Books with Pretty Covers

Lately, I’ve been working on a seemingly simple life lesson. That tired, old phrase, “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” you’ve heard it right? Probably from your mother or a friend that has set you up on a hopeless blind date. It’s a great mantra, and I’m desperately trying to avoid the flashy, trendy facade of a book cover that catches my eye from time to time.

Saturday night, my roommates and I drove to Chicago to watch our friends’ band play. Rachel, my roommate, has a confusing, long-distance pre-relationship with the guitarist, (the real determinant for our trip) but Abby and I braced ourselves for a night of possibilities, partying with those oh-so-hip young Chicagoans. I even put on makeup to the chronic criticisms of my roommate, Ben, claiming that guys prefer girls who don’t wear makeup – another matter that merits a separate discussion.

At the show, at an apartment turned venue sitting under the rattling El tracks, Abby and I pointed out a few candidates for the evening, including the tight-jeaned, bearded, square-rimmed glasses and vintage t-shirt-wearing bassist of the opening band. Hip and attractive, he hosted the after party that we attended (after some ex-girlfriend drama between Rachel and her beau.)

Walking into the modern, high-ceiling loft apartment in downtown Chicago, I got a little excited when I saw the street bikes propped against the wall and the black and white photography produced on the living-room black screen that hung on the wall, spilling out onto the floor, like a tablecloth filled with unusual props and lighting equipment. How cool are Chicago kids?! Feeling optimistic and overly hip, I joined in the debauchery with shot after shot of whiskey. And as I fell down that familiar rabbit hole of good feelings and released inhibitions, the scenery all fell away, exposing this trendy Wonderland for its reality of a disgusting, decorated fraternity.

It began with the wrestling. Yes. Wrestling. The drunken band mates stripped to their boxers and fought each other on the living room floor to the cheers and grunts of their encouraging counterparts. We have pictures and videos that can easily be mistaken for another aggressive activity. The night only became more twilight zone-esque, including lighting each other on fire, high fiving over porn, Box Car Racer, indoor firework pranks, ear piercing with thumbtacks and considerable damage to the apartment. Rachel was long gone, and Abby and I became inconspicuous observers, studying (laughing at) this colony of primitive beings. The only boy there that seemed to notice a female presence was too ridiculous for words, winking, flexing and very suavely calling us “ladies.” To put it simply, it was the weirdest fucking night of my life.

Though haunting, it was a good lesson in book covers. All of the elements were in line: hip, smart-dressing musicians, downtown Chicago apartments, alcohol and youthful spirit; where did it go wrong? It was like I opened the book and all of the pages were blank, or at least bore resemblance to the tale of a frat party. Could it be that, once these boys are stripped to the core, the bike messenger and the bro are one in the same? I’m starting to think so. I’m not making a general, feministic men-bashing statement, but rather that, although we evolve during college – a period of enlightenment and supposed self-awareness, our genuine personalities remain constant whether they’re cool or not.

My old roommate, Bridget, is the poster child of hip. She dresses right. She bikes. She “cares” about the environment. She hangs out with fellow hip people and plays scrabble. And you should see her DVD and music collection! She understands college culture and is completely aware. And yet, she’s one of the most awful, disgusting people I’ve ever encountered. She’s self-absorbed, spoiled and ridiculously hypocritical . Her spoiled personality has tainted all of her relationships and yet, she can’t figure it out. It’s sad. She’s like a hollow shell of fashion and innovative pop culture.

Living in Chile, I had the “fortune” of being blonde and white. I could attract men that I couldn’t dream of in the states, and I did. This new-found ego trip got me into loads of trouble, and I finally swore not to judge anymore Chilean men based on whether or not I considered them attractive. The day after I took my oath, a classmate approached me about our group project. This Chilean was not attractive. Alvaro had long, 80’s metal hair and usually dressed in black. He didn’t hang out with the rest of the rugby players in class (those that I wanted to be associated with) but, honoring my promise, I forced down the disappointment of being paired with such an outcast. On the first class field trip, not knowing any other classmates yet, I clumsily asked to sit next to Alvaro. We talked casually, and I realized later that it was the first conversation that I had had with a Chilean without the hopeful finish line being my bedroom. Through class projects and assignments, Alvaro and I began to talk more and more, and then eventually sat next to each other in class and started to hang out outside of class. Our friendship was unlikely and odd, but sincere, and I cherish it. When I leftValdivia , it was Alvaro, not the buff rugby players that I partied with, that stood on the train platform waving goodbye with tears in his eyes.

I find it depressing that, at 21 years old, I’m still battling the seduction of vanity. I have awesome friends, some that dress well and listen to Daft Punk, and some that think Girl Talk is a pre-teen board game. One thing remains constant. They are all awesome people. I don’t follow Pitchfork and I still haven’t heard the new Radiohead album, but I do know how to brush away the character flaws and appreciate the sincerity and unique qualities of each of my friends. The rest – getting wrapped up in the hip culture, or the mental slip of being attracted to someone’s image or list of favorite movies on their Facebook profile – is a work in progress.

Tags: Chicago, Chile, culture, Facebook, hip, mantra, trendy