Yale sets the bait for yet another parent trap

With the 'rents on their way and only seconds left to prepare, A&E proves that happiness is relative

SHAWN CHENG/YH

It's the least fun weekend of the year—that is, unless your parents enjoy getting wasted at Viva's and spend ing the rest of the evening throwing up on those statues in Morse. But for those of us with normal folks, Parents' Weekend implies Union League reservations, singing group hell, and hundreds of dollars spent on "Yale Mom" cappuccino mugs. A&E makes its bed, does its homework, shoves the porn under its mattress, and prepares for the coming of ma and pa.

That's all `folks'

So my parents are in town and I don't have any plans. What do I do?

This shouldn't be such a hard one for me. I mean, I never have any plans, whether my parents are here or not. With them in town, it'll be automatic fun. All I need for a good time is someone sitting around my apartment asking questions like "How many cockroaches do you share this place with?" and "Is there a different bathroom I could use?" But look, the main thing isn't what to do with your parents but what to have them do for you. Here are just a few things parents can be used for: mopping, laundry (this includes the uncanny ability to possess quarters), driving, finding members of the opposite sex who share your religious/ethnic background, alphabetizing, having money. Just last Parents' Weekend, my parents and I drove out to a synagogue where I was able to meet three wife candidates, thanks to my newfound cleanliness and sizable dowry.

But seriously, most parents would be pretty content just to sit around your place all day as long as you could find them a usable toilet. They like to think they're getting to know what your life is like. And they are, in a way, except that in your life, you're chugging 40s of Olde English while sitting around your place and occasionally using the bathroom to vomit. Which is just to say, if you're going to do something on the spur of the moment, it's most important to know what not to do.

Here are a few tips: don't go to Atticus. I don't know where to begin with this one. For one thing, their coffee is absolute piss. The lighting is worse than a BBC teleplay. The service is slower than a constipated grandmother, the tables are as close as a pack of freshmen, the book selection rivals only B. Dalton's in its depth, and I once heard someone there ask her date, "So...what's your zip code?" I hope I make myself clear. Every Parents' Weekend, a million people go to Atticus. Don't be one of them.

Here's another place not to go on your way past Atticus: the British Art Center. Why? Because it's a whole center dedicated to British art, that's why. There are maybe two good paintings there: the one of the zebra, and the one of the lion attacking the horse. And chances are, your parents won't like them anyway. They'll have indigestion from eating at Atticus.

And whatever you do, please don't take your parents to the Yale Bookstore. You'll just end up all dressed in the sweatshop-made apparel of the university we all know you attend because you shop at the Yale Bookstore unlike anyone unaffiliated with Yale.

Look, if you want something to do, just take your parents to the Grove Street cemetery and have fun with such zingers as, "This is where I'm going to be buried someday" and "I want a coffin that says `Yale' on it somewhere."

Otherwise, it's fine with me if you sit around your apartment. Your parents don't need anything sexy to do, because if you think about it, they've already had a lot more sex than you.

—Ian Blecher

Everybody in genes

When people ask me where I came from, I reply without hesitation, "My mommy's tummy, of course." But when people ask me where my fashion sense came from, I promptly answer, "Uhhhh, I don't know." Panache, flair, and style, you see, are not as easily inherited as noses, eyes, and chins. Not that this is necessarily an unfortunate situation. I guarantee that, unlike Dolly the sheep, a majority of children go out of their way to avoid any parental cloning, at least on the stylistic tip. The utterly bizarre phenomenon known as "Parents' Weekend" provides an interesting anthropological expedition into the world of parental chic, a world that is completely distinct from that of its most direct descendants.

Being the empiricist that I am, a simple visual survey of the proud moms and pops ambling about the campus provides a plethora of theories for the fashion-minded. In addition to killing the highly festive atmosphere of our fair campus, parents are a veritable pupu platter of fashion faux pas. There are shirts that are wince-worthy, shoes that inspire a subtle tongue-clucking, and pants that raise the eyebrows ever so slightly.

To counter the idea that our providers just do not care about fashion in general, I propose that parents must simply have their own ideas about what looks fresh (although I cannot imagine what gets rejected in the process). No need to "frat" that hat—leave that brim as flat and broad as the day you got it free with a full tank of gas. Slacks— because the older you get the less you refer to them as pants—do not need to go past your ankles. They will get pulled up when they inevitably get caught in their dress socks. If you did not know, comfortable or pointy is the way to go when it comes to shoes in mom and dad's closet.

Of course, you should value your parents for more than the way they look. Most mommies and daddies inculcate the values and general modes of comportment that make us the people we are. Since the dawn of time, or at least the '50s, children have seen fit to rebel against their parents with both good and bad results. A more tangible rebellion, though, is seen in the overt clash of parent and child styles.

The winner in the battle of nature versus nurture is crystal clear in the fashion world. You may have your mother's eyes, but you definitely do not have her kitten sweatshirt. This school creates a unique quandary, though, as many students seem to be gravitating towards an awkward and ill-fated parental wardrobe. I say fight the power now while you still can.

And if you're looking for my parents, they are the ones in the polyester Sansabelt slacks, nurse shoes, and peach striped shirts.

—Jamil V. Moen

Deaf jam

If I'm taking the Pamela Anderson Lee poster out of my bathroom and if I'm consciously trying not to use the word "fuck" in my Herald article for this week, then it must be Parents' Weekend. And that's a good thing because I'm all out of flex dollars. And clean clothes. Not to mention my television's broken. And so is my alarm clock.

So it's Parents' Weekend and you don't know what to do with your folks. If you're a freshman trying to show mom and dad that college hasn't been a big fat waste of money, just show them your alcohol collection (all freshmen have one—it's the law). But for those of us whose parents are visiting for what seems like the millionth time, coming up with creative ways to entertain them has become more difficult.

So you don't want to see the Whiffenpoofs. Or the Spizzwinks (?). Or the Duke's Men. Or Proof of the Pudding. Or Living Water (are they even a singing group?). Or any one of the 100 other singing groups with Mad-Lib inspired names like "Secrets and Elis" or "The VDs." That's understandable. Why singing groups are such an integral part of Parents' Weekend events anyway is totally beyond me. "Mom, Dad, it's great to see you—now let's go watch 12 extremely effeminate guys scat."

I don't get it. I mean, seriously, I really don't get it. Thousands of parents fly thousands of miles to hear thousands of renditions of "On Broadway." But, you need to attend, like, every single performance because this version is so much more inspiring, man.

No way. I don't buy it. Parents' Weekend is not the time to attend your first improv comedy show. It's about showing off who you know and what you've done (or is it what you know and who you've done—sorry, Mom). That's why you've spent the past week learning the names of as many people as possible (so you can pretend to be popular, of course). Besides, the only place you really need to go with your folks this weekend is Super K.

So, as a warning to parents, do not attend any singing group performances this weekend. Unless your kid's in a singing group, in which case (your child's singing group's goes here) is by far the best. I hear that his/her "On Broadway" solo is die for.

—Aaron Zamost

Back to A&E...