Yes, it’s been a long time, but it was for a good cause. And now that I have a new gig and a new routine, it’s about time I freshen this place up.

The perfect article for this is something I wrote nearly seven years ago and appeared, at that time, on the now-defunct site called MediasharX. (I also reviewed Gilmore Girls and The West Wing for MSX for a bit too.) Looking at it now, it almost seems like an historic document from another era. You see, back when I was a senior in college and beyond ready to graduate, I got a little hooked on discussing my favorite TV show online. In those days, we did that through message boards and a little thing called email. When I see what shows like Glee have going on today, with their Twitter and Facebook feeds, text updates and all the information you can imagine right at your fingertips, I can’t help but be a little jealous. In my day, we had to work for our fandom!

(And we weren’t exactly the most popular kids on the interwebs, either. You Bieber fans have no idea!)

So this is a recollection of constructing a fandom on the Internet and monetizing it—along with some media history and theory I learned in all of those comm classes. It was a lot of fun to write (and research), and it’s honestly one of the stories I’ve written that I like the most. Even if it’s outrageously dated by now.

***

If anything was learned from the Clay vs. Ruben controversy on American Idol, it’s this: Do not underestimate the power of the television fanatic. Bottles of Tabasco sauce flooded into WB network offices in 2000, courtesy of Roswell fans bent on saving their show from cancellation. One of the first organized fan campaigns fought to keep the original Star Trek on the air—and morphed into the legendary fandom that exists today.

The advent of the Internet has broadened the experience of being a fan. In the past, only the most obsessed fans gathered together at conferences or published ‘zines on their fandoms, lapping up details on the next film or comic book and revering the creators as demigods. Instead of that pathetic and bespectacled image, fans now brought together by the Internet are banding together and turning proactive to take control of their programs. They’re acting as network executives and paying for the privilege.

I’m one of them. And I only wear glasses for driving. Honest.

After going through Friends and ER, my current favorite is the ABC spy drama Alias. In many ways, I’m typical of the Internet fan. I spend much of my free time at the Web site TelevisionWithoutPity.com, nitpicking episodes and searching out spoilers with those similarly obsessed. And like many of this new breed of fan, I’m willing to put my money where my mouse is.

Aaron Nadler, a college student from Harrisburg, Penn., is a poster in the Alias forums at TWoP who assisted on a banner ad campaign hosted by fellow fans. When asked why he visits TWoP, he incredulously responds, “Why not?”

Fans all across cyberspace were thrilled to hear on Aug. 1, 2003, that the trendy Web site had resolved its ongoing financial troubles to continue its unique approach to fandom another year. The site’s forums give diehard television watchers an arena where such devotion is commonplace, but with the caveat that fandom does not automatically mean mindless adulation. When judging shows on TWoP, impartiality is discouraged. Once known as Mighty Big TV, TWoP was the place where The West Wing creator Aaron Sorkin famously tussled with online fans as Benjamin, his nom de keyboard. He later dedicated a subplot on his show to illustrating his less-than-flattering impressions of TWoP users.

The site is well known across the Internet for its combination of cynicism and humor—more popularly known as “snark.” In one post, a typical TWoPer can go from proclaiming undying love for their show to ridiculing the main character’s speech pattern, makeup or very reason for existence. Mention the Pixel Challenge competition (a contest for the most creative use of Photoshop) and the words “Jennifer Garner Celebrity Hot Tub Party,” and you’ve got TWoPers across the world spitting diet soda on their keyboards. Another example of the site’s irreverent nature is the term “HoYay.” Short for “Homoeroticism, Yay!” it was jokingly invented by TWoP users to laud subtext of that very sort.

This mockery reflects the rough environment of the site. Instead of the typical juvenile gushing and flame-wars of most Internet message boards, respect is instituted in a trickle-down fashion. Moderators rule with iron fists, editing posts for failing to pass grammatical snuff and booting users who display embryonic signs of “trolling.” In turn, users are wound so tight with the thought of offending a moderator that they patrol fellow posters. Membership in the TWoP forums is a privilege for which one is not entitled by simple registration.

The restrictions only allow the most respectful cynics to post, thinning the pool to the most motivated—and articulate. “When I finally signed up, I found myself hanging about in a few of the forums—Buffy, 24, Angel, Alias—and I found an amazing group of insightful, polite and content-rich postings relating to those shows,” Nadler said. The intelligence and thoughtfulness on the site has lured many an executive producer to the thorny pages of posts, some of which certainly call for their heads. Sorkin is just one such muckety-muck. In an October 2002 article in The New York Times, Alias creator J.J. Abrams said, “I’ll accept a smart critique from anywhere, whether it’s from a 50-year-old studio executive or a 12-year-old kid in a rural town…They’re doing what I’d be doing if I weren’t working in TV.”

Alias premiered in the fall of 2001, and ever since, has become a program even fans find difficult to describe. The latter half of its most recent season had former double agent Sydney Bristow working with her father to bring down her nemesis, who had teamed with her treacherous, former KGB agent mother to locate the artifacts of a 15^th-century prophet.  She had also begun a romance with her CIA handler while her roommate was murdered and replaced by a genetically engineered double. And one throwaway scene this season confirmed that even jet-setting spies can receive their doctorates in literature. But if you want to know what happened in the one and a half seasons leading up to this, you’ll quickly learn that Abrams likes revamping his show’s premise.

