Mordechai Shinefield of Yeshiva University might as well change his name to William Miller (or R' Lester Bangs) after cranking out 1rst place in the first Rolling Stone Magazine writing competition dubbed appropriately:  “I'm From Rolling Stone.”   (cue the “…Hi, this is Ben Fong-Torres”)

Writers from around the country were asked to submit a peice on their local music scenes in 300 words or less.  Mordechai banged out a peice on the absurd eclectic music seeping into the hallways of his Washington Heights ghetto apartment building.  We've included the piece below. It is quite accurate. Although, I think everyone is a little disappointed that Mordechai left out that 2am Ice Cream truck whose haunting jingle has accounted for the sleepless nights of virtually every student, resident, crack addict who ever spent a night in the Heights.  Maybe that's the reason why they are turning up the Young Jeezy so loud, to drown out Mr. Frosty.

Good luck in the competition next rounds, Mordechai –  you do us proud.   Your writing, like Russell from Stillwater, is incendiary.

The peice is here.  Rolling Stone senior Editor Joe Levy comment's on Mordechai's peice here

by Mordechai Shinefield
Age: 22

485, 187th Street. If a hall of apartments can be a local music scene, mine is the Dionysian nexus of Washington Heights. Ten different apartments, ten different contributions mixed over the linoleum and discarded cigarette butts that form a welcome mat for visitors. The French roommates across the hall listen to dance music like Together and Nightwolf – they dance by sliding across the floor in their underwear like Tom Cruise in Risky Business. Down the hall, Young Jeezy's mixtape, bought at the corner of 186th and Saint Nick, has been playing non-stop until about two weeks ago, when DJ Green Lantern's Fort Minor: We Major replaced it. One of the Encendio collections always thumps from passing cars, or from one of the apartments; high-pitched frenzied voices shouting in Spanish, a smooth beat hustling in the background. The reggaeton makes the car's hood jump up, as though it too were dancing to the music. Down below our window, PPK – Russian trance – plays until the earliest hours of the morning. It dances around my own contribution, an X bootleg from the October 26th show in 1982. That is tonight. Tomorrow it will be Dylan flirting with Sean Paul, or Jack White duking it out with t.A.T.u. in the hallway. And sometimes, rarely, the music quiets to a hush, the words of the residents forming their own Phil Spector'esk layers of sound, against which contemplation sounds thick and nuanced. Then someone replaces the needle, hits the play button on their stereo, restarts their iPod playlist, and the music continues to play – late into the night.

— Rolling Stone

The YU Student Newspaper The Commentator covered it here