male, but maybe because capitalism is," she says. Breaking Boundaries and Changing Scenes Despite theories on the origin of hip-hop's relationship with masculinity, one thing is certain—it's a great way to sell CDs. Starting in the late '80s and continuing today, record executives' primary marketing strategy has been an arms race in which rappers compete to see who is the most "thug." It isn't hard to test this theory—you could do it right now by turning on MTV Jams or BET and keeping a mental tally of the number of machismo elements that pop up. Thirty seconds into Tyga's "Rack City" clip, you'll probably lose count. But aside from a proliferation of such values in songs and videos, hip-hop's unwavering allegiance to a "hard" lifestyle has resulted in a market where anything less is mockable, or worse, unmarketable. Gay artists thus found themselves in a difficult decision: to stay in a camp that would likely remain hostile for an indeterminate number of years (a decision often associated with remaining in the closet, since as of the day that this article went to press, no major hip-hop label has signed an openly gay rapper), or to abandon the traditional path to mainstream success and craft a new sound, aesthetic, and audience. Admittedly, this is not exclusive to male rappers—a similar dialogue ensued when female MCs like Lil' Kim became widely known. The Boston-born, NYC-based rapper known as Cazwell is perhaps the best-known example that the latter choice is not only possible, but also personally, financially, and artistically sound. After several unsuccessful attempts to break into Boston's hip-hop scene, he moved to New York City and crafted a sound that he describes as "if Biggie ate Donna Summer for breakfast"—a hodgepodge of classic hip-hop, club, pop, and disco. Cazwell, who has repeatedly rejected the label of "gay rapper," is best known for his 2010 single "Ice Cream Truck," a summery club hit with an equally sweltering video (the underlying premise, the rapper says, "is 12 dudes who live in a shitty apartment with no air conditioning"—and who cool off by eating ice cream and provocatively dancing). The video's two million hits are an addition to Cazwell's already impressive list of accomplishments: opening for Lady Gaga and cutting tracks with underground dance darlings Amanda Blank and Peaches. Other LGBTQ rappers reject the pop-rap stylings of today and instead opt for a sound that recalls the golden days of hip-hop in the late 1990s. The most notable example is Deadlee, a Los Angeles MC who resembles a Latino Tupac, with politically aware lyrics and a harder flow over mainstream accessibility. There's also local rapper Lester Greene, whose recent single "Russian Roulette" brims with the tension and rage that the title suggests. "The thing about me is a lot of people don't even know I'm gay," Greene says over the phone, the Brooklyn traffic booming in the background. "I had an audition with a casting director, and we were talking about my music, and when I told him I was gay, he was floored." Greene, along with many others, hopes to change the definition of "gay rapper" by breaking down barriers. Hartford-born, New York-based rapper Bry'Nt defines a commonly held concept of a gay rapper as "having high-pitched voice and wearing a boa." But barriers also include commercial roadblocks created by the hesitance of major labels to sign openly gay artists. "I'm trying to expand my brand," Greene says of his ventures in film and television. "I'm trying to do a little of everything so that people believe in me, and people know that I'm making things happen." Greene has appeared in a Dr. Pepper commercial, an HGTV show, and even an army training video. While he jokingly describes these ventures as ways to pay the bills, there's a bigger takeaway. These are artists who not only understand the commercial and cultural challenges they face but also respond to these roadblocks with a degree of entrepreneurship rarely seen in the rest of the hip-hop community. It's a strategy Loco Ninja knows well. "I've been hustling for years—reaching out to every producer, every DJ, anyone who will help me get my sound out." Outside the realm of music, Loco has appeared on The Tyra Banks Show, the MTV series Sex...With Mom and Dad with Dr. Drew, and PBS's Out in America. Although the exposure has helped to reach broader audiences, Loco still hasn't managed to move out of his small apartment in East Harlem. "I'm still living in the projects. I used to get jumped on that street all the time"—he motions to a street corner near his neighborhood high school—"so every day, I just