With all the marketing challenges of such a Byzantine layout—It’s spiked with spy action! It’s a heartfelt family drama! It’s a rule-bending sci-fi!—ratings for Alias are tepid at best. The Nielsen ratings placed it around the 60th most popular show after its first season in the Sunday 9 p.m. timeslot, but scheduled against The Sopranos and an incarnation of the popular Law & Order franchise in its second, the ratings declined and placed it 72nd. Despite the lackluster showing, Alias has the buzz of a show exponentially more popular and a cult fanbase similar to those that sustained shows like The X-Files for years. For instance, the Alias forum is always buzzing and typifies all that is TWoP. The “Dear J.J.” topic opens a direct line from fans to creator. Humorous nicknames stemming from the popular recaps and from users themselves abound in casual conversation, such as the ever-popular “SpyDaddy.” But the rest of the forum isn’t always so complimentary.

The clichéd longing looks once exchanged between Sydney and handler Vaughn prompted one exasperated fan to plead for the other characters to play matchmaker by lining the hallways of the CIA and singing “Kiss the Girl” from The Little Mermaid. A beard and turban disguise worn by star Victor Garber in an episode last December elicited derisive snorts even from diehard fans of the actor. And many users grumbled about the blatant pandering the show made to the football audience by showcasing star Jennifer Garner’s lingerie-clad assets in the opening moments of the episode that aired after Super Bowl XXXVII in January.

The users at TWoP are media-savvy enough to understand how such a display figures into the economics of a television show—the Super Bowl gives a struggling show the lead-in of a lifetime, and by advertising a sequence straight out of Maxim, the network is just capitalizing on the demographics of a football game. Making sure Alias stays on the air is a prime concern of its fans as well, but they don’t like the effort muddying the integrity of the narrative. Sydney had never been a modest character, especially with her various disguises employing skin-tight rubber, but she is also an assertive, modern female. This was the first occasion where the objectification of her body for ratings purposes was blatantly obvious.

But instead of simply accepting commercially dictated changes like this as something they couldn’t control, the fans took matters into their own hands. In addition to making their feelings on the subject well-known in the “Dear J.J.” thread, fans turned to another method: advertising. And TWoP gave users the opportunity to spend their own money promoting their favorite show by handing over control of the forum banner ads—creating an odd, never-before-seen confluence of Internet and television advertising.

Internet users are very familiar with those pesky ads that ask you to pick a favorite color, or hit the bouncing ball, or tell you that you’re the site’s one-millionth visitor, all to get you to click. Visitors to the TWoP forums didn’t encounter any ads like this, instead seeing homemade banners crafted by amateur graphic artists. These banners advertised select shows, ones often not seen in the upper echelons of the Nielsen ratings, but worshipped by TWoP users nonetheless.

Glark, the online handle of David T. Cole, one of the three TWoP “elders,” said the decision to switch from corporate ads to those funded by users came early this year, mostly due to circumstances outside their control. “Ad brokers rarely want to place ads on pages with user-generated content due to its unpredictability,” he said. Because of this, few advertisers were buying ad space on the forums even though several hundred thousand users were taxing the limits of the servers (and the elders’ pockets) each day. The elders needed a way to generate cash to keep the popular site running in the short-term while investigating more permanent financial options. TWoP users knew that a decision on the site’s fate was coming after the end of the 2002-03 television season, and they were desperate to do something to show their support. Those two concerns met head-on in the forums’ ad space.

The setup allowed users to fire up Adobe Photoshop or other comparable graphics programs to create their own ads, or submit copy to Glark for design, which was included in the cost. Layering was also an option, which allowed any ad buyer to submit four separate ads. One ad would appear on each level of the TWoP forums, giving buyers more bang for their advertising buck. Ad creators could also designate text to appear in the banner’s alt tags. Ads initially cost $100 for 24 hours in the forums, and $50 for each consecutive day after that. These banner ads were for TWoP users alone—there was no tracking information provided for ad clients nor any of the bells and whistles associated with Internet advertising. “It was all grassroots stuff,” Glark said.

The opportunity for users to create their own ads caught on right away, and became one of the hallmarks of a site already famous for irreverent reverence. Creative promotion of individual shows began fast and furious—characters, popular couples, even wardrobe choices became fodder for banner ads. A whole thread devoted to banner ad praise—prime real estate on a Web site already strapped for bandwidth—allowed creators to interact with their instantaneous groupies. New ads would send observers scurrying to examine all the jokes in intimate detail, and an informal camaraderie blossomed amongst ad creators as they shared the warm, fuzzy feeling of supporting their favorite Web site.

But this didn’t mean there was no competition. The originality and sheer number of ads created by those known as TARflies (fans of The Amazing Race) and Wingnuts (The West Wing) upped the ante for all banner makers. Within weeks, all banner ad campaigns had to incorporate layers and snarky alt tags or face ridicule. There was even competition within the same fandom. Fans of the Tara/Willow lesbian relationship on Buffy the Vampire Slayer created ads condemning Tara’s death, using rainbow motifs and declaring, “They are the magic.” A group of opposing fans bluntly bit back by advertising that Tara was dead, signing the banner with “Fans of moving the hell on” and setting off a blistering flame war that likely ate more bandwidth than the ads covered. The monkey employed by the opposing users in their ad has since become the icon of the TWoP “Banner Ad Wars,” and is available on t-shirts and mugs for those who wish to preserve the memory.

For Alias, the gauntlet was thrown one afternoon last spring, when one poster spotted an amusing banner ad for the HBO prison drama Oz, which said, “Our HoYay can totally shank your HoYay.” Following a casual statement about the possibility of a banner ad campaign in the “Alias in the Media” thread, the next week passed with almost a thousand dollars raised from dozens of distinct users and more than 100 separate suggestions for ad copy.

