There comes a time in every sandwich eater's life when — like Christopher Columbus and Vasco da Gama before him — he must strap on his tasting helmet and venture into uncharted territory.
I am a New York Knicks fan. I am a LeBron James fan. Naturally, there's basically nothing more I'd like to see in the world than LeBron sporting a Knicks jersey next year.
Tori Amos once sang, "Things are getting dear desperate when all the boys can't be men."
A s we wave goodbye to this century's early childhood and think back on the last 10 years, it is clear that the past decade was the one of the mashup. Danger Mouse released his historic Grey Album in 2004; Girltalk brought his laptops to Dewick in 2007; and, thanks to a recent Miley Cyrus hit, Biggie's "Party and Bulls−−t" made a comeback in the form of the ever−popular 2009 mashup, "Party and Bulls−−t in the USA."
February is the time of year for one of our nation's greatest traditions. No, I am not talking about Punxsutawney Phil and his psychic abilities, nor am I referencing the sap−fest that is Valentine's Day. I am referring to the time of year when hordes of little girls put on their brown, green or blue uniforms and set up shop everywhere from grocery stores to subway stations to sell boxes of baked goods.
Sorry, Tufts University, I've dropped out of school. Goodbye to Fall Ball, Spring Fling and Winter Bash. No longer will I have to walk up that devastating hill to class. So long, Jumbo. Sayonara, NQR. Peace out, Bacow, I'm going all Beelzebubs on this school. Pax et lux, bros, because I'm gone.
Originally, I wasn't planning on writing about the Super Bowl. I just didn't think there was anything unique or insightful that I could add to the conversation. Yes, it was a fantastic day for the city of New Orleans. Yes, Drew Brees and Sean Payton are very good at what they do. No, Reggie Bush is not.
I'll be the first to admit that out of my pastimes — reading travel novels, drinking Kool−Aid Jammers and watching "Recess" (1997−2001), to name a few — making fun of Chad Ochocinco has to be near the top of the list.
I can sum up my winter break with six words my mother pronounced to me at approximately 12:07 a.m. on New Year's Day: "We will never be happy again." This emotionally charged declaration was followed by both of us storming into our bedrooms and pacing around in a futile attempt to calm down.
When I left the United States for London a few weeks ago, I promised myself