I feel like everything is about politics now. Suddenly, everything and everyone is political and very vocal about their beliefs. You can’t even turn on a Late Night Show without hearing something about Trump in the monologue. Are you still able to watch Late Night?
I used to be a huge Conan O’Brien fan, now I simply can’t watch him. I am usually able to separate the art from the artist, but it has become too hard to do that. I understand that all the hosts have a right to voice their opinion (most of which is from the left wing), but they weren’t given the platform of a Late Night show to cry out about current events. They were given this platform to create comedy, make people laugh and get their minds off all their problems. That should be their goal, as people need to laugh now more than ever.
There are political Late Night shows designated to start the discussion on new bills and events happening daily. Personally, I don’t watch John Oliver, Trevor Noah or Bill Maher, and I absolutely cannot watch Samantha Bee. I understand that none of the above are Republicans, but all they do is talk about Republicans and how they are in the wrong. Their agenda is very clear and the propaganda is too obvious. Jon Stewart had a much broader view and gave wholesome commentary.
In my opinion, there needs to be more political diversity in Late Night shows (especially political shows), there has to be something center or right wing to balance out Late Night. Colbert’s Report was the closest thing, with Stephen Colbert’s satirical, conservative character.
I can’t wait for Late Night to go back to its roots and actually be funny again. Are Late Night shows getting too political or is it their hosts?
Cult classic. Directed and produced by Alfred Hitchcock. Named “The 100 Greatest Movies of all Time’ by Entertainment Weekly. It’s Psycho.
This movie is in my personal top 3 favorites. It’s also a pretty recent discovery for myself. It was a cold, rainy sad day. I was ill and spent the whole day at home, watching TV. After hours and hours of watching “Friends” and “Masterchef”, I decided to watch something actually meaningful. I wasn’t going into “Psycho” with much expectation, actually, I barely had any. I could never imagine that a black and white picture from the 60’s was going to scare me more than “Insidious” or “Conjuring.”
Also, before watching I somewhat knew the plot. I think almost everyone knows the famous shower murder scene from the movie, just from it being parodied in pop culture a lot. I couldn’t imagine that two hours later I would need to turn on the lights in the room because I’d get so scared.
The story is simple. Marion Crane, an office worker, steals $40,000 from a bank and leaves town to start a new life. Exhausted after a long drive, she gets caught in a late night storm. To shelter herself, she checks into The Bates Motel. The motel is run by an awkward, young man called Norman who lives with his mother next door.
Psycho is a real mind teaser, a murder mystery if you will. It’s full of suspense and paranoia. The black and white actually perfectly matches the mood of the movie. It’s raw, unnerving and gripping. Tense and horrific, it will haunt you for weeks. Psycho IMDBRotten Tomatoes Score
The competition was fierce with girls finishing at 15:49 (Claudia Lane). I am so overwhelmed by how amazing every single runner there was and I only hope that our small but mighty team will continue to qualify for this competition for the rest of my years in high school.
The course was a flat, dusty dirt course, with hundreds of spectators cheering you on on the side and helping you push yourself that extra mile in order to achieve your goal.
A gun was shot into the air symbolizing the start of the race, and everyone on the starting line sprung into action and begun sprinting their way to the front of the pack, including myself. We resembled salmon in a hatchery, all swimming against the current, piled against each other, pushing ourselves to the limit.
After everyone settled down, paces were found and the true part of the race began. Normally being in the top ten in the races, it was strange for Ojai Valley School to settle into the middle of the pack with fifty, sixty, or seventy people in front and behind you. It was nerve-racking for everyone, but comforting knowing every runner felt the same pain in your lungs as you.
Adrenaline kicked into the runners as we made our way onto the third mile of the race. Strides lengthened, breathing became harder, and you began to pass people you never thought you would pass. Suddenly, you saw the finish line, the symbol of relief. The last quarter mile- a straight-away to the finish line- flew by as the runner zoomed down the dirt path, and the tracker-chips woven into their shoes crossed the finish line.