Somehow, an impromptu organization took hold. Five different sets of ads were planned, and the copy concepts were divided accordingly: general ads about the show as a whole, then ads dedicated to the family of spies, the romance, and sidekicks/enemies as well as a thank you to the show’s creators. A group of four users amicably split the stresses of collecting votes for ad copy and publishing a Web site for Alias newbies intrigued by the ads. They tweaked copy and workshopped the graphics with two amateur designers who volunteered to create the ads based on the chosen favorites.

Nadler was one of the designers and used the opportunity to hone his burgeoning commercial design skills as well as augment his passion for the show. “A picture is worth a thousand words, and a funny banner is worth a thousand misleading commercials,” he said. “I think that promos for television shows should be catchy, memorable, and (have) a positive message about the show—without giving away the ending a week early.” The fan-voted spots favored more obscure characters and plotlines rarely referenced in network advertising, and definitely treated them with the TWoP flavor of snark.

On fan-favorite Mr. Sark: “Evil has never been so sexy.” On the broken relationship between Sydney’s parents: “Love means never having to say, ‘Why did you shoot me?’” On Sydney and Vaughn: “Screwing protocol. And each other. Keep your HoYay. We’ve got SpySex.”

Even though the show can be confusing to even the most dedicated viewer, these ads filled a void that Alias fans everywhere agreed that network advertising was not addressing. ABC is widely loathed for canceling low-rated fan favorites, including Sports Night, Once and Again and Cupid. The overwhelming belief in the forum is that the network cancels complex, intelligent programs it finds too difficult to promote, earning the nickname of “ABCimians” or, more simply, “monkeys.” Nadler points to one tagline as the epitome of the network’s lack of imagination in promoting such an intricate show.

“Also, ‘Double Oh-Yeah… with a kick!’—I mean, seriously,” he said. “That had absolutely nothing to do with the show, and plenty to do with making the show look stupid.” That’s only one of many fouls fans say the network has committed, including running a repeat on the weekend that the opening of Garner’s blockbuster movie Daredevil coincided with her appearance on Saturday Night Live, and a 40-minute post-Super Bowl show earlier this year that pushed Alias out of prime time on the East Coast.

To Sabrina Pavolini of Austin, Tex., the other graphic designer, this was ABC’s worst fumble. She said that as a subsidiary of Disney, ABC is failing to capitalize on numerous cross-promotional opportunities. But she also recognizes that fans may have more enthusiasm for the process. “Your average ad person is there to do a job. There’s a very good chance that they don’t have that ‘connection’ or special feeling for the show they’re working on,” she said. “To them, it’s just another day at the office. For people who love the show, I think it becomes more than that.”

Media scholar Henry Jenkins labeled this phenomenon as “textual poaching” more than 15 years ago, referring to fan activities such as fan fiction that have since proliferated on the Internet. Fans believe they have purer views of their favorite characters and plotlines than their creators do, so they wrestle control away. Fan fiction allows fans to rewrite narratives and plotlines in their own individual ways, but the banner ad campaign gave Alias fans the opportunity to take commercial control away from ABC under the belief that they could do better. “I want (the ads) to be something people notice—something to make them think ‘Wow, those Alias fans are amazing!’” Pavolini said. “In an ideal world, the banner ads would make everyone watch Alias.”

This enthusiasm resulted in 20 separate ads completely generated by fans, in content, design and funding. The campaign debuted to great praise from both Alias fans and TWoP users, and much to the delight of the hardworking fans, the incessant ads produced numerous converts. “Quick question—when is the season premiere of Alias? Because sadly enough…it was your brilliant banner ads that have sucked me into Alias,” said one user. “Go creative minds. Banner ads: they’re like heroin.”

After that initial ad campaign, the TWoP format changed slightly. Fifty dollars gave any submitted ad a week in the banner ad pool. Each click in the forums brought up a randomly selected ad out of the dozens in the pool at any given time. The topics broadened to praising the site’s recappers to conveying birthday wishes and campaigning for presidential hopeful Howard Dean—individual messages that up to 300,000 users see every day. Alias fans have continued to donate money to TWoP via banner ads in response to the show’s season finale, which was—at the very least—controversial. Sydney and Vaughn fans were upset that he was wearing a wedding ring in the last moments of the episode; Sark fans wondered what would come of the sexy assassin now that he was in CIA custody; and the show’s inexplicable jump two years ahead in time jarred everyone. The desire to express those opinions in pixelated form kept TWoP’s coffers overflowing this summer.

Even though fans were paying much less than corporate ad brokers, the temporary funding provided by the fan-sponsored ads allowed TWoP the freedom to negotiate new contracts. This led to the joyous announcement in August that the site would remain open for at least another year. Unfortunately, these contracts include forum ads, so those created by users will soon phase out. But the ads have become so popular that Glark has pledged they will live on elsewhere on the site, perhaps as part of the Pixel Challenge. “The response was great and certainly exceeded our expectations,” he said. “Our users are a great bunch.”

Thankfully, Alias fans received relief midway through the banner ad campaign with the news that ABC had decided to renew the show for a third season. The season premiere on Sept. 28 will provide the first clue as to whether the ads created by fans will actually boost ratings. With the possibility of a fourth season hanging on improved popularity, the producers may need all the help they can get.

The TWoP banner ads have proven that dedicated, intelligent fans are willing to work to save their favorite Web sites and television programs. Pay attention, J.J. Abrams: Even a simple, snarky campaign staged by the nerds and geeks of the world can’t hurt. They have the power. Just ask Clay Aiken.

We wouldn’t need to scramble in these kinds of situations if the pre-existing conditions were better for all involved, unfortunately, but that’s a different argument for a different time. Instead, I’d like to present something I started to write nearly 10 years ago as a memoir of sorts about the emotions I had around 9/11. Given the subject, the theme’s a little more “yay America!” when it comes to lauding recovery efforts, though the events of the past few weeks definitely show once again that humanity itself is pretty resilient. (This excellent piece on NPR’s “The Story” the other night proves that.)

