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In This Issue

• The New Spec Editorial Page
• A Sojourn to M’Ville
• Fear and Loathing with Jim Henson
• I Can Be Homeless Too, Mommy
• Letters to the Feditor
• She Says, “To-MAH-to,” He Says, “Bll-RR-gh.”
• The Hobo Lottery
• Fractal Tetris
• News on the Party Front(al Nudity)
• Everything is Love and Theft
• Loving the Mailer-Daemon
• Community Time
• “They” Continue to Keep Natural Cures From You
• Fed Bash - NOT! LOLOLomg
• Plagiarismo in Two Lines with Things Like That
• Senator Kennedy Surprises Attendants of "Ted Bash"
• A Letter from Our Sudoku Editor
• Hinden-Fed
• South-by-Southwest Tour Diary
• THEY Watch
• Staff of 21.7

It is an undisputed fact that many local residents and Columbia students alike are uncomfortable with the university’s proposed expansion into Manhattanville. Time and time again we have heard our peers’ rants, riddled with affluent-white-kid-unease, in everything from illustrious campus-wide publications to daily pseudo-intellectual conversations on College Walk. Everyone says practically the same thing: they feel the tiniest pangs of white guilt about kicking low-income residents out of their homes so they can have another dorm room to set on fire or another science lab to perform outdated experiments in. Everyone seems to have an opinion, but when asked for more specific facts about the area, no one seems to know. Many have no idea where it is located, let alone what kind of people live there. People seem to assume it’s similar to the rest of Harlem. If that’s the case, would anyone really notice it was missing? Thus, I, your intrepid investigator, decided to venture into Manhattanville, to find out the truth about this elusive area. I would do what no Columbia student had done before. I was going to venture above 125th.

With a trenchcoat on my back, a pageboy cap on my head and a pocket full of dreams, I began the arduous walk up to 133rd. Many thoughts raced through my skull. “Is Manhattanville just a Columbia-created euphemism for Harlem to make the expansion sound better? What really lies all the way uptown? Crime? Hipsters? A pristine, untouched New York?” I felt how the early English settlers must have: nervous, frightened, and absurdly self-important. I even started to think like them. “Who shall I exploit for information, nutrition, and my own sexual needs? And why in the world do they call it maize?” Clearly, I got far too caught up in the moment.

As I wandered the cold New York streets, lost in my thoughts and whistling that damn catchy song from Pocahontas, I was stopped suddenly at 132nd. The scenery changed markedly from the dingy area I had just walked through. Dilapidated buildings were replaced by endless manicured fields. High-rises became spotless colonial homes. Alleys were replaced by long driveways, filled solely with German vehicles. I glanced at one particular BMW sedan and noticed a bumper sticker that read “Proud of my Aryan scout.” Two older fellows, clad in white coats and dirt-free brown loafers passed me on the glimmering sidewalk. “I say, Bradley,” one began, “I do fancy a cocktail after that those rousing nine-holes. Do you have any triple-distilled vodka?”

I approached the men, desperate for information. “Columbia Press Corps!” I announced. They rolled their eyes with disdain. “Oh no, Bradley. One of those horrid, little hoodlums. Please take your canvas-shod feet back downtown. You’re scuffing up my sidewalk.”

I checked the street sign in disbelief. One Hundred and Thirty-third, it read, in a perfect script. The officials at Columbia were right. Manhattanville was not just a made up name, it was a relic of America’s suburb-centric past. I could not believe my eyes. There were no easily displaceable, rent-stabilized tenants like we had believed. Instead, this sparkling area seemed to be crawling with White Anglo Saxon Protestants.

I pressed the men for more information. How did they feel about our impeding on their territory? This time, the Bradley fellow spoke up. “Well, I say, you university types are so difficult. We have no desire for the feet of your sickeningly diverse student body to trudge through our yards. The only ethnoid I allow to come to my house is Eduardo, the gardener, and it is solely because my wife seems to have taken a liking to him.” I asked how we would have a negative effect on them. The first man cleared his throat and straightened his ascot. “You foolish child. We are simply uneager to have our croquet schedules torn asunder. And do tell that Bollinger chap to stop begging for visits. We have ceased to find him amusing.”

Just as he finished his sentence, I heard the noise of horse hooves on the grass. I spun around, only to see an elderly man clad in a bright red riding coat, galloping towards me, wielding a gigantic rifle. “Johnathan, Bradley! How dare you not tell me a Columbia student was here? They do make for the best hunting!” I took that as my cue to leave. I sprinted back to where I knew it was safe: Harlem.