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.

After graduating from college, I largely fell out of the habit of writing reviews. But in 2007, I saw The Bourne Ultimatum, which is now one of my favorite movies. It got my brain racing, and I had to write the following. It’s longer and a little more involved than a typical DTH review would have been (I can thank the media studies degree for that), but here it is anyway—in all of its G. Dub glory.

(And I gave it four and a half feet.)

***

When Robert Ludlum first wrote the novels that immortalized the exploits of embattled spy Jason Bourne, his title character roamed a world wrought with Cold War fears and conflict in Vietnam. The Bourne Identity, the first movie that placed Matt Damon in the role, came on the heels of a new era—post 9/11 terrorism fears. And, as we all know, it’s been a rollercoaster ride of suspicious-looking neighbors, confiscated gels and liquids, and wiretapped phone calls ever since then.

So, in a way, The Bourne Ultimatum is exactly the kind of film that Americans need to see right now—and the kind that they don’t need to see at all.

Picking up right where The Bourne Supremacy, the second film in the series, left off, Damon returns as the amnesiac Bourne, the highly trained government assassin who is still trying to piece together his past. He hobbles injured around Moscow after Supremacy’s bravura car chase scene, while a team of CIA sleuths back in the U.S. tries to track him down before he can sabotage their top-secret program even further.

That team includes Joan Allen, wonderfully reprising her role as the sympathetic Pamela Landy, and new-to-the-series David Strathairn, who plays against type as the flinty Noah Vosen, a deputy director determined to bring an end to Bourne’s travels no matter the cost. The twosome track Bourne from London to Madrid to Tangier before his desire to know who he was drives him to New York, where Landy and Vosen are waiting for him.

It’s not a surprise that over the course of five years and three films, the franchise has wonderfully matured. The first film was entertaining yet unremarkable, but it was when director Paul Greengrass took the helm for Supremacy that Bourne’s complex story got a needed jolt thanks to jittery camera angles and bone-crunching fights that place you right in Bourne’s well-worn shoes. Greengrass takes it to the next level in Ultimatum without trying to outdo what’s already been done; while it’s tempting to roll your eyes when the newest set of flashbacks powers up and big CIA muckety-mucks start barking at their underlings to “FIND JASON BOURNE,” there’s a new sense of desperation flooding every scene. Instead of capping the film with a car chase similar to the jaw-dropper that ended Supremacy, Ultimatum runs its last chase with at least 20 minutes to go, instead ending with a scene on a Manhattan rooftop that satisfyingly brings the trilogy full circle. (I would recommend catching up with the previous two movies before seeing Ultimatum; not only will those who pay close attention get a nice reward, but there’s a definite sense of finality to this one.)

Ultimatum continues to make a name for itself in a number of ways: The locales are different, the score (by John Powell) incorporates familiar melodies from the earlier movies yet infuses them with new energy, and Damon proves once and for all that he has enough action-flick know-how to pair with his everyman appeal for an intriguingly real, nuanced character. While Bourne continues to walk away from horrendous car crashes and intense sparring matches, he does so with bloody scratches and a limp. When Bourne pairs up with Nicky Parsons (played by a fairly lifeless Julia Stiles), he doesn’t bed her like a James Bond-type character might; instead, he looks at her with eyes that are still searching for his dead girlfriend Marie, who was killed at the beginning of the second movie—an eternity in the testosterone-fueled world of the typical thriller.

And most importantly, he doesn’t kill indiscriminately. When escaping Moroccan authorities, he throws a can of spray paint onto a fire and pushes away those people standing nearby. Every life he takes is considered and mourned, even if he kills someone who was trained the same way he was—by conditioning to remove the slightest bit of human remorse. This is what makes Ultimatum hugely comforting—and at the same time, incredibly frightening.

To his credit, Strathairn fully inhabits a heartless role, but it’s difficult to see his character as anything other than a representation of the current administration. (With Greengrass including a flashback scene of Bourne undergoing a waterboarding procedure, it’s tough not to draw that conclusion.) Vosen issues kill orders for U.S. citizens and operatives on nothing more than mere suspicion, and when Landy dares to ask how far he’ll go, he bites back, “Until we win.”

We also catch wind of a report that Bourne resisted his initial training, which intended to beat the conscience out of him and evidently malfunctioned, resulting in the tortured hero we see today. But this plot point begs an important question: Why is conscience something worth killing? Who exactly are Bourne and his ilk being asked to kill that would require it gone? The overwhelming sense of reality in The Bourne Ultimatum makes this tough to ponder. It’s nice knowing that someone working in our name has one, but troubling that our government would consider it a handicap.

Of course, this isn’t to say that Ultimatum is meant as a political statement, or anything other than what it is: a hugely entertaining movie. A rooftop chase scene in Morocco dazzles the senses with unbelievable camera work and a heart-pounding soundtrack, and an early sequence at London’s busiest train station looks as though as it were filmed alongside regular commuters making their way home. Bourne instructs a British journalist (those nimby-pimby sorts) on how to make his way out of the terminal while ducking sweeping surveillance cameras and lurking thugs, and it’s hilarious watching Bourne use the same precise training he received against those who gave it to him as they scratch their heads in bewilderment. They can’t believe that one of their own has turned against them.

Which possibly proves that in the end, our greatest danger could really be ourselves.

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.

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.