This piece was also never finished. I apparently started getting into the nuances of patriotism vs. dissent, but didn’t complete the thought. So I’m just sticking to the relatively schmoopy parts here.

***

In the summer of 2001, I had a girl’s weekend with my best friend. We went on a road trip to Lake Tahoe, stayed in my cousin’s cabin for a night and went to see the Counting Crows perform at Caesar’s Palace on the South Shore. Looking back, I can remember a few moments that took away from the reverie of the trip, including the tricky navigation of the curves of Highway 89 along the lake’s western shore on a moonless night.

But what most made an impression was a comment by the opening act, Glen Phillips of Toad The Wet Sprocket. Of course, I can’t remember the context of what he said, only that it was part of the typical musician’s ad-lib before a song. He commented on the fall of the once-infallible Rome, and said something along the lines of “Who knows how long this American empire is going to last?” It sent shivers up my spine. At that point in time, the idea of our society falling seemed as fantastical as those apocalyptic visions illustrated in films such as The Terminator or Independence Day. My mind just wouldn’t go there.

Little did I know that several months later, that comment would come screaming back to me as I saw footage of the World Trade Center collapsing on my little dorm-room-sized TV. I was lucky enough not to see it live. I was in my Shakespeare class at the time, and as I headed back home with a dining hall lunch in my hand, I knew something was wrong. Everyone I passed was talking on cell phone with shock written all over their faces, and a parked transportation van was blaring a radio news report with the keywords of “terrorism” and “hijack” coming across the waves. That definitely perked up my ears.

After returning home, I turned to that touchstone of college communication—AOL Instant Messenger. (In those days, getting in touch with friends across the country or down the hall stemmed from that one piece of software.) My roommate’s away message conveyed the country’s gut reaction in a very succinct way: “Fuck the terrorists.” I fumbled for my Internet home page—not thinking to flip on the TV—and finally understood the enormity of what was happening when I couldn’t even get onto ABC News’ Web site.

Like everyone else, I cried and shook upon seeing these foreign images on my screen. I called my father on the West Coast and begged him not to go to work, thinking like Chicken Little that the sky was falling. It took me a few hours for my muddled brain to come back to Phillips’ statement and realize something. This was a terrorist attack of epic proportions. It took an organized and concentrated effort. It was intelligent enough to target the nation’s air system when and where it was at its weakest—a weekday morning, and at a small outpost airport. Yet with all of the energy this group expended to demonstrate its hatred of America, the country didn’t roll over and cry uncle.

The systems in place weren’t expecting something of this proportion to happen, but they stayed in place. The skies were cleared of all aircraft in a matter of hours. Emergency personnel did what they needed to do and saved numerous lives. Lines outside blood donation centers stretched for blocks. We may not have been expecting an aggravation of that magnitude, and while the intended purpose had been to shake us to our roots and plant the seed for our eventual destruction, we rose to the occasion. I’ve never been prouder of us than when I realized that our physical and emotional structure had remained intact.

The reason why is that they’re both columns I wrote as audition pieces for the editorial page of the DTH. Every semester, there would be writers, typically from the general student population and not from the DTH staff, who helmed a column one day each week. Most of them were your typical college writers, trying to push boundaries with lots of talk about sex and such. And at points, I thought about giving it a shot myself, just because. As a Californian going to school in North Carolina, I was a bit of an oddity there…or so my friends made it seem. So I thought I might have some interesting thoughts to share.

And here’s where I started.

***

Before I begin, there’s something I must let you all know.

I am in love with the pets.com sock puppet.

I don’t know exactly when this love affair began. I remember seeing the commercials featuring the precocious puppet during the fall of my freshman year, and soon thereafter, I was imitating the famous “Three dollars!” love with my bare hand, and later on, with a sock, much to the delight of my friends and suitemates.

I also fail to pinpoint exactly why this fabric-and-button creation delights me so much.

Perhaps it’s because I’m from the Silicon Valley area of California, and the pets.com sock puppet lends some much-needed levity to the fast-paced world of IPOs and dot-coms. Maybe it’s the human wristwatch substituting for a collar, or the pets.com microphone attached to his argyle hand with green electrical tape.

I also enjoy the insult comic dog stylings of Triumph, of Conan O’Brien fame, but there’s just something about a sock puppet imitating the singing group Chicago that tickles my fancy.

Pretty soon, I had found a picture of the puppet online and set it as the desktop on my computer.

People started emailing my media files of the commercials, and finally, last summer, I plunked down 20 bucks to buy my own from the website. In reality, pets.com, like many online retail stores, hasn’t broken even at all, and is hoping these puppets will turn them around.

Why am I telling you this potentially embarrassing story about myself at the beginning of months of what promises to be wry and witty commentary? To give a “this-can-happen-to-you” type portrait of what results from watching too much TV? Believe me, I know I watch too much, and my mother reminds me of that fact on a regular basis.

I figured that before I revealed anything about myself, I should clue you in on one vital fact about Allison Catherine Rost: I am goofy as hell.

The pets.com sock puppet is just the tip of the iceberg. I trip over my feet on a regular basis. I have nearly every episode of ER on videotape. I know how to tap dance and network computers. I can’t properly make a bed to save my life.

I’m sure some of you are wondering what kind of moron I might be, but in reality, I think I’m as normal as I can be.

I never would have admitted to things like this several years ago. I guess one of the big things that has happened to my since I came to college is that I’ve grown more comfortable in my own skin.

