So your significant other — how's that for PC, Tufts? — is being a dick. He forgot your birthday. She made a joke about you being whipped in front of your bros. What are you going to do about it? Perhaps it's what you're not going to do that is more significant.
This week's topic is "bad tattoos." I'll note that I have two tattoos — one on my shoulder blade and another on my foot. I love tattoos. New ink is expensive, however, and a permanent piece of body art isn't something you want to "cheap out" on. The only thing that a cheap tattoo will get you is a faded blob of ink that looks horrible 20 years down the road. Spend the money and get something that's worth it.
Whenever anything goes wrong in my life, I tend to deflect blame onto something else, preferably an intangible or helpless entity. Step in a puddle? Bad karma. Fail a test? Teacher's fault; too hard. Mother gets mad at me for not flushing the toilet? Blame the dog.
I'm pretty sure I'm in the running for most freshman freshman. In the first few weeks of school, I have: Asked for directions to Carmichael, name−dropped the one senior I know at least once a conversation, asked for directions to Mail Services, done the Saturday night "where's−the−party waltz," only to end up in bed by midnight, asked for directions to Cabot and asked for directions to Hillsides.
If you've grown up in the last ten years or so, it's pretty much a given that you've watched movies like the "American Pie" series and "Road Trip" (2000). Aside from being generally low budget, raunchy and starring Sean William Scott, these movies all have another aspect in common. They all provide the viewer with an image of what college life is like in the United States. And more often than not, the image ingrained in the viewer is that college will feature a lot of out of control frat parties, complete with a fully stocked bar.
Every fall, we are bombarded with the portrait of the incoming freshman class, highlighting their lofty test scores, impressive accomplishments and perhaps with the most pride, their unprecedented diversity.
Hello, readers! I would like to take a moment to introduce myself. This column wasn't originally a column at all; rather, it was a blog that "almost happened" over the summer between my sophomore and junior years here at Tufts.
At an age when most spend their time puttering around retirement homes, expelling glorified tales of yore out the front exit and malodorous flatulence out the back, Larry Merchant inadvertently fired the final shot that saved boxing.
Cooking is about so much more than the assembly of ingredients. It's about building and combining flavors and textures in a way that creates something greater than the sum of its parts. The collective knowledge of both chefs and home cooks has yielded an arsenal of particular ingredients known for their unique properties that, without further alteration, add a very special flourish to a dish. I see them as shortcuts.
1. I've been meaning to do a list column for weeks now, and since this is my last regular column before my super special commencement issue, this is my last chance.
As I slowly arise from my post−Spring Fling coma with what feels like an army of West Virginia coal miners scraping away at the inside of my head, I'm realizing two things: 1) No one should ever put off any requirement until the day after Spring Fling, and 2) Seeing as the Daily finishes its regular publication today, it looks like, love it or hate it, I get the last word. Tough day, everyone else.
The other day I saw Gucci Mane sneering at me from the cover of the latest issue of The Source and was completely helpless, so I bought it without pause: Gucci Mane is too much to resist.
As I dozed Friday morning, dreaming about the epic all-day Spring Fling party we're throwing at 7-9 Fairmount this Saturday, I was rudely awoken by my roommate, Sancho, slamming on my door and jabbering away about April something or other. As I gathered my wits, I became aware of two distinctly different things: A) I was butt-naked all by myself, and B) it was April Open House. I almost jumped out of bed with joy, birthday suit and all.
The semester is running out, and schoolwork is driving me crazy. So this week, I'm breaking the rules. I'm starting up the DeLorean, amping it up to 88 miles per hour and going for a joy ride through time. But rather than messing with my personal history, I'm going to be messing with sports history.
As the most interesting man in the world would say: "I don't always watch scary movies. But when I do, I prefer well-written, character-driven stories." You probably haven't seen it, but the best scary movie released in the past few years is a Sam Raimi joint called "Drag Me to Hell" (2009). You might know Raimi from his other blockbusters like the "Spider-Man" trilogy (2002, 2004, 2007) and the lesser-known, but more loved, "Evil Dead" movies (1981, 1987, 1992). He's got a knack for storytelling with a quirky premise (but please excuse "Spider-Man 3." It's like my other little brother, the one we keep locked in the tool shed — we don't talk about him and feed him irregularly).
One of my roommates has been subjecting himself to one of the most miserable practices I know of this semester. He's in bed by midnight, wakes up around 8 a.m. and is running himself into the ground. No, he didn't get a job. Even worse, he's running the marathon.
A couple weeks ago, I saw "Battle: Los Angeles" (2011). I went in expecting a sort of modern retelling of "Independence Day" (1996) with a shaky cam and lots of Aaron Eckhart's chin. I love the America vs. Aliens story because, unlike any other conflict, you can support full−fledged genocide during the movie, you can completely glorify the violence and it's totally cool because they are green people who want our planet.
When it comes to Tufts Quidditch, you either hate it like a puke-flavored Bertie Botts Every Flavor Jelly Bean or love it like a tasty Butterbeer (I promise the references end here). The debate over the legitimacy of the team spread far and wide after the Tufflepuffs almost won the World Cup in November, and was even the topic of CJ Saraceno's Nov. 17 column in the Daily, becoming Tufts' equivalent of finally making it to the Major Leagues.