wake up asking myself, ‘What can I do today to get that record deal? How can I make this day the day?'" That day almost came earlier last year, when Rainbow Noise, an LGBTQ collective of which Loco Ninja was a member at the time, had their track "Imma Homo" featured on major rap website WorldStarHipHop.com. A Warner Bros. executive, hoping to cash in on the success of LGBTQ-positive stars like Lady Gaga and Nicki Minaj, expressed interest in the group, going so far as to offer Loco Ninja a separate, 10-year contract. The deal fell through for legal reasons, but the experience gave the rapper a lesson in reality: that at the end of the day, while record executives are watching gay artists amid the stirrings of a cultural sea change, the music business is still, well, a business. Waiting for "The One" In the past year, the LGBTQ community has made great sociopolitical strides, at both national and local levels. But will this accepting uptrend result in a mainstream openly gay male rapper? Many artists within the scene contend that it is only a matter of time until such a rapper signs to a major label and breaks down the barriers of gender like Eminem did with race at the beginning of the millennium. But he will also need to have the mass appeal necessary to convince skeptics and allies alike. "It'll take an actual artist to come forth and represent a different ideology," Dean says. "When people think 'gay,' they think of RuPaul, or Lady Gaga, or so forth. They never see someone that could look like them, or a 50 Cent, or a Jay-Z, or a Lil Wayne, with a rough exterior and admit that he is in a relationship with another man." You could call it the biggest intergenre competition of the moment. Every gay rapper wants to be the one who strikes gold (or, more fittingly, platinum), and confidence is key. Each of the artists I spoke to mentioned their conviction that with an "it" factor setting them above the rest, they might just be "the one" to grab the ear of execs and DJs. There's Cazwell with his catchy pop hooks and fun persona. There's Lester Greene, whose skills as an MC are matched only by his versatility and commercial know-how. And there's Bry'Nt, whose endless touring schedule has brought him support from within and beyond the club scene. Loco, meanwhile, thinks that his story will be his biggest asset. "Hip-hop is all about the story—it's about the hustle," he says, only a few feet away from the recently refurbished schoolyard where he was jumped as a teen. "I'm still in the projects of New York City. It's time to speak up and tell my story for the people who are from this neighborhood and all around the world." It's difficult to determine whether society will be up to the task of changing their long-held definition of the term "gay rapper," and whether the widespread tropes of masculinity will be able to progress at the same rate as national dialogue on the subject. But Smalls remains optimistic. "It will probably take XXL less long to put a queer person on the cover than it took Vogue to put a black woman on the cover," Smalls says. She hopes that hip-hop crew Odd Future member and openly lesbian DJ and producer Syd the Kyd's record deal with SONY RED demonstrates that the industry is shifting in a more LGBTQ-friendly direction. Loco is convinced that if he signed with a major label, he would receive floods of angry petitions from the silent majority the second he put pen to paper. He still contends with swarms of virulent YouTube comments—evident manifestations of homophobia in an audience in transition. But it doesn't deter him or any of his peers. "I want to stand up for the people who have been through tough times, show them that they shouldn't be afraid," Loco says. "I'm done with being scared. This is who I am, and I'm not going to change for anyone. My life is hip-hop. I do this for my family, my community, for New York." In the world of hip-hop, it would seem that stagnation is giving way to motion, taboos turning to talking points, and established truths turning out to be little more than defunct definitions shaped by a categorizing culture. As the record industry continues to crumble under the Internet's grasp, it's become more and more evident that maybe this isn't about a record deal. It's something bigger. It's a chance to express oneself on a national stage without fear of ridicule; it's a chance to reshape the world's impressions of not just hip-hop but gender and musical identity; and, perhaps most importantly, it's a chance to reach out to audiences in the hopes that "It gets better" will be understood outside of the context of a YouTube video.