In high school, I was completely self-conscious. I rarely told anyone secrets and I felt like people would laugh at me if I revealed any personal facet of myself because I was just that strange.

And while people may be laughing at me now for that same strangeness, I’ve come to realize the goofiness is an innate part of me.

A good friend recently told me, “Who cares what other people think? Life is too short to shape your behavior on someone else’s standards.”

So I may be awed by snow like a four-year-old or walk into walls in my dreams or amuse myself with a sock puppet. So what? I’ve embraced my idiosyncrasies, and so should you.

And let that set the tone for this column.

***

Although I have come to love Chapel Hill and North Carolina like a native, I still sometimes feel like an outsider.

When I first got here, the question on many people’s minds was why in the world would a Californian like myself choose to go all the way across the country to go to college.

I’ve answered the question so many times that the response is automatic: my mother grew up near Charlotte, I’m a third generation Tar Heel, I have relatives in North Carolina and scattered throughout the East Coast, and it’s a great school.

But the biggest reason in my mind is one that is difficult to articulate: I needed a change. I was born and raised in California, and while I do like it there, I needed to get the hell out.

It’s hard to explain because many people I know think California is the Promised Land where everyone walks around carrying surfboards, the roads are paved in gold, and unicorns are the primary mode of transportation.

My choice of university was also difficult to explain to people back home. One classmate expressed concern at my going to school in the middle of a hayfield, and another asked, “How can you go to North Carolina with all of that racism back there?”

Ahhh, the perpetuation of stereotypes.

There are most definitely big differences between the two locales. In California, the freeways are wider and the drivers are crazier. At least in NorCal, where I’m from, the climate varies little from season to season, and the summers are so cool that Mark Twain once commented that the coldest winter he ever experienced was a summer in San Francisco.

We get earthquakes as opposed to hurricanes, and the cuisine and the lingo differ a bit.

But when I’ve had to explain the differences to California people, it’s been hard. I usually come up with something stupid like the vegetation and the weather is different. How can I condense all I have learned about North Carolina into generalizations that (mostly) ignorant Californians can understand?

I’ve chosen my words carefully, and while I admit there are hicks here (as there are everywhere), they are mostly hidden away in the rural areas, and I can say this because before Carolina, my previous exposure to North Carolina was limited to a small mill town.

Other than that, people are people. Most North Carolinians I’ve met aren’t far off from the people I knew in high school.

It’s been fun to burst people’s bubbles on some misconceptions. For instance, I don’t see movie stars all over the place.

But while I’m bursting bubbles, it’s fair to give Carolina a turn. While I’m sure UNC is diverse compared to the rest of North Carolina, I’d like to take whoever writes the prospective student brochures to UC Berkeley, the college many of my high school compatriots attend, where the Asian student population outnumbers all others. And to those students who think Chapel Hill is liberal, I’ll just say that a popular name for that flagship University of California campus is the People’s Republic of Berkeley.

However, my favorite bubble-bursting activity involves those skeptical Californians who thought I’d come home scared of all those redneck Ku Klux Klan members. They’d get a concerned look on their face and ask, “How was North Carolina?” I surprised them all when I said, “I loved it. And I’m going back.”

It was difficult to come here in the beginning when I knew absolutely no one. I bawled like a baby the first day of C-TOPS. But I knew college was a prime opportunity to sample life on the other coast. For those of you who haven’t been west of the Mississippi (and I know there are many of you) use this time to explore foreign areas of the country, or even the world, before jobs, marriage, and kids tie you down. You could even intern in San Francisco like I did last summer. Just remember to bring your sweater.

While I may or may not move back to the Golden State after graduation, at least I have had this time here. Through years of spending summers here with my grandparents, I always felt more at home, even with the heat and humidity.

And while California may have a certain caché to it, I’ll take my sweet tea and Moon Pie over bottled water and baby spinach any day.

***

And just because every DTH column on the editorial page ended this way (correct as of the time these were written):

Allison Rost is a sophomore communications and sociology double major from Fremont, Calif. You can reach her at alikona@email.unc.edu.

It’s November. Not only is it getting cold (even in Los Angeles), but it’s also the start of the college basketball season. If you hadn’t already figured it out before, I’m a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, which tends to field a fairly decent team every year. In fact, the Tar Heels played North Carolina Central tonight…and beat them 89 to 42. So my head is a little wrapped up in college nostalgia, which made me think of the below tidbits.

These are anecdotes I put together as part of the “24 Hours” project for The Daily Tar Heel during my sophomore year of college. Writers from all desks of the DTH observed activities on the UNC campus over the course of one winter day–from noon on a Thursday until noon on a Friday. My segment was from 10 a.m. on Friday until noon that day. I walked all over campus, wrote up these little vignettes and turned them in, coming back to the newsroom a day or so later to see that the editor-in-chief at the time marked all of mine as “solid.” However, when the special section came out, none of my contributions were included.

C’est la vie, of course, though at the time I was pretty devastated (a wee lass, I was). I really liked these moments-in-time, and I still do. And since they were never published, I think it’s entirely appropriate that I post them here. Especially now.

(And two of these were based on actual experiences, with real characters and events from my daily life at that time. I’m pretty sure you can tell which ones are which.)

***

10:11 a.m. The morning sun is just beginning to peek over the top of Cobb, and the life of the slab of thick ice layered on the front lawn is coming to an end. Loud cracks spell its doom, and the grass sticking through the ice finally begins to feel some relief. Cars obliviously coast by on Country Club Drive. Meanwhile, the pansies and daffodils meant to impress visitors over by Jackson Hall look humbled and defeated as melting ice splats all around them.