Tears were shed, and hugs were given knowing that we gave it our all. The overwhelming excitement hit us all at once knowing that we had completed our first CIF Championship meet. And even though we did not qualify, all the underclassmen are determined to return to the course next year and try, try, try again.
I can not begin to thank the coaches enough for an amazing season and helping me push myself to times I believed were unachievable. Having never run before and to come out of the gates increasing my PR (personal record) by over three minutes was groundbreaking for me, and I could not have done it without Mr. Alvarez and Ms. Stevens.
Growing up, I was never good at sports, or at least that’s what I thought. It’s not that I had a pronounced lack of capability, just that I never thought I should be able to take sports seriously.
In my family, one of the most prevalent themes is our insane dedication to sports. Having an uncle in the MLB, a dad who can play or coach practically anything, cousins who dedicate their entire young lives to a single sport, and brothers who have athletic superpowers, it’s a given that everyone puts tremendous pride on everything sport-related.
From soccer to basketball, football to baseball and everything in between, anything my brothers played seemed to come so naturally and effortlessly. They were practically carbon copies of my dad when he was their age. Being the youngest of three, I’ve had the thrilling experience of going to endless games, practices, and races – all displaying my siblings’ somewhat unfair skills.
So of course, as a toddler my parents enrolled me in AYSO and Little League, probably expecting to have produced yet another super-human athlete. Year after year, I humored my parents and played on whatever teams I was signed up for. But year after year, I was never interested. Maybe I might have been a little less coordinated than the average kid, but I’m pretty sure I just never wanted or tried to be good.
When I was old enough to be able to decide for myself, I avoided sports all together. Instead, I opted for a more intellectual path. In elementary school it started to become clear that I was sort of smart and sort of good at music, so that’s where everybody focused their attention.
For so long I’d heard the lighthearted remarks of “she’s just so book smart. Her street smarts, though, they’re a little lacking” or once when I unsuccessfully tried to serve a volleyball a friend joked that I “bring shame to my family’s legacy.” Whenever I attempted to learn something everyone laughed. So, eventually, I laughed about it too. I guess in a way that’s a good thing, because I learned the importance of being able to laugh at myself.
I never took sports seriously because no one ever took me seriously when I tried them. I’m not resentful of all of these years, I’m just disappointed that I’ve been labeled as “un-athletic” for my entire life when, for the majority of it, I’d never had the chance to figure out that I wasn’t.
For awhile I felt bad for my dad. I worried that I had somehow let him down not having a profound interest or ability in sports. In middle school I tried out for the soccer team. It was mostly because my friends were doing it, but part of me wanted to give myself a second chance.
Although the start was pretty rocky, eventually I realized that it was sort of fun. I wasn’t ever the best player on the team, but I also was definitely not the worst. I remember my dad telling me once after a winning game, “You’re getting to be a good soccer player, I’m impressed.” I remember being proud of my performance in that game, but also I was also proud that for the first time ever I had been recognized for my ability in a sport.
When I got into high school, I actually looked forward to the end of the day when I could leave everything behind for a few hours and just kick a ball around with my teammates. But it wasn’t until recently that I realized I have the potential to be really good at a sport. During the fall of my freshman year, I decided to join cross country. I really liked the experience, and I liked how I’d gotten in shape, but I was never exceedingly fast or impressive that season.
But this year, I worked a lot harder. I’d started running so much better than I had last season. At each progressive meet, I would cut a considerable amount off my time and at the league final, that work payed off. It was by far my best race ever, and everyone on our team beat their personal records.
This Saturday, we went to CIF preliminaries. I never thought I’d be able to say that.
Cross country has helped me realize that I’m stronger than I knew I could be, physically and mentally. I still have a long way to go, but now I have goals that I can look forward to. And I know with time and dedication I can reach them.
It maybe took me fifteen years to realize it, but after all this time I know that I’m not really all that uncoordinated or un-athletic. I just wish I wouldn’t have put myself in that box so early on. I wish wouldn’t have gone my whole life believing that I was only “book smart” and putting up with all of the “maybe you should just stick to singing” comments.