Beside Lady Gaga's gender-bending role-play and Justin Bieber's possibly alcohol-fueled religious ramblings, there was one other scandal at this year's MTV Video Music Awards—the battle for Best New Artist. In an unexpected upset, the fan-voted award didn't go to rap superstar Wiz Khalifa—the favorite by far, anchored by a platinum-selling album and world-spanning arena tour. Also leaving empty-handed were breakout success stories Big Sean, Kreayshawn, and Foster the People. The winner was a 20-year-old skater from California dressed in a tie-dyed cat T-shirt and a wide-toothed grin. The kid was Tyler the Creator, the ringleader of rap entourage Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All. Though his nominated song, "Yonkers," generated plenty of buzz online, nobody in the amphitheater seemed to have any idea how this goofball rap jester could cause such an upset. The victory speech was largely bleeped, except for periodic shouts of "SWAG!" The cameraman's cuts to celebrities' reactions (for the most part, shocked and amused) no doubt mirrored those of viewers. Just what is "swag," and how did it enter our musical and cultural conscience? A term defined by urbandictionary.com as being "the way one carries oneself," "swag" has come to embody a new lifestyle comprised of equal parts class-clown goofiness, cool-kid cynicism and plenty of confidence. At first glance, it looks like shorthand for "swagger," and really, it's very similar. But more than anything else, "swag" is about coolness persevering no matter what barriers are in the way. Indeed, Odd Future's reputation as swag forbears is likely rooted in the fact that their success came from adherence to the so-called tenets of swag philosophy: Do it yourself, don't listen to haters, and stay true to your own style. A collective of talented rappers, singers, hype-men and beat-makers known for their frantic live shows and consistently solid (and wholly self-produced) mixtapes, Odd Future built up a dedicated fan base of skaters, misfits and hipsters in their native Los Angeles before being courted from everyone from Jay-Z to Diddy in one of the biggest rap bidding wars in recent memory. The group's outrageous demands ("If you are serious about the meeting, I want Randy's Donuts, swivel chairs, and a megaphone," Tyler famously announced to label execs) were completely anti-establishment and, thus, totally "swag." Indie mega-label XL Recordings ended up wining out, but only by acquiescing to Tyler's demands for complete freedom regarding all matters, snacks or otherwise. Somewhere in the middle of the bidding war and the maelstrom of hype it stirred across the internet, hashtags of "#swag" started to proliferate on Twitter and Facebook. This was perhaps in part as a direct result of Justin Bieber's pickup of the phrase. Interestingly enough, as part of Diddy's efforts to woo Tyler et al, the mogul arranged for the Canadian pop-tart to meet the rap crew—a genius request on Tyler's part, as it allowed his stylistic brand of "swag" to reach the millions of Beliebers worldwide. A bevy of new artists carrying the swag flag followed: the equally prolific, DIY-inclined Lil B, electro-rap duo New Boyz, and aforementioned breakthrough female rapper Kreayshawn all generated buzz this year. Even established acts like Chris Brown and Kanye West reinterpreted the phenomenon with albums oozing with swag's characteristic cocky bravado and bold, organic beats. There is, of course, one large question mark hovering above this entire thing: Why is cocky, self-produced, unapologetic rap engulfing the hip-hop scene and taking aim at the mainstream? In addition to the scene-starting spark produced by unique artists like Odd Future, there's something to be said about our cultural mindset in the year 2011. While the economy flounders and petty squabbles on Capitol Hill breed a sense of apathy in American youth, the Internet and social media allow pent-up attitude to be transcribed into a Pro Tools track and uploaded en masse to millions. Just like punk and grunge before it, "swag" connects fans by tapping into the very things that keep them sane in this crazy age: their individual senses of style, their apathy toward the "man" and the world at large, and the catharsis enabled by raw live music. WBAR hip-hop DJ Olivia Parker, a sophomore at Barnard, explains Odd Future: "The crew is a really young group and they are mixing genres, making them different from the rest. They basically invented modern day alternative hop." As with most musical trends, there is a chance that the entire thing will fizzle out and that swag will lie alongside "rad" and "far-out" in the graveyard of embarrassing decade slang. Perhaps Tyler's victory at the VMAs is the voting public's way of acknowledging the movement and giving it a push into the mainstream. What happens next is the real test—the test of whether or not Odd Future and company will continue to connect with audiences and blogs and put some much-needed life in the dying record industry, or if Tyler's swag ship sinks. Tyler plans to release a new LP, Wolf, this year, and records from other scene artists are no doubt on the horizon, giving mainstream consumers plenty of chance to have their say. Whether those chants of "SWAG" will go down as the rallying cries of a new musical movement, however, remains to be seen.

