"Hay una discoteca por acqui?"
- The Pet Shop Boys
Well, it wouldn't be much of a surprise, would it?
After several weeks of abstinence, I finally forced myself to go to the Satellite. So much has managed to change during my absence.
Fantastic Sam's, the perfect example of why most small businesses do not succeed in this city, has magically transformed itself into a pseudo-swanky cafe, appropriately titled Biscotti's.
Isn't that kind of like naming Mrs. Field's chain simply "Yankee Cookie," or "America's Chocolate Chip"?
It's banal. It's depressing. It's unnecessary.
Perhaps it is just a little mean for me to mock it; maybe the biscottis there really are crispy. I will admit that I have not actually set foot in the place. From the look of it, though, neither have any of you.
One of my very dear, yet queer, friends pressed her face to the window yesterday. (I'm not lying. In fact, I'm sure her breath marks are still there.)
She reported back to me that the icing from the displayed cakes was breaking off into crusty clumps.
I thought that was fitting. I mean, the place is called Biscotti's. Biscottis are hard and crunchy. Maybe it's a rule that all of the pastries served there have to follow. It's entirely possible.
To be honest, I think that having a cafe on campus is a positive idea. After all, coffee is meant to be consumed, not used as a deadly weapon, as often happens in the PGH breezeway.
I cannot count the times I have personally witnessed a strong wind blow steaming hot coffee all over an innocent victim.
Yeah, it's funny, but the blistered welts somehow overshadow the humor.
I don't know, maybe it's just me. Juicy welts just aren't my thing.
Even though people do not frequent Biscotti's now, unknowing freshmen will definitely do so in the upcoming fall. They'll think of it as the only way to experience any form of fun on campus - once they actually escape the darkness of the UC Games Room, that is.
We have a games room. We have a gym. We have a cafe. Somewhere around, I am sure there's an underground strip joint.
The only thing left to be desired is a club. Really. I can see it now: cheaply decorated rooms with black and red walls and no liquor.
Strobe lights would be flashing everywhere, and people would go blind.
The same songs would be played every night in the same order because the owner would forget to make new tapes.
Maybe even heart-stopping breakthrough acts will find their start there. A new, greasy-boy group - that's all we need.
It's not altogether negative. UH would get all sorts of press coverage because all the high school students would break their curfews just to see the club.
Don't try to run. It's inevitable. Even so, it just can't happen fast enough.
Mahmoudi, a sophomore French and German major, impatiently awaits the opening of a discoteca at UH.