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.
Well, apparently Spring Fling hasn't been canceled yet, and just this weekend Concert Board announced the line−up. The rumors were true; The Roots are coming to Tufts. Oh greaaaat …
Setting things on fire is fun. In the hands of the particularly foolish, it can be dangerous, yet I maintain that humans will never lose their primal fascination with burning stuff. It's why we love the cozy warmth of the fireplace in winter, why we stare as lit candles melt down into sad little puddles on the kitchen table and why I still remember the prairie-burning field trip I went on in fourth grade. Perhaps that's why I have friends who have set their own pants and arm hairs ablaze. More than once.
To say that the refereeing in this year's March Madness has been awful is as much of an understatement as saying that Rebecca Black's "Friday" just isn't that bad.
When I saw "The Fighter" I was pretty sure Christian Bale actually spent some time as a crackhead. Bale's normal weight is 185 pounds at exactly six feet. Not too shabby, but for "The Fighter" he was hovering around 145 pounds. He has a history of drastically changing his body for a role. If anyone else has seen "The Machinist" (2004), where Mr. Bale was down to a scary 120 pounds, you'll agree.
Since the start of this academic year, my friends have noticed that something has changed about me. My eyes are always wistfully half−open, betraying my daydreaming mind. I walk around listlessly, constantly checking my phone. At any given point in the day, I exhibit an idiotic grin that scares away potential friends. I would be embarrassed, but I'm too giddy to care. I'm sure you understand the feeling: that swooping, gravity−defying lovesickness we all fall victim to at some point in life.
Most people wouldn't call a man whistling at a strange woman on the street romantic. Some would even call it offensive. In New York, where catcalling is as commonplace as potholes, this is an entirely different story. Its cultural significance is perhaps best demonstrated in the show "The King of Queens"(1998−2007) — a phrase I doubt I'll see again — when the protagonist Doug pays a construction worker to holler at his insecure wife.
The Miami Heat have committed the ultimate sin, one far worse than LeBron James' egregious "Decision" or the team's 87−86 loss to the Chicago Bulls on Sunday. I'm talking about something that reveals the Heat's true character, a despicable action that has no place in the manly world of professional sports.
No, this column wasn't written in December. Yesterday was my favorite holiday. It's a very special day in New England that comes but once a year, and this time around, Boston decided to make it a whole holiday weekend. What is this mysterious day of days, you ask? Well, my esteemed colleagues, in case you've been stuck under a rock straight James Franco−style the past couple days, this weekend was warm. Real warm. But, more importantly, it was Spring Hottie Come Out Day.
Cloverfield" (2008) was a terrible movie. Sure, I watched it in theaters for maximum immersion and, thus, maximum awesomeness. I Chris Tucker−screamed a few times here and there, and I may or may not have had some interesting dreams with people's chests blowing up in bloody mists.