10:17 a.m.: Two of those ubiquitous tour groups have congregated outside of Mangum. One tour guide assuages nervous parents by talking about the safety measures in place on campus such as SAFE escort. The other tour guide tries to make a joke about fake I.D.s. The parents laugh nervously in response. The sounds of garbage trucks behind Davis nearly drown everyone out. They continue on, each group going in opposite directions.

10:41 a.m.: A group of orange-garbed workmen fiddle with the traffic light on Franklin Street at the Bank of America Center using what seems like a glorified vacuum cleaner.

Meanwhile, the pedestrians waiting at the light are too impatient. They wait for a break in traffic and hightail it across, backpacks and purses bouncing.

A dapper older man window-shops in front of Julian’s. After glancing to see if anyone’s looking at him, he ducks in.

A semi-truck labeled “El Sol Mexican Restaurant Supplies” pulls away from the curb.

And another group frustrated with the length of the traffic light attempts to dash across the street.

10:56 a.m.: The requisite throng of South Campus residents crowds the U-bus at its last stop of Raleigh Road. However jubilant they are over the end of class for the week, a titter goes through the crowd as their chances at a seat grow slimmer and slimmer.

“When is y’all’s spring break?” yells the bus driver. When someone gives her the correct dates, she remarks, “I gotta get myself some vacation.”

11:11 a.m.: Over Chick-Fil-A and Dr. Pepper in downstairs Lenoir, a group of friends catch up. This group of sophomores has been friends since they were in the same suite in Hinton James last year, but now, the group of five is spread among several North Campus dorms.

Jen Rehberg from Middletown, N.J., returns to the table with a wrap, but complains that all of the sour cream is in the folded part. An unfortunate incident results in sour cream being dabbed on several faces.

Michelle Abshire from Selma wants to hear her horoscope for the day, so Liz Templin from Charlotte reads it out loud. Despite the myriad Zodiac signs present, it’s a 6 for everyone today.

Michelle’s boyfriend, Chris O’Connor from Charlotte, has not yet returned to the table, so Liz asks, “Did he have to go kill his chicken nuggets?” What she doesn’t know is that he went to Top of Lenoir for take-out and finally returns with fortune cookies for all. This begins a conversation over the point of fortune cookies.

Susan Boone from Roxboro deftly observes, “It doesn’t make sense to put fortunes in egg drop soup, so they put them in cookies.”

Chris tickles Jen, leading Jen to complain, “Michelle, your boyfriend is groping me!”

Michelle shrugs. “I’m not really concerned,” she says.

Liz smiles and says, “Ah, the depth of lunchtime conversation.”

11:38 a.m.: The consumer goods and games of “The Price is Right” have attracted a tired group to the big-screen television in the basement of the Student Union. One munches on a snack of pretzels, one feverishly attempts to complete calculus homework and one naps with their face smashed up against the cushions of the couch. The only noise is the sound of Rod Roddy, inviting yet another lucky contestant to come on down.

11:53 a.m.: Outside Bingham 103, the members of John Kasson’s History 156 class congregate, waiting for the class before them to exit. The people remaining inside are finishing up an exam, so the newcomers read the newspaper and finish up their lunches. As more class members arrive, two men needle their way through the swarm, one discussing his chronic bone spurs within everyone’s earshot. One stunned student leaves the classroom, remarking to her friend, “I never thought it would be that hard.” More and more people trickle out, but the 12 o’clock class is still unsure. A few brave souls go ahead and charge in, confident that they won’t be admonished, but most hesitate, not knowing the appropriate time to go in.

This year, I celebrated my 25^th birthday. I can almost hear what’s running through your head when you take in that statement—she’s a member of a lazy, coddled generation, glued to her cell phone and computer, updating her MySpace page five times a day instead of working at an actual job. Believe me, I’ve heard a number of your kind tell me so. And while some of that is true—I’m writing this essay on my laptop at a local café—the rest gives me a headache on a daily basis.

My parents—my mother especially—raised me to think for myself. After all, they were the same way. They graduated from high school in 1967, at the beginning of the Summer of Love. They weren’t hippies or protesters; they went to school and worked hard to make the world and their families better in their own way. My mother has spent the majority of the last 30 years as a resource specialist, a teacher who helps special needs and second-language students.

It was their mindset that prompted me to get started on my own story early. I worked semi-professional jobs as early as high school, when I was a gopher for a local architectural firm. That phase passed pretty quickly, and I ended up writing and interning for magazines while I was out of college for the summer. While my peers were happy partying every weekend, it was my responsibility to earn my own spending money, so I worked hard for it—and was loath to spend it.

While I now support myself, I did live with my parents for a few years after I graduated from college, but I did it to build up my own savings and start planning for retirement before I truly set out into the real world. And now, I have an IRA, and I just bought my first new car. When I went to Rome for the first time, it was on my own dime. Not only that, but I’ve won several awards and honors in my chosen profession, and I’ve written articles on topics that will be hard to top as I grow older—and as I’m told, wiser.

I’ve never been one who enjoys having someone tell them who or what they’re supposed to be. In college, a roommate of mine was so sure that I was going to be so enthralled with my first midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show that he predicted I would soon be dressing up as Magenta and streaking my way across the stage. I never did. What he said made me that much more determined not to like it.

Perhaps it’s the same way with societal expectations, and once I enter an age where I am supposed to be responsible, that’s when I’ll go against the norm. It worries me that there’s such a dim view of the generation that’s supposed to be spending its time sowing wild oats and generally being stupid, when we’re the ones who are going to inherit all the problems the U.S. and the world is experiencing now. People may not think we’re ready to make a difference yet, but maybe that’s another expectation I’ll have to shatter.