Frank abruptly walked headlong into a grimy wall. His mind wishing for the beautiful side of the city had tried to take a right turn, but he was on a rounded road. He tapped his pocket again, for comfort, to remind himself of his dreams, to remind himself what the city had promised him, what the city had baited him with. He pulled the postcard out of his pocket. It was lined and greasy, the creases were chipped, he could barely make out the beauty he had once found so heart achingly perfect. He was too late. His toes had hit the steps of a factory.
Amelia slowly stepped out of the elevator. The sounds of the crowds reached her first, then the bright flashes of cameras. Her new world was set to be bright. She was designed for the city. The city was designed for her. She stepped out the doors, the cameras followed her, she turned to the monoliths, she understood: Harborside knew the world and the world knew Harborside, within Harborside was the world. She turned to the sea, there laid the cradle of life, status, money; it flooded into her the meaning of value, the true meaning: money.
Photo Credit: http://funguerilla.com/
As she walked the city doors opened to her. She was Amelia, the city was hers. She would never be lost to the crowd, the city would never bowl over her, time would not forget her, Frank was already fading.
She wandered the city all day, the crowd only grew around her, but as she strayed closer and closer to the borders of her postcard the crowds grew restless. Space seemed to shift. Where she walked she owned, the postcard was empty space with blank people, but where she walked new hope, new futures sprang up like daisies in her wake. But as she neared the last corner, the last wide boulevard, her daisies seemed to fight for sunlight. Her unique ownership was being pushed back by the ownership of the many, the workers no longer singular but one full moving entity, lost to the mindless grind of the crowd, the fingers became a hand.
She had reached the end of the immunization ring, the end of the filigree border on the postcard of Harborside and standing on the other side of the glass was Frank.
Before Amelia, who was the crux of the city, eyes of the future, was Frank, whose hands bled from his first shifts in the factories, who was beginning to smudge around the edges.
Before Frank, the disenchanted dreamer, a man of ideals and cities past, was Amelia, a small mechanical girl with holographic eyes and the entire modern world and future in her circuit board chest.
Periods. Otherwise known as menstruation. Otherwise known as the precursor to pregnancy, that time of the month, the curse, the monthlies, shark week, and the list goes on. Yet, with its many names, society seems to forget about this natural way of life. The fact that 49.6% of the world experiences this process at one time or another would make it seem that the conversation surrounding it would be frequent and healthy, but no.
Anyone born with a uterus has heard the first period stories. I remember before I got mine, I heard about my mother’s. She hid her underwear and would sit crying in her room because she didn’t want to tell her parents that she was dying. Think about that for a moment. Albeit, sexual education has progressed since my mother was a teenager, but the lack of information about periods is still very much an issue. I don’t remember any information about periods except a movie in fifth grade titled Just Around the Corner and a brief lesson about it in freshman year. I don’t remember learning what pads to get, if tampons are right for me, how to handle cramps, how to predict/learn about my cycle, and many other questions that I still have today.
Photo Credit: huffingtonpost.com
“Most girls learn about their periods the day their periods start,” says Chandra-Mouli, a member of the World Health Orginization. He describes the all too popular story that usually goes like: “I started having periods at school. Spotting on my clothes. Giggling in class. I didn’t know what was happening. My panties felt wet. My teacher made me wait in the staff room. I thought my insides were rotting. My mother came and wrapped me in a towel, took me home, put me in a bath and said, ‘You’re a woman now. Don’t go out and play with the boys.’”
That lack of education is even worse in many other countries. Periods are seen as a curse; women are shunned from public life and aren’t allowed to cook, clean, or learn. It’s also immensely harder to get proper sanitary items and unhealthy options are almost always used. Did you know that 10% of girls in Africa miss out on school because of their period each month or that 4/5 girls in East Africa lack the access to basic sanitary supplies? Why are we letting these young, impressionable girls internalize these gross views of their bodies? In order to help the ever-growing future, we need to help young women all over the world to feel no shame about their bodies.