Ah, GIFs—those moving masterpieces. They're nothing more than a collection of pixels, but they've got a certain magic to them, sort of like the animated newspaper photo- graphs in the Daily Prophet of Harry Potter lore. They've also taken over half the laptops in any given class. That's right: there's a new set of sites that have been supplanting Facebook as the primary source of distraction/procrastination. Tumblrs, to be exact: #whatshouldwecallme and How Do I Put This Gently?, sites that take many of the woes we know all too well—the stress of finals, the agony of third-wheeling—and match them to appropriate GIFs. "When the Waiter Asks if I Want to Replace My Fries with a Side Salad," for example, is accompanied by a GIF of the cat from Pinocchio adamantly shaking his head in a show of indignant refusal. Think of it as college life percolated through '90s nostalgia and modern pop culture: Snooki, SpongeBob, and every last Real Housewife as illustrations of that strange time we call our 20s. The creators should know: Both blogs are run by 20-somethings in graduate school. Other colleges have even come up with their own offshoots, in- cluding us: #whatshouldcolumbiacallme has GIFs (mostly from reality television), describing everything from "When I'm Blacked Out at the Heights" to "When My Friend Was Complaining That St. A's Didn't Invite Her to Join." I'm not going to lie. A lot of these blogs are very funny and relatable. There's nothing like seeing a clumsy Big Bird knocking over blocks with the caption "Navigating the CVS Snack Aisle After the Bar"—it's a spot-on visual representation of the silly little things we deal with regularly. But there's also some unsettling stuff on these blogs. #whatshouldcolumbiacallme, for example, contains lots of Barnard-oriented snark. (Bet you've never heard this one before: We're all lesbians!) There are a lot of first-world problems on dis- play here—things like not having enough money for booze, waiting at a restaurant for your food to arrive, or having to listen to a Pandora radio ad between songs. If you're not an upper-middle class, female college student, you probably won't be rolling on the floor in uproarious laughter. You might even find them a bit annoying. I know it's all in good fun, but it still speaks to the certain degree of entitlement we face as college students—to jobs, to food, to booze, to money. These sites also make me wonder about the degree to which online content is getting diluted these days. Why type words when you've got a sassy Mob Wives GIF to say them for you? In any case, such GIF-centric sites are unlikely to disappear from our newsfeeds—or our lives—any time soon. They may be banal, but that's part of the charm.

While browsing YouTube clips from Quentin Tarantino's classic film, Pulp Fiction, I found a tantalizing video called "My Little Pulp Fiction." It was the diner scene from Tarantino's masterpiece, except a bright purple cartoon pony and similarly adorable dragon had replaced Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta. I was watching clips from the children's show My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, set against the backdrop of one of the most adult movies ever made. Apparently, during my bored YouTube surfing, I had uncovered a phenomenon. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, a reboot of the beloved '80s cartoon (and the latest project of Powerpuff Girls creator Lauren Faust), premiered in late 2010 as a show for audiences attracted to colorful cartoon ponies with names like Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash—namely, toddlers and young children. But in an age where the Internet rules all—and, thanks to a surprising level of interest on websites like 4chan—the show's actual main demographic is startlingly different from what Faust intended: young adults (mostly male) between the ages of 14 and 35. Nicknamed "Bronies," these gents have helped transform a television show about a Hasbro toy into a viral sensation. To say that Ponies have taken over the Internet is no stretch. Sites like EquestriaDaily.com and Ponychan.com receive about half a million visits a day and feature pages of professional-quality, fan-created art and fiction. Of course, there's the question of what's behind this intense interest: that perhaps there's a strange type of Pony-philia afoot. In an unexpected move, however, Faust and the show's development team have offered the Bronies some acknowledgment, turning a group with a potentially cultlike image into an accepted fan base. In order to appeal to these older viewers, the creators have peppered the show with clever references to The Big Lebowski and Doctor Who and crafted ads inspired by Poltergeist and Bridesmaids. For the first time in recent memory, the creators of a children's television show have used an unanticipated shift in their viewers' demographic as an opportunity to build a community of fans: similar to the way in which Nickelodeon has welcomed college-age SpongeBob SquarePants fans, but with a greater degree of dialogue and interactivity. This trend speaks to the increasing intersection between Web culture and mainstream media. Besides, it's a chance for a kids' show to grow up alongside its fans—and, for all the skepticism the Bronies face, that's pretty cool.