For now, if you see a woman in her 20s waiting to cross the street, listening to her iPod, realize that she may not have been formed from a cookie-cutter. She might wear at least semi-fashionable clothing, but she also reads several newspapers a day (even if they’re online). She might like going to museums as much as she goes to concerts, and the first dial on her car radio might be NPR—but just before the indie rock station, of course.

***

It’s evident, of course, from the mention of my 25^th birthday and MySpace as the website du jour that I wrote this several years ago. What may also be obvious from the first line is that I initially wrote this piece as a potential entry in This I Believe, the now-defunct project from NPR that detailed various contributors’ religious and spiritual beliefs…in all of the forms those could take. Of course, I never actually sent it in.

But honestly, that’s OK. Because taking up this cause of defying ageism against the young is something I’ve done in writing since I was about 13. I sent letters to the editors of Time and the San Jose Mercury News, protesting unfair coverage of teenagers in the media. The latter actually awarded me a Silver Pen Award for my words on the matter when I was 16. I’ve just always been so irritated about being lumped in with the bad stereotypes of my generation that I’ve had to express it multiple times.

Is this piece the best example of that writing? Maybe not, but it’s definitely the most recent…and the most coherent! I could find some angrier examples, but it’s best to let those languish in obscurity.

We also lived in a school district where the tax base made sending us to public school an easy decision. But when it mattered, my parents anted up. I decided late in my high school career that 18 years in Californian suburbia was enough for me. So, I applied to out-of-state public schools, and even though we didn’t qualify for financial aid, my parents managed to pay for every cent of tuition, housing, books—you name it. Thus, my protective bubble followed me to college, where I had everything taken care of for me. If I was hungry, I just went to the dining hall and my student ID would grant me entrance to the buffet lines. Plane tickets would arrive in the mail just when I needed them. And when the foreign experience of East Coast weather threatened my campus with its hurricane watches and empty grocery stores, I just snuggled closer to the cinder blocks that comprised the 10 floors of my freshman dorm.

My California-flavored childhood meant the concept of snow and ice in everyday life was completely new for me. When classes were canceled for three days in the January of my freshman year, I frolicked in the powder like a 5-year-old. My friends took many pictures of me relishing my first experience as a snow angel, and we stole trays from the dining halls for sledding. We also worked as a unit to create a snow turtle—snowmen were apparently passé.

Fast-forward to four years later. As a hardened senior, I had parted ways with those friends and moved off-campus. It was the last full day of class in the fall semester, and as I stood waiting at the bus stop for my ride home, the frigid December sky began spitting down sleet. Forty-five minutes on a trudging bus replaced my normal swift commute, and I awoke at 5:30 the next morning to hear the tree branches outside my window cracking under the weight of the ice encasing them—and to see the time on my clock radio flicker out. The power was not restored for four days.

To say that my love affair with East Coast winters came to a sudden and bitter end is a bit of an understatement.

It wasn’t a question of boredom. Classes for the semester had already ended, so I just didn’t have the electronic procrastination tools I usually used to distract myself from studying. My roommate and I rediscovered the art of conversation and unearthed board games we hadn’t played since childhood. It was, however, a little difficult to manipulate dice with fingers wrapped in the fleece of our best mittens.

Those mittens were one of the only ways to deal with the greatest predicament of my young life. For the first day, enough heat was trapped in our second-floor flat to facilitate actual living, and there were enough perishables available to eat without needing to touch our dead refrigerator. But after that first night, when the temperatures dipped into the teens and the flannel surface of my pillowcase cooled mere seconds after I turned my head, the frigid air of the worst winter storm in North Carolina history began to creep through the windowpanes and under the doors, rendering my home practically inhabitable. The solution wasn’t as easy as hopping in a car and driving somewhere with heat and food—the entire state was in the exact same condition. Tree branches still littered the frosty roadways and blocked most escapes out of town, and Duke Power had millions of customers out of power across two states. We were just going to have to wait for our electrical benediction along with everyone else.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t know where I was going to sleep. The lack of heat made showering an icy proposition, and I couldn’t contact anyone—the blackout had disabled the local cell towers and we didn’t even have enough light to see the keypad on our landline phone. All thoughts of finals and Christmas presents and packing for my trip home flew out of my head in favor of how to layer multiple sweaters or use a lighter on candles without burning myself. I remember the joy when, a few days into the blackout, we found that our favorite pizza place had its power restored. We ordered a pie, went to pick it up and ate it in our dining room where the heat from the pizza created a steam lingering above the table that was the closest thing to warmth we’d felt in days. My mind was discombobulated—all I could think of was where I would find my next meal and where I could sleep that wouldn’t dangerously threaten my health.

Of course, I knew I could get out of the situation if it became absolutely necessary. I had a credit card and a car. I could have driven as long as was necessary to find a hotel with heat and room service, or gone to the airport and bought a plane ticket to the Caribbean. Luckily, that need disappeared relatively quickly. The first people to get their power back were my friends still living on campus. They took us in, providing floors and blankets for sleep and running water for warm showers. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a shower with such joy in my heart before.

Only after I got power back did I realize that I’d missed several review sessions for my upcoming finals. Thank goodness I was one of the fortunate—I’d heard some students living off-campus waited nearly two weeks for power and had to take their finals during that time. If my power hadn’t come back when it did, there’s no doubt in my mind that 16 weeks of lectures and note-taking and preparation couldn’t have done a thing to overcome my basic needs of food and shelter. This period was fleeting, but I’m still in awe at how naïve I was prior to seeing those little LED numbers flick off.

