I Love Cheeseburgers & Fries

By Betty Lavandero

According to the National Association of Anorexia Nervosa & Associated Disorders, at least 30 million people of all ages and genders suffer from an eating disorder in the U.S. I never thought I would be a statistic, but in December of 2012, I became a part of those 30 million.

“I’m not getting in there,” I said. My mom was patiently waiting outside of her gray minivan on a freezing December day. I knew she was slowly losing her patience with me.

“Oh yes you are,” she said. I let out an exasperated breath and hesitantly opened the passenger door.

I had been struggling with body image issues my whole life. I began to notice different patterns with my eating and exercising habits when I was in the 7th grade. It slowly became an obsession for me. I knew how many calories were in every meal I consumed and I would find ways to work out three to four times a day. I was walking down an unhealthy road, and I wasn’t sure how to stop. When my mom finally expressed her concern to me she asked if I would go to a treatment program. I knew it was either give into my mom’s concerns or continue to be sick. There was only one option.

“We Wish You a Merry Christmas” was humming on the radio station as we pulled into the parking lot. There was a huge porch covered in rocking chairs with girls sitting outside enjoying fresh air. Some were reading books quietly to themselves, some were playing cards and laughing with fellow patients.

“I want you to just try one session. It’s going to be what’s best for you,” said my mom. She reached her arms out and waited for my hug.

As I entered the treatment center I looked around the room for an excuse to leave. Thankfully, I couldn’t find any. The walls were a light, calming pink with photographs on every surface of happy women (of all sizes). I approached the receptionist desk to check in, but she already knew. She gently nodded to the open door at the end of the hallway. I gave her a half-smile and walked in.

The chairs were assembled in a half circle with almost every seat filled. Not one woman looked the same: different sizes, different hair colors, different outfits, different attitudes. It was comforting to know that I was not alone and that women from all walks of life were sharing the same battle. I quickly found an open seat and got comfortable.

“Hi,” said a quiet voice next to me. “I’m Lauren,” she said, “what was it?”

She meant: “What was the event that finally got you to decide to enter a treatment center?”

“Thanksgiving,” I said, “I couldn’t eat. It’s usually my favorite holiday.” She nodded her head understandingly.

The room, though calm, was eerily silent.

Suddenly, a beautiful woman entered the room. She had beautiful blonde hair and the bluest eyes I had ever seen. She was tall and graceful. She walked towards the front of the room and sat down.

“Hello everyone,” she said. She had a big, genuine smile. “My name is Brittany and I’m going to be facilitating this group session,” she said. Brittany went on to share her experience with her eating disorder with the group. She had been diagnosed at the age of 12 and was in treatment until she was 22. She was a dancer with the New York City Ballet and attributed the pressure of staying thin as a performer with the progression of her eating disorder. She was sent into treatment after fainting during a ballet performance due to malnutrition.

It was comforting to learn that someone as beautiful and perfect as Brittany also struggled. It made me feel less alone.

“Who wants to share their story?” she calmly asked. The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop.

“No one?” she asked.

“We have an hour together, it would help if someone shared,” she said. Frustration was building in her voice.

“Okay,” she said. She slammed the notebook that was sitting in her lap closed. “I like cheese fries with bacon on top,” she told all of us.

“Ben & Jerry’s,” a voice suddenly spoke.

“Medium rare steak with a side of potatoes.”

“Taco Bell.”

“Cheeseburger and fries,” I said with a laugh.

Before I knew it, every woman had talked about what food item they loved the most. It was the first time food had been brought up not as a villain. It was not something we were afraid of, but something to love.

“I hope that taught us all something”, she said. “We are all here with our own stories and our own problems, but when we work together, we make each other better and healthier”

Lavandero is a public relations senior 

Making Memories with Granddad

By Kathryn Hennon

“Oh, why don’t you pass over a couple of those Swedish fish,” Jack said as tilted his glasses down his nose. This may not have been the most famous Granddad quote, but it is definitely one I will always remember.

During Christmas break of my junior year in college, I decided that I wanted to spend my summer at an internship in a new city. I had been coming home to Missouri the past few summers, but I was ready to move on. However, my best internship offer happened to come from a boutique public relations firm about 15 minutes down the road from my childhood home in St. Louis. Although not consistent with my original plan, when summer arrived, I headed back on my 12-hour drive to the Midwest.

I do not think I could have predicted on that drive how important it would be for me to be home that summer. About a month prior to my return, my family received some news about the health of my grandfather. He had congestive heart failure as well as stage 4 prostate cancer that had traveled to his bones. It was quite a shock for our family.

When I arrived in early May, the first activity on my agenda was to visit my grandparents. I knew of Granddad’s condition, but I was not prepared to see him looking how he did. He was incredibly frail and thin to the bone. His eyes were sunken in and conveyed helplessness. He could no longer move around on his own. He spent his days sitting in a chair, listening to his portable radio from the 90’s, and taking medicine every hour.

My grandparents’ house had transformed from a welcoming home filled with love, laughter, and memories to a dreary, medical unit filled with nurses, walkers, and constant prayer. The long dining room table where my big Italian family had spent many Christmas dinners together was now filled end-to-end with an array of medications. Their house was no longer a familiar place.

Because my internship did not begin until May, my grandmother asked me to help out with Granddad’s care. I immediately said yes. My duties included helping out with his laundry, organizing his medications, taking him to get daily blood work done, and essentially babysitting him. Granddad despised sitting around and when we were not looking he tried to get up on his own and go fiddle around in the garage. I think he knew how dangerous it was for him to attempt this, but I believe he thought it was better to fall on his way then to sit in his chair all day.

Looking back on this sad time, I now can see the light that pushed me forward: spending precious one-on-one time with my grandfather. We discussed his watermelon stand he ran on a street corner in 1946.

“The trick was to put a little salt on it before taking a bite,” he said.

He told me the tales about his famous cat “Otto” and how he saved the city from robbers. He even told me the game-winning secret to the grandchildren’s favorite game “Swami.”

On his last day, I felt discouraged that he would not eat any of his lunch. He was feeling down and was silent. I pulled out my favorite candy out of my purse and began to munch as I contemplated how to cheer him up. “Oh, why don’t you pass over a couple of those Swedish fish,” he said as I looked up with a smile.

So on his last day, my Granddad and I both ate our favorite candy as we and enjoyed each other’s company as grandfather and granddaughter. It was a simple moment that turned into a memory that I will cherish forever.

Hennon is a public relations senior 

The Ambition of Ali

By Michael Stewart

Ambition is a quality that many students at the University of South Carolina would say they possess.  But perhaps no student epitomizes that drive more than Ali Mullane.  Mullane is a senior from Bridgeport, New Jersey majoring in public relations.

While some public relations students are content just getting a job at an agency, Mullane has higher aspirations.  “I would love to work for Edelman, a public relations agency in New York, and maybe head the firm at some point,” says Mullane.

To really get the full story of Mullane’s ambitions, dive into her family’s history.  Her father has worked in marketing for her entire life meaning a lot of moving during childhood.  “We moved a ton, and people always think I’m an army brat for it,” Mullane says. Not only was her father in marketing and public relations, but her grandfather was as well.

In fact, Mullane’s grandfather was a big part of the AT&T and Bell company split of 1984.  Mullane’s grandfather’s biggest piece of advice in public relations was that you have to have writing skills to be successful, which is big reason why she is taking Journalism 540 this semester.

Mullane already has honed her writing as an intern for USA Today. She considers that to be one of her greatest successes.  “I had to work really hard to get it (USA Today internship) and submit a bunch of applications and it was a little nerve-wracking,” Mullane added.  She says her Journalism 291 and 436 professor, Dr. Webster, greatly influenced her writing, and she what she learned working for USA Today in New York City. Mullane also looks up to Anna Wintour, editor of Vogue as a strong feminist.

Never feeling settled was a large part of Mullane’s childhood.  That carried over into her college years.  She started college at the University of Indiana, then transferred to the University of Pittsburgh, until finally settling on the University of South Carolina. Though some would not be comfortable with this, Mullane is content.  She says travel is one of her main interests. Her life goal is to visit every country in the world.  She covered a good chunk of them studying abroad this past semester in Dublin, Ireland.  Mullane visited 14 countries while she was overseas.

Stewart is a multimedia journalism senior 

By Daniel McGinley

McKenna’s Rise to Fame


What if I were to tell you that Grace McKenna has dreamt about being a broadcast journalist since she was a little girl?  The Atlanta native is in her third year at the University of South Carolina Honors College as a broadcast journalism major.  McKenna said that the greatest success of her life was “completing her college applications and getting accepted into her dream school at the University of South Carolina.”  

In the near future, McKenna sees herself working many journalism jobs, shooting her own stories on politics, and hopefully living in a capital city.  She gained her best experience this past year interning with WIS-TV station shadowing reporters.

However, this future broadcast journalist has more to her life than the average college student.  How many people can say they accounted for thousands of girls rushing sororities and made a pledge class with over 300 girls?  McKenna took on being recruitment chair for Alpha Gamma Delta while simultaneously taking 6 honors college classes.

 How does she do it all? “I’ve always wanted to live my life with a purpose and to the fullest.”, she said.   She has always loved bonding with her peers since she was in theatre shows growing up.

McKenna says she is the person she is today because of her grandfather. “My grandfather is the most encouraging person I’ve ever met amongst other things.  He will give you the smartest advice and make you think about life from a totally different perspective.”, she said.  

McKenna and her grandfather were always together when she was growing up.  She says he built the confidence in her to be an aspiring journalist one day.  McKenna is such an outgoing person, that she will answer tough questions.  If she could switch lives with anyone in the world for a year, who would it be?  “I would want to be any actress, specifically Judi Dench or Julia Roberts.  I can’t imagine what an actress’s every day would be like but I would love to figure out.”

So if she could take credit for anything in this world, what would it be and why?  “I would love to have credit for the internet.  To be the reason how everyone is reading their news, watching their shows, playing their games etc., would be a dream come true.  There isn’t one person we can give credit to for the internet and I think it would be a neat thing to see my name get credit for it.”

McGinley is a public relations senior

Growing Up with an Incarcerated Parent

By Caroline Grigg

I was 12 years old. It was January, and the second semester of my seventh-grade career had begun. I answered a phone call from my sister with the words “urgent,” “arrested,” and “bankrupt” being all my brain could comprehend. I found out that my dad got arrested for committing a ponzi scheme.

The following is my experiences of growing up with an incarcerated parent. Not all situations are the same, but I can speak for most of the 2.7 million children with a parent incarcerated. It changes your version of “childhood.” According to Pew Research, 1-in-28 children in America know what this experience is like. So, this is my take for the other 27 children.

My dad spent seven months on house arrest. He wore a thick, heavy ankle bracelet that was impossible to take off. While on house arrest, he couldn’t go outside his set boundaries, which consisted of the route he took from home to his new construction job and back. Now, as a child this process was difficult to understand. This meant there was no time for him to do anything after his work hours, unless it was from home. These were the moments this lifestyle became obviously abnormal to me, but even more so to my friends.

The stigma that follows kids with incarcerated parents is known. I began to receive my daily dose of pity comments from teachers at school and all the kids who used to play at my house were no longer allowed to. The parents muttered words about my family, and as we all know, kids are sponges that soak up everything they hear.

My dad left the first day of my eighth-grade year for prison. His sentence was 10 years in the Atlanta Federal Prison Camp, which was intimidating and the barbed wire fence surrounding the whole property made matters worse. I saw my dad during visitation times only. This meant Saturday morning through Sunday afternoon. The hours went quickly when I was happy, and they moved like molasses when I hated him. My emotions for the visit depended on how many things he missed in my life that week.

The visitation process at most all facilities is exhausting too. We would drive hours and arrive at a cheap motel. Wake up time was 5:30 a.m. We made sure we were sitting outside the prison gates by 6:30 am. The guards opened the doors at 7:30 a.m., but the line of visitors hoping to be the first one in started quickly.

Some guards were friendly but most were rude. They had zero regard for the families walking through the fence gates and what this must be like for them. Especially the visitors with babies, most guards would tear them apart when search time began.

After filling out paperwork and showing IDs, they would call your inmate. Then the wait began. Sometimes they would get the inmates five minutes later. Other times the doors would finally open for inmates to come into the visiting room some 45 minutes later. Also, physical touch is not allowed, so my dad and I would always have to sneak a quick pick-me-up hug behind the opened door.

After five years, they released my dad due to a court case with the 6th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals and good behavior. During these years, they transferred my dad to three different camps, because the system picks where they want inmates to be. He missed out on my eighth grade and high school graduations. Also, he missed prom and dances, the soccer State Championship games, and who I was becoming in my teen years. And to be blunt, it was the most painful experience I’ve had yet.

So, growing up with an incarcerated parent is nothing normal. We write letters instead of phone calls. We see each other twice a month instead of every day. We survive paycheck-to-paycheck. And we cry every visit from the emotional roller-coaster prison takes you on. But, I learned not to care what others thought of my family.  I became independent and strong. And I realized that “normalcy” in life doesn’t exist. For this I will forever be thankful.

Grigg is a public relations senior

Where It All Started


By Daniel McGinley

Where It All Started


A recent family reunion altered my life and my perspective on my family.  My mother’s research into our family history brought it all about making me realize past events do, indeed, shape the future.  

The man is responsible for my existence and of the entire McGinley side of my family tree was not even a blood relative.  James Kerr was married to my great grandmother and the only information rendered from ancestry.com was his year of death in 1914.  Spurred by the fact that he deserved recognition, she then sent away for his death certificate, which revealed drowning as cause of death.  Not satisfied with this limited detail, my mother spent hours combing New York newspaper archives until the luck of the Irish prevailed.  I am grateful she did, as Kerr’s tragic story has had a profound effect on my life.  

The newspaper story reads like a novel and gives harrowing details of the last moments of James Kerr’s life.  The headline reads, “Wife Sees Husband Drown in Bay” and this alone was enough to break my heart for the great grandmother I never knew.  The article goes on to explain that James Kerr, 31, decided to rent a pleasure boat with a friend and his spouse, captained by James Hart.  Mr. Kerr was respected for his character and was well known in New York.  

Kerr fell overboard when the boat was hit by a wave from a passing steamer and he did not know how to swim.  Hart, an expert swimmer, stopped the boat and jumped in to save Kerr when he rose to the surface.  With painstaking details, the story goes on to explain that Kerr clung to Hart, as drowning victims are known to do, rendering Hart helpless.  Both men disappeared under the waves and Hart almost drowned in his heroic efforts to save Kerr.  Hart was exhausted as he dragged the “insensible form” of  Kerr to the boat and lost his grip at the last moment.  The ladies on board watched breathlessly as Kerr fell beneath the water.  

My great grandmother had to be restrained from jumping in after him and fainted in despair.  The boat traveled around the area for quite some time in the hopes the body might come to the surface but it did not.  

According to the death certificate, his body was found two days later on a nearby beach.  The certificate is signed by the undertaker, Thomas McGinley.  According to family lore, my great grandmother was given special attention at her husband’s wake and funeral by my great grandfather, Thomas McGinley – and the rest is history.  

This is an incredible part of my family ancestry.  If not for that fateful day when Mr. Kerr drowned in New York Bay, I would never have been born.  It is an algorithm of life.  It was 103 years ago and every single thing that happened that day led to the fact that I exist today.  I consider that if the steamer that caused the wave was delayed or if James Kerr knew how to swim, I would not have been born.  

Life can change in an instant and every second of every day should be appreciated.  I am forever grateful to James Kerr who has taught me to seize the day.


McGinley is a public relations senior

Media Bias Reaching New Levels

By Calvin Mitchener

It is not difficult to encounter bias in the mainstream news media. Bias has in fact become a normality in the world we live in today. One simply needs to go online or turn on the television to any of the popular news outlets to find it. Depending on which source is chosen, you will receive a watered down, left wing or right wing take on whatever news has occurred that day. The bias in the news media is particularly alarming in political coverage. With the lack of unbiased media sources, it can be problematic to find an unfiltered and truthful take on the news.

Fox News is a popular channel among conservatives, mainly because it tells them what they want to hear. The Fox News website predictably features news spun to be positive about conservatives and the Republican Party. Meanwhile, those searching for a liberal take on the news can tune in to CNN or MSNBC.

CNN regularly features scathing takes on President Donald Trump. The anti-Trump rhetoric pumped out by CNN and other networks even prompted the president to declare war on what he calls “fake news”. Fake news or not, the bias against Trump is clear. A study by Harvard researchers showed that, during the 2016 election, CNN’s coverage of Trump was 93 percent negative. On several levels, those figures are cause for concern. Even if Trump is a controversial figure, the numbers tell that networks like CNN made a deliberate effort to portray him in a negative light.

The polarization of the news media reached its zenith during the 2016 election. News outlets took advantage of the historical levels of interest in the election by publishing whatever takes they could on Trump and his equally controversial opponent Hillary Clinton. It was hard not to open your internet browser or turn on your television without seeing news on how much of a sexist Trump was or how Hillary was a lying crook. How is it possible to learn the proper facts about the candidates when the media only provides news on one extreme or the other?

I found it frustrating to sit through last year’s election and the nonstop coverage around it. I felt misguided when after a debate, I checked CNN to see their declaration that Trump bombed and Hillary won the debate handedly. Meanwhile if I checked Fox News I would see a forthright account of how Trump dominated the debate and talked circles around Hillary. I was someone who was trying to learn the intricacies of public policy and the coverage around the 2016 election successfully alienated me from this process.

I imagine I am not the only one who is critical of the bias state of our mainstream news media. There must be others who feel the need for an ounce of journalistic integrity in the divisive era we live in today. I believe the fact that these media sources are only reporting one side of the story contributes to the culture divide that is becoming more apparent in 2017. Perhaps if these news outlets I have mentioned could focus more on reporting the truth and less about fitting their own agenda, the public might be a little better off.

Mitchener is a print journalism senior

A Love Supreme, New York

By Kaleb Partilla

Rebellion, drugs, sex, graffiti, self-inflicted skateboarding wounds and unrest.

These are the ingredients of the global streetwear brand Supreme.

It was created in 1994 by James Jebbia on Lafayette Street in SoHo, Manhattan. Its simple logo is modeled from Barbara Kruger’s postmodern agitprop artworks, and is the new language of many fresh cult inductees.

The brand’s controversial messages and desired fashion pieces still resonate with the original edginess it brought to Manhattan in 1994. The limited stock and hype surrounding each clothing item creates an intense desire for its clientele. Supreme releases its clothing installments every Thursday at 11:00 a.m. Lafayette Street turns into a wild Black Friday scene every Wednesday night during the shop’s open season.

It is clear why the New York Police Department must intervene every few weeks. People have been mugged and robbed, and store fronts and streets are mobbed weekly.

This is due to the underground economy within the brand. Each Supreme clothing item is seen as a piece, and its fans know exactly when each garment was released. People can wear the items and resell them years later because the desire for Supreme is so large in popular culture.

Five years ago I was a pioneer. Each week I would ask for a bathroom pass and would wait near the bathroom outside my class to buy Supreme online. Clothing and accessories sell out in seconds so it is a rush to make and complete an order. Next is Instagram. I always made a post at 5:00 p.m. EST to get the most traffic, and began flipping multiple packages weekly. Basic economics and mail company regimens are both things I learned during my personal Mary-Kay venture.

Online Supreme bots became widely popular in 2012. This means users pay a certain fee to check out on the high-tech website automatically. Two students attending a California college wrote a code for Supreme bots, and told Wired Magazine they made at least $25,000 on slow Thursdays.

Profiting off another brand is wrong, right? Yes and no in Supreme’s case. It is true James Jebbia stole Barbara Kruger’s concept for her iconic propaganda creations. James Jebbia did the only thing he knows how to do which is make streetwear. However, Jebbia actually took the idea for the Supreme logo from the brand Fuct. The brand was created in 1990 in Los Angeles, and released Barbara Kruger-style t-shirts before Supreme established themselves in 1994.

Streetwear can be difficult to govern when it comes to certain legal disputes. Supreme caught a few cease and desist orders over their 23 years of business, and even threatened their own lawsuit for a brand which was later dropped in 2013. The same year Supreme filed for a trademark for their coined and popularized box logo design.

Five years since my bathroom stakeouts and I am still talking about this brand. I’ve seen more people create their own streetwear spinoff of the box logo in the past year than I did during my entire time selling Supreme.

Barbara Kruger disapproves of Supreme and the brand’s logo but her, I shop therefore I am, piece from 1987 still speaks volumes about society today.

Partilla is a broadcast journalism senior

The Girl Who Cried Disease

By Ann Baldwin

Last month, WebMD recorded a total of 153.8 million website visits for the month of August and there’s a good chance I account for at least one million of them.  I would like to say that I haven’t always been this way but fear of the unknown has been one of the few constants in my life.

When I was 6, my irrational fear of the dark, exacerbated by my irrational fear of “E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial,” left me crying each night, begging my family members to let me sleep in their room.  I was determined to save myself from what might have been lurking in the darkness.  This fear continued until I was 8.  In middle school, an innocent biology lesson on Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) resulted in years of worry about the risk of potential infection.  Fast forward to my college genetics class, the holy grail of silent diseases, it was my own personal version of hell—ninth circle, with no Virgil in sight.

For hypochondriacs like me, knowledge is the opposite of power and internet websites like WebMD have only made matters worse by providing us with a self diagnosis dictionary, complete with diagrams and drop down menus.  Anxiety fuels the mind better than a carbohydrate and once you start searching for a diagnosis, it’s a downward spiral.  General symptoms turn into life threatening diseases in an instant—take it from someone who diagnosed herself with meningitis last week.

In April, my worst nightmare came true and I received my first real diagnosis.  The diagnosis was minor—very minor—but learning that something had been wrong without me knowing about it sent my “fear of the unknown” into overdrive.  WebMD turned into a bible that I studied religiously.  The byproduct wasn’t pretty and my doctor was far from impressed by the hysterical five-paragraph email I sent to him at 2 a.m. the following week.  He never answered any of my questions but he did advise that I stop Googling my symptoms.

Being dubbed “The Girl Who Cried Disease” isn’t easy to accept when your mind is busy convincing your body that something might actually be wrong.  And while I like to call my symptom searches “investigating,” I know habitual fear of the unknown has resulted in an unhealthy amount of medical anxiety.  The truth is, a wolf may eat you once but anxiety will eat you for a lifetime and it’s a hard cycle to break, especially for people like me.

I’ve come to realize that the more I think about what might be wrong, the worse I feel—a concept that may seem obvious to someone who isn’t a constant worrier but for me it was a revelation. Hypochondria is a vicious cycle, like an ex-boyfriend that you can’t shake off, it leaves you begging for affirmation that you know you don’t actually want. And while the concept of it all may seem like a funny joke to outsiders—I admit sometimes even I have to laugh—when fear of the unknown consumes your head the punchline isn’t as funny.  Ignorance may be bliss but information is my drug of choice and the only rehab option available is reminding myself that we are all dying, just not as quickly as the internet convinces us we are.

Baldwin is a public relations senior

Drowned in your laughter

By Michael Stewart

Feeling something meaningful is one of the most personal experiences in a person’s life.  It’s tough to truly express how fully meaningful something is.  No amount of talking, no matter the level of intoxication, can truly let someone else in on the individual intricacies that make us feel the way we do.

As any rabid Grateful Dead fan- née “Dead-Head”-will tell you, you cannot simply dip a toe into the water of Grateful Dead fandom.  I can attest to this point.  I did not grow up in a Grateful Dead loving household.  My dad is a huge fan of classic rock, but cannot stand Jerry Garcia or the Grateful Dead.  As a result, I was not indoctrinated into the church of Jerry until I got to the eighth grade.

There was no special moment that made me fall under the spell binding melodies that the Dead belt out.  No weird Uncle got me high and put on old 78 records of Wake of the Flood, while moaning, “This is the way music is supposed to be heard, man.”  I was simply surfing YouTube, as I did a lot of nights, and I happened upon a psychedelic mix.  Naturally, I clicked on it.

It was not the first time I had heard music by the Grateful Dead before.  I had heard songs, but never a full album all the way through.  The psychedelic mix took me to the full album video of American Beauty.  I am not and have never been a big sleeper, but I knew when I got to the end of the album that I would not be sleeping the rest of the night, for I had many more albums to listen to.

From that point on I was a Dead-Head.  I’ve listened to every album at least twice, and the music relaxes me more than maybe anything else on earth. While I was going through chemotherapy infusions for lymphoma, I would put my headphones in and listen to the Dead while pretending to be asleep so no one would talk to me.  That calmed me incredibly as I faced intense adversity.

I’ve been through a lot of stuff with the Grateful Dead pumping through my head all the while, but I’ve never had a desire to see them live.  In my opinion, the Grateful Dead will never be the Grateful Dead again without Jerry Garcia, and he died in 1995. I will never go see Dead & Company in concert, despite opportunities to do so.

I think the best way I can relate this is through anecdotal television.  In the most recent season of BoJack Horseman one of the characters, Diane Ngyuen, is given a large gift by her husband Mr. Peanutbutter; a dog. (Great show, trust me.) The gift is a “Belle Room” which is like Belle’s library in Beauty and the Beast.  Ngyuen had mentioned to Mr. Peanutbutter that she wanted this as a child, and he then surprises her by having one put in their new house.  She is upset at this because having this thing almost destroys her memory of its grandeur as a child because now she has to live in it every day.  I feel the same way about the Dead.  If I were to see them now, as old men singing out of key, it would shatter my love and connection to the music that I have had for so long.

Stewart is a multimedia journalism senior