"I'm bootyful in my way, cause Arby's makes no mistakes/I've got the right order, baby, I was born this weight." No, it's not the next jingle for the Thickburger. It's a bit of Twitter-verse venom spewed by a Little Monster (a Lady Gaga fan, for those who have had their heads in the sand the past three years) about Adele—the "Rolling in the Deep" chanteuse who's netted perhaps the biggest album and single of the year. When Adele edged out Gaga in VMA (MTV Video Music Awards) nods this year, she and her curvy frame became the target of millions of Mother Monster's minions. Despite dozens of rumors circulated on sites like Tumblr, Gaga did not join in the musical mud-slinging. Still, even if the allegedly bad blood between Gaga and Adele is confined to their respective fan-bases for the moment, there's no denying that the stage has been set for the battle that will decide female pop supremacy. It's Gaga's glam-and-grime dance versus Adele's sultry soul. Gaga and Adele aren't the only artists with a stake in this battle—rather, they're simply the generals of two musical camps: the former glitzy, sleek, and bombastic, the latter vocal-intensive, minimal and R&B-tinged. Katy Perry, Ke$ha, Rihanna, and Britney fit into the former; Beyoncé and Christina Aguilera, the latter. You'll notice that electro-pop's got the edge: For that genre's dominance, you can thank the cast of Jersey Shore, and recent surges in popularity for dubstep and rave culture. Gaga's latest LP, Born this Way, is currently certified platinum seven times over, while Perry's most recent effort, 2010's Teenage Dream, has spawned a cascade of number-one hits and earned her an unprecedented, 69-week streak in the top ten on the Billboard Hot 100. All predictable outcomes for pop's heavy hitters. But then, sometime last winter, "Rolling in the Deep" roared onto the airwaves, with levels of emotional vulnerability and bare rage unseen since Alanis Morissette's 1995 smash, "You Oughta Know." Yet, the song was unique for reasons other than its aggro: Adele's sultry contralto was notably spared the standard Pro Tools treatment, left instead to float above gloomy, bare-bones blues. It was a nostalgia-seeped return to the days of Carly Simon and Joni Mitchell, as well as a nod to the spunky revivalism of the late Amy Winehouse—and it paid off big time: The song sat atop the top spot on the Hot 100 for seven weeks (the longest reign of 2011 so far), went to number one in 11 countries, and sold over 5.3 million copies. "Rolling in the Deep"—and 21, the album from which it was taken—was everywhere, from Starbucks and soccer moms' minivans to proms and parties. Here was a worthy opponent for the beast of Born this Way—a strain of simple, timeless soul that the club kids and their parents could rock out to together. That's not to say the dance machine is out of the race—the floor-ready beats of Britney and David Guetta remain the party music of choice, and will provide pre-gaming soundtracks of students for the foreseeable future. As for the reigning queen of pop, Gaga recently surpassed 15 million Twitter followers—more than any other person in the world—proof that her brand of glammed-out dance pop is still the hottest commodity in the music world. But despite their undeniable pop appeal, songs like Taio Cruz' "Dynamite" and Britney Spears' "Till the World Ends" also carry an expiration date—within three months, people grow tired of the sugar rush, and look for a newer, fresher one to take its place. Artists like Adele—as well as Beyoncé and Amy Winehouse—represent the golden standards of pop: they're the little black dresses, the musical fashions that never go out of style. "Dance music is still huge—that's not going to change any time soon," explains Nathan Albert, a junior in Columbia College and a music director at WBAR, Barnard's free-form radio station. "But at the same time, there's this rekindled interest in simplistic, classic pop. Adele isn't any particular revelation, but she's a sound investment—the record labels can be comfortable that she will churn out hit after hit." At the time this article went to press, the number one song on the Billboard Hot 100 was Adele's "Someone Like You"—a minimalist ballad containing only the singer's hearty, pained voice, woven around modest piano. It's sparse, simple, and entirely unconcerned with drawing attention to anything other than its universal, heartbroken sentiment. It's also the polar opposite of Gaga's latest single, "Marry the Night," a thumping, confident banger practically oozing with glitter and grease. It's too early to call a winner in this battle of the Billboard—"Marry the Night" has yet to make its formal debut on radio. But there's something alarming—and refreshing—about the fact that a track consisting of the most skeletal rudiments—no bass wobbles, no auto-tune, no guitar—has managed to bore a hole in ol' S.S. Dance-Pop for the time being. Regardless of the Twitter chatter—"CONFIRMED : Gaga will not be wearing the meat dress at the 2011 VMA's because she is afraid Adele will eat her," among other gems—there doesn't appear to be a battle brewing between Captains Adele and Gaga. Still, the contrast between bare-bones and bombast remains one of the most interesting trends in pop circa 2011. So next time your hipster friends scoff at you for playing mainstream garbage, tell them you're just watching the next culture war play out.