The situation reminded me of something my mother, a public schoolteacher, often talks about: Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, which categorizes how our brains operate. Physiological needs such as food and sleep are the keys, with safety concerns coming next. For most of us in the middle class (and the  Western world), these aren’t things we need to worry about. Instead, we occupy our lives worrying about how the new freeway extension will complicate our daily commutes or remarking on how we can’t live without our TiVos. For me, my upbringing was never about not having what I needed, and only when my very survival was staring me in the face did I see how spoiled I was.

Even though our society is extremely affluent in comparison to the rest of the world, we still live amongst peers who struggle with these basic needs, yet we judge them by privileged standards. A young person living in the inner city isn’t likely to graduate from high school and launch into college or a career. Politicians and ed-op columnists say he just needs to put forth superhuman effort to achieve those aspects of the American Dream. But when a person’s first priorities are dodging bullets and finding safe housing, schooling is not high on the list.

I only wish I could go back and inform my coddled high school self of how lucky I was. I do remember a fleeting moment back then—I was doing dishes in the kitchen of my parents’ house and I looked out the window to the street, lit haphazardly by the setting sun peeking through the trees. Standing on the sidewalk were a man and his pregnant wife. They had their arms around each other, and they were crying as they took in the split-level house with four bedrooms and three baths. At that moment, I felt an inkling of what it must have been like for my parents as they struggled to make ends meet in anticipation for a family. But that was as deep as my consideration went as I dried off my hands and went off to work on my calculus homework. When we don’t have to worry about the basic needs of life, we don’t consider them.

But if my temporary inability to think beyond food and shelter is a way of life for some people, and our expectation is for them to brush it off to pursue success, I shudder to think of how deluded those expectations can be—and how easily they can change when we’re in that same situation.

***

Last night, I was contemplating what writing I should post this week…and then the power went out in my apartment. Of course, living in Los Angeles, it was nothing more than a rainstorm. But it reminded me of this piece, which I wrote fairly soon after graduating from college. Reading it now brings into perspective the various people and points-of-view I’ve encountered since then, but even so, I think it demonstrates that the situation was a decent learning experience.

Or, at least, I hope it’s obvious.

All I’ve changed since the file was last saved on August 26, 1999, are some basic copyediting things. And of course, the quotes and the incident itself are all made up. But the name of the dorm, the student body president, the general sentiment — all accurate.

Maybe this explains why I ended up on the arts and entertainment desk for four years.

A weekend melee at Hinton James Residence Hall has left many South Campus residents disheartened while the cleanup efforts continue.

The incident began early Friday afternoon when an unidentified male student allegedly attacked a second floor resident who boarded the elevator on which he was riding. Reports indicate the attacker was a 10th floor resident on his way to a class and appeared aggravated when the elevator stopped on every floor on its way to the lobby. Eyewitnesses said that the sophomore yelled, “Why couldn’t you take the (expletive) stairs?” just prior to his attack. The fight escalated when the elevator doors opened in the lobby, and a group of students waiting there was upset that the brawl was blocking their way. They picked up the sofas in the first floor lounge and threw the furniture at the offending students. Despite the efforts of the area office and the first floor R.A.s, the fighting turned to looting and lasted well into the night.

As night turned into early morning, the Chapel Hill Police Department was confident that it had contained the looting on the first floor, which resulted in the destruction of several thousand dollars worth of lounge furniture and vending machines. However, they did not anticipate the actions of residents on other floors. At about 1 a.m., a group of male freshmen on the seventh floor stormed their R.A.’s dorm room, screaming, “Give us the air conditioning!” This sparked off a new set of violence on all floors of the hall. By sunrise, the air conditioners in 78 rooms had been forcibly removed and tossed over the balconies. Several cars in the parking lot were damaged. At press time, the damage was estimated at $2 million. The perpetrator of the elevator incident has been booked into Orange County Jail on charges of aggravated assault and disturbing the peace.

Twenty-six students have been seen at UNC Hospitals with varying degrees of injury, ranging from cuts and scrapes to a concussion. All students have been treated and released. Chapel Hill and University police are working each floor of Hinton James, trying to find additional rioters.

When conditions finally calmed down at Hinton James early Saturday morning, residents emerged from their rooms to inspect the damage. Broken glass and ceiling tiles lined the hallways. Some students expressed concern at the possibility of asbestos leaking from the ceiling. But despite seeing their residence hall in ruins, many students were optimistic about the future of Hinton James.

“I can’t believe anyone would do something like this,” said one fifth floor sophomore who asked not to be identified. “We may have to deal with no air conditioning and the elevators on a daily basis, but this is still home. People should still show respect.” She was one of a group of over 100 James residents that gave up their Saturday to clean up debris.

Another resident told of her fear during the riots. “My roommate and I, we just shut the door and tried to stay calm even though we heard all kinds of crashing and yelling outside,” she said. “It was pretty loud in the parking lot, too, but we couldn’t close the window or we would have fried.”

Student Body President Nic Heinke was surprised to hear of the events late Friday and early Saturday, but was not concerned that this incident would inspire any copycats.

“What you have here is just a situation that spun out of control. Extreme frustration led to anger and violence. This is one isolated incident and will dealt with in a way that will not encourage this behavior in any respect,” he said.

University officials echoed Heinke’s sentiments. After those responsible are dealt with in the criminal courts, they will most likely be dismissed from the University. Meanwhile, counselors have been brought in to help James residents deal with the wave of violence and help those still having adjustment difficulties.

Sunday, life seemed to return to normal. While many were still shaken by the recent events, others were amused.

“Damn, I’m surprised something like this hasn’t happened before,” laughed one first floor resident. “The conditions in this place are horrible. They just expect us to adjust?”

Repairs are expected to take six to eight weeks.