Last quarter, an applicant to UCLA Radio suggested that we include a crime section on our blog. While that might not be exactly in the spirit of Radio, we saw potential in it: Crimes Against Radio. Not the UCPD kind, but the kind of crime you’d want to report when you see someone barefoot in the communal shower stall. From navigating the trenches of Bruinwalk to dealing with persistent apartment stalkers, the Digi-Press department is Digi-Pressed. So kick back, commiserate with us, and cross your fingers that you don’t become a victim of these same crimes.
Chloe G: Bruinwalk petitioners asking if you care about the lives of whales
The B in Bruinwalk stands for battlefield. Everyday I loathe walking through those trenches–each step begs another person to come up and harass you for God knows what. I am simply a fish in this pond as they try to lure me into their boba drive or taunt you with “Do you think God is real??” With all that being said, there is the commander, the final boss that I face towards the end of the walk, as soon as I think I’m done.
The CALPIRG petitioners. Asking if you care about whales and their livelihoods. Asking if you dare to walk away from them and kill everything that they have worked for. And to them I simply say no. Those petitions could be filled with every single name at UCLA and I still wouldn’t bite the bait. How many of those petitions and bills have actually made a difference? Can you tell me what impacts you’ve actually made? I say these things, a blow right back to them. I call their bluff. I don’t believe they have anything to show.
Finally, I walk away with my AirPods in (I can’t hear you!) and go into Murphy Hall where I am 20 minutes late for my class. They will never get a signature out of me.
Lucy N: Removing your shoes inside your professor’s house
Picture this: you walk into your history professor’s house for a class dinner on a lovely Tuesday night (he had a flight on Wednesday during our usual class time and as the lovely and caring teacher he is, he made sure we would not miss out on class by inviting us over for dinner). Shoes stand piled up by the door right where you enter the house, so, like any human being would, you decide to remove your white and navy Onitsuka Tigers (yeah, I am on top of the trends, folks!). You figure your professor might not wantbe weird about outside dirt in his house. Who knows. You place the shoes in the pile beside the entryway. At that same moment, you lose your last shred of dignity as your socks make direct contact with the professor’s wood floors. Your professor greets you with a smile. You think you did good. Then, he lets out a little comment: “Oh, so you will be joining the shoeless members of the class tonight!” You look to the ground. You notice only about half of your fellow classmates that have already arrived are making sock-to-floor contact. You wish you could unzip your soul from the prison of your physical body. It’s too late. You have committed the crime of unprompted indoor shoe removal.
Clementine: Midvale stalker
In January of my Freshman year at UCLA, my five friends and I decided we wanted to move into an apartment for our Sophomore year. We felt ready to leave the socially draining and overstimulating dorms behind and make a happy little home for ourselves. We began the hunt and found the cutest three bedroom place on the sunny tree-studded Midvale avenue. We were thrilled and energized by the anticipation of the year ahead. That is until our elderly upstairs neighbor was found dead in his apartment– as he had been for three weeks– and wheeled out in a body bag past our front window as we kicked off the quarter with a pizza and wine housewarming. But the crime I’m writing about isn’t our dear neighbor’s passing; for that, there is no one to blame. It’s what came next, which eerily implied that our quaint little apartment had some serious bad juju.
“Jessica” appeared at our doorstep part-way through Spring quarter, peering through our peephole and adamantly requesting to have a tour of our apartment. We told her to call our landlord, which she proceeded to do…40 times in the following ten minutes. Jessica continued to request a tour of our apartment. She knocked on our door every night for the next week and drove in circles around the block, slowing down each time she passed our sweet little home. We thought, “we must have decorated it really nicely!” Why else would someone want to move into our apartment so badly? Jessica contacted everyone who worked for the rental management company and continued to circle the apartment even after she was asked to leave by the Westwood police department. She did not give up. Some might call this a stalker, but we called her a fan. (No but really she was a stalker).
Weeks went by. Sometimes we saw Jessica, and sometimes she seemed to be gone for days at a time. They began repairs on the old man’s vacant apartment above us, and life went on. I moved out for the summer and did not alert the two girls I had found to sublease me and my roommates’ room about our “fan,” seeing as she had seemed to have lost interest in our Midvale unit. I was wrong. The summer saw a resurgence in Jessica’s fervor, and she expanded her focus to every apartment on the block. Yep. Requesting tours left and right, demanding to be let into apartments, and scraping Facebook Marketplace for any sign of a vacancy on the block, Jessica was back in the zone. The whole block banded together and finally got restraining orders against her, which seemed to finally put things to rest. My sweet little apartment saw Midvale become a crime scene in more instances than one that year, but I still love it. The trees are just so pretty!