I think that the first step to getting rid of social stigma is education. Teach boys how to pick out period products for their sisters/mothers/ girlfriends and how to be supportive to these women in their lives. Teach kids that there are transgender kids who either do or don’t have periods and it kills them on the inside. Show us pad ads where the coverage simulation uses red ink instead of blue. Teach girls how to feel confident on their period and how to handle this intense shift in hormones. Open up this conversation in class or at meals. Yes, it may be uncomfortable, but if it could help one more person not stain their clothes or miss another class, then, in my opinion, it’s worth it.
I love fall. The sheer aesthetic of sitting by a window with warm glowing string lights, drinking some sort of hot tea, surrounded with the smell of books. The fact that it is finally cold enough to be wearing wool socks and sweatshirts. The feeling of cold air filling your chest from the inside, making your home feel so much warmer.
I have to admit, I miss the cold winters back home in Germany. Right now, it is almost freezing there, the leaves that are turning red-orange, some almost pink-purple, are covering the roads like a warm-colored blanket. The lakes are topped with a paper thin layer of ice in the morning, and windows and cars are frosted the way they would be in movies. Horses’ coats are becoming thick and soft, and cows are being brought from their pastures back into their winter barns.
Credit: view.stern.de
I remember how much I hated the feeling of biking up the hill to my house after school, watching the clouds turn to a darker grey as the sun set behind them, and feeling the warm air in my lungs being replaced by the cold, making my throat hurt by the time I got back home. But I always loved the moment I walked through the door, embraced by my jumping dog and the heated floor, maybe even a fire in the chimney. The best days were the rainy ones. Your house just feels so much cozier when you don’t want to go outside.
Credit: moondog.de
I miss that weather. I miss the grey skies and the rain-soaked lawns. I miss the muddy roads and paths going through the forest by my house. I miss collecting chestnuts with my friends and cooking them with their whole family. I miss being freezing cold with numb fingers and an icy nose. I miss how later in the winter the trees would look like they had been covered in powdered sugar, reflecting the grey-purple of the afternoon sky.
I miss my home.
And no matter where I’ll live throughout my life, no matter how many times I’ll move and find new homes, that will always be my first home. My family’s home. My real home.
I never really knew what true happiness was until July 7th, 2017. Sure, I’ve been happy before. I smile, I laugh, but never have I experienced a day where pure happiness radiated through the whole room and it was so contagious that it made me happy also. I’ve never genuinely and truly experienced happiness without something in the back of my head keeping me upset, but July 7th was a different night. Ironically, the room full of these positive souls are also people dealing with their own battles every day, including myself. I may not know what those battles were for them, but everyone left those worries outside the room and didn’t let it affect them for the rest of the night.
It’s not what made this the happiest night of my life, but who made it the best night I’ve ever experienced. I got to meet my favorite band, All Time Low, for the first time ever. I remember when I got the email saying that I was selected to be one of the thirty people to meet them for free. My hands were shaking with excitement. I can’t even remember if I started crying, but if I did they were probably tears of happiness.
I obsess over lots of things. Pretty much the only things I ever talk about are every single TV show on the planet, how Jack Dawson should’ve lived, and All Time Low. So, when I had the opportunity to stand center barricade in front of my favorite band belting out the lyrics to my favorite songs while surrounded by the most amazing people, I was truly content.
The image of meeting All Time Low is still clear in my head. Taking my first steps towards them, Jack Barakat, my favorite band member, was already walking towards me with arms wide open before pulling me into a bear hug. Every single one of them did this. They didn’t have to, but they do anyways.
Photo Credit: Live Nation
They meet hundreds of fans every day, yet when I went into that room it seemed like I was the only one they knew, and obviously that’s not true, but they had this crazy ability to make every single fan feel like they were singing to them, talking to them, or looking at them.
I’ve never seen a band care so much for their fans. At my concert, they stopped their set twice because they were worried about these girls who passed out in the middle of the crowd. Afterwards, they made everyone clear their path to get these girls out safely. They invite their fans up on stage to dance and sing with them at every concert. They created a whole music video Skyping their fans and thanking them for being the reason for their success, though the fans were really thanking the band for caring enough to have a personal conversation with their fans. The song itself , Missing You, was dedicated to every single one of their fans begging for them to stay alive, and it’s still one of the most emotional songs I know to this day.