Walking through the snack aisles of Morton Williams, Fairway, or Duane Reade, students encounter food whose existence logic can't explain. There are pizza-flavored Pringles, "chicken"-flavored snack crackers, and pretzels designed to mimic the flavor of buffalo chicken wings. Somewhere between savory thrill-seeking and sheer indulgence, this odd culinary phenomenon actually has a simple explanation: weed. Arguably the most popular illegal drug in modern America, marijuana has created its own culinary niche—one fittingly present in any college town. Indeed, stoner food has become as integral a part of the college food experience as dining hall grub and the edible freebies offered by clubs. To better understand stoner food, one must first understand the stoner himself. After all, what is it that makes one drop what they're doing and run down to Koronet's at three in the morning? According to Keith A. Sharkey and Quentin J. Pittman of the University of Calgary, marijuana affects the endocannabinoid system—a group of cells in the brain connected to eating and appetite—by mimicking the chemicals in the brain that trigger hunger. The end result? An insatiable desire for food—and a heightened sense of pleasure from sweet and savory foods. Thus, within minutes of smoking up, one may feel one's starving subconscious guiding them along, as if on auto-pilot, to CrackDel for a Spicy Special. The bastard child of drunk food and state-fair treats, stoner food is even more hedonistic than its parents. Stoner food must be cheap, it must not require extensive cutlery—if one can barely utter a cohesive sentence, why should one have to use a soup spoon—and preferably, it should be something one can enjoy at one's own leisure, whether a Sulzberger-kitchen-created snack or a slice of Koronet's eaten on the trip back to East Campus. Entire blogs, such as Stoner Food, cater to the altered-mind foodie, with recipes ranging from "Frozen Kiwis, Eaten with a Spoon" to "Toaster Pastry S'mores"—the former a relatively straightforward, if uncommon, approach to eating fruit, and the latter an orgy of Pop-Tarts, marshmallows, and dark chocolate. The meek need not visit this site—even while high, dishes like "Ravioli Pizza" are not for the faint of heart. Of course culinary experimentation is relatively risky, and not exactly cost efficient. And herein lies the true joy of being a college student with a meal plan—an entire dining hall full of goodies to mix and match at one's leisure. Those curious about the merits of a nutella, jam, and peanut butter sandwich with a side bowl of Captain Crunch slathered in plain fro-yo need not shell out exorbitant amounts at Morton Williams to get a taste of decadence. Besides mere culinary experimentation, however, dining halls can satisfy another tenet of stoner food law—late-night snacking. Legendary after-hours spot JJ's Place is open until 1 a.m. five days a week and serves up glorious grease-bombs like chicken fingers, fried mozzarella sticks, and bacon cheeseburgers. Plus, the all-you-can-eat format is perfect for those who want to eat until the last trace of the munchies disappears. Right across Broadway, Hewitt Dining Hall offers funnel cake, ice cream, and pasta until 11 p.m. Sunday through Thursday. While it's certainly considerate of the dining halls to keep late-night snackers in mind, there's one problem with this stoner food quick-fix: most food options on campus fail to remain open on the weekends. Many students choose not to smoke or drink during the school week, so when the weekend comes and debauchery ensues tenfold, the cravings come powerfully. Fear not—there are plenty of spots around Morningside Heights that are perfect for the altered eater and that won't burn a hole in your wallet. Not surprisingly, Morningside Heights plays host to stoner food neighborhood clichés—a Spicy Special from CrackDel, a slab of Koronet's pizza, and if it's not too late at night, a lamb gyro from one of the halal carts like Hooda's, on 115th and Broadway, which offers one of the most succulent versions in the area. The aforementioned all serve hearty, portable meals for less than five bucks—with whopping doses of sodium, saturated fat, and cholesterol to further subdue the already inebriated. Another stoner-food Shangri-La is, of course, Chipotle—and though it's not exactly Koronet-cheap, its famous carnitas burritos are culinary gold for the buzzed. Last but certainly not least, there's Roti Roll, an inexpensive Indian fast-food paradise open until 2 a.m. most nights. Their famous "Bombay Frankies" feature spicy, curried meats marinated to perfection and nestled in a plump, airy roll. Try a mango lassi for a sweet, refreshing antidote to the dreaded "cotton-mouth" that plagues even veteran stoners. For its adventurous zeal, its daredevil aestheticism and its simple deliciousness, it's easy to see why the idea of "stoner food" proves so popular on college campuses. After all, culinary hedonism is an enjoyable source of weekend entertainment for students. Some may argue that eating under the influence defeats the entire purpose of dining—that wolfing down a burger from M2M is to eating a four-course meal as scribbling frantically with crayons is to painting the Sistine Chapel. Critics such as these assert that food is an art best experienced with patience and an appreciation for slow, subtle flavors that take several courses to unfold. Still, judging from the ever-longer lines out the door at Koronet's on Saturday nights, it appears that inebriated eating isn't going anywhere any time soon. Eat your hearts out, stoners. This is a revised version of the story which previously misstated that Chipotle is open at 3 a.m.