Dylan: Electric scooters
An open letter to you freaks who ride Bird scooters,
Please stop. For the safety of yourself and those around you. (But especially those around you because I’m tired of fearing for my life on the Hill.)
The environmentalist inside me loathes the fact that I’m discouraging alternative, eco-conscious forms of transport, but you leave me no choice.
You terrorize the streets and the sidewalks, making it hell to drive or walk anywhere. How do y’all neglect the rules of the road and pedestrian rules? Is the “dismount zone” on campus just a suggestion to you sick freaks???
And why does nobody wear helmets? Y’all are bombing De Neve Drive with sheer luck on your side. Using protection should be any college student’s generl rule of thumb.
My final and most convincing argument is probably the fact that I have almost been run over… twice… inside of a residential hall. The last thing I want to see when I open my bedroom door is a menace on a scooter zooming toward me, giving me a heart attack at nine in the morning. God forbid you walk 20 steps down a hallway.
Walk. Be normal. Stop running people over (please).
Xoxo, Dylan
Shayona: The Difference Between Devious Licks and Theft
September 2023. The year that I finally moved into a Westwood apartment. After years of suffering through the never-ending slope of the hill, enduring classic triples and sharing a bathroom with god-knows-who, my roommates and I had a place to call our own. As any group of college-aged girls can tell you, a home isn’t a home until it has atleast one statement accessory that the entire apartment’s mental health depends upon. For us, that was our life-size skeleton, who we named Harold. Harold lived on our balcony, holding a red-solo cup, sitting on a barstool, always ready to lend an understanding ear. He had seen us through our very worst and our very best; been there through failed classes, and failed situationships alike. So imagine our dismay, when one fateful Thursday night, we returned home to find him missing.
Picture this: a barstool toppled on its side, a red solo cup strewn across the floor…and a skeleton nowhere to be seen. Are you horrified? We were too. Our emotional-support skeleton had been stolen by a group of Roccos-returnees. Sporting tight black tops, and wide-leg, light-wash blue jeans, we could only imagine the gymnastics they had gone through to reach our 15-foot high balcony and yank our skeleton from us.
Now, I understand a good devious lick. I have woken up to many a traffic-cone, bathroom-sign or beer poster on the floor of my bedroom after a night out. However, I have NEVER, NEVER gone as far as to take someone’s emotional-support skeleton away from them. Who in their right mind would see a well-accessorised, well-loved skeleton and tear him away from his family. My home is not a shopping mall for you to pick and choose from. My skeleton is not a dorm accessory for you to take. Find the difference between a frat house, and a frat home.
Let me spell it out for you. A devious lick is a drunken side quest to find an object no one cares about and take it home with you. The joy from devious licks comes from the process of obtaining the item – not the item itself. You wake up to find said item, and then wish you never took it in the first place since it’s now cluttering your room and has absolutely no utility.
Dear Harold-robbers, if I ever, EVER find you, you better count your days. There is nothing you can do to make up for the emotional damage that you have caused my family. Your only chance is to return him safe and sound – perhaps with a few bottles of wine, some Jägermeister and definitely a box of chocolates. You know where.
Yours in strong animosity,
A still-healing family
Dana: Singing in public
It’s been a long day and I’m in line at the Lollicup in Ackerman. I know that the wait to receive a drink is twice as long as the wait time to get to the counter, but nothing is going to stop me from getting my one (1) designated treat of the day.
My anticipation is ruined by the warbling of a person right behind me in line. What compels a soul to start a falsetto run at 4pm? Who would try to torture those around them with their misconceived notions of “harmony” and “melodiousness” in public? Who raised you to think that that was acceptable to do? Rhetorical questions aside, I want it to stop. Who cares if I’m afraid of confrontation? I’m doing a service to the public.
Of course, I don’t do anything except sharply swiveling around and give the offender a glare rivaling that of the eyebrow raised emoji. They sputter back, “Sorry..” and stop.
Another beautiful day in Westwood can now go on because of my brave actions here in the Lollicup line. My next goal: deciding if I want a simple boba tea or a slushie boba drink. Heroes still get dehydrated, after all.