It’s not just the band, but it’s the community the band has made that is so amazing. I’m not outgoing, at all, but while I was standing in line to meet them, I ended up talking randomly to these two girls. I knew nothing about them, but by the end of the night we were talking about our pasts and our passions after already standing next to each other at the barricade singing at the top of our lungs to Therapy even though everyone was crying on each other at that point. I still keep in contact with them, and I still talk to the girls I met all the way in 2015 through twitter talking about this band.
To this day, July 7th was still the best day of my life.
To this day, since 5th grade, All Time Low has always been my favorite band.
To this day, from watching their cringe worthy yet hilarious interviews and videos from 2005 to their extremely inappropriate jokes they make on concert, they have never failed to make me laugh my ass off.
To this day, I still listen to their songs whenever I have a bad day, and they still manage to make me smile like I did that night.
A couple days ago, one of my friends introduced me to the youtube series “Don’t Hug me. I’m scared.” Before she played it, she told me it was gonna be pretty weird and messed up. I have to admit, she was definitely right about that.
It starts out looking like a children’s TV show. Strange puppets in bright colors in a room made of felt and fabric, all in a Sesame Street kind of style.
Every episode follows the same pattern. It starts out somewhat normal, then a song begins to play. Each song addresses a subject that is important in today’s society. There is one about being creative, one about time and aging being unstoppable, about love, technology, health, and one about dreams.
Those don’t sound weird at all, do they? Well, just wait.
Because as the video goes on, the song becomes stranger and darker and more twisted, with loud noises and abrupt animations and a surprising amount of blood and death.
Honestly, I don’t even know why I started watching it in the first place. However, I was actually quite impressed by the deeper meaning of the show. Don’t get me wrong, it is creepy and messed up in so many ways. But I like the way it addresses things such as the brainwashing by mass media.
The way that all the “harmless” things and characters in the videos turn into literal nightmares- consuming your entire life, the way the characters get trapped inside a computer- and killed when they try to escape, or how you can only be accepted by people around you by joining the cult of love perfectly captures certain things that are wrong with our world and society, in an extremely twisted but ironic manner.
I don’t necessarily recommend anyone to watch this show, since I’m not really sure if it was or wasn’t a complete waste of time, or if the producers actually meant to be that deep. But in case you are looking for a great way to waste time, just watch it! It is definitely unique.
I’m not necessarily a person who trusts easily. It takes me a long time to open up to someone, to let them know what goes through my mind or what makes me tick, what makes me happy or sad. But somehow, I manage to put all my trust into a creature who could kill me if they truly wanted to.
I don’t consider myself a daredevil. In fact, I have irrational fears of even the smallest spiders in my room. People question how I manage to be brave enough to get on a 1500 pound horse and ride around an arena galloping over jumps with no anxiety, and honestly I don’t know. The sport is dangerous. Just last year, my roommate had broken her back falling off a horse, and I’ve been close to falling onto a boulder when my horse bucked me out of the dressage arena.
Even then, this didn’t phase me at all. I brushed off the dust, laughed it off, and got back on with no problems. My trust with my horse was still secure even though my luck could’ve been way worse.
Photo Credit: Pinterest
For the past year, since my back surgery, I was constantly warned that one wrong fall would potentially break my back and leave me hospitalized for weeks with the chance I wouldn’t be allowed to ride for a long time.
But I still took the risk, and it’s because my love for the sport was stronger than my fear of pain and injury. Every day I still ride, and every day the fact that horseback riding is considered one of the most dangerous sports in the world barely passes through my mind as I work with my horse.
But that’s the thing about anything everyone loves. Everything is deadly to us in some way and form, and that same exact thing gives some of us life. So horseback riding may be dangerous, but I feel like others can agree with me when I say a rider’s love for their horse is worth devoting their time and trust into these animals despite the threat that floats through the air every day someone steps into an arena.
OVS Journalism Blog 
You must be logged in to post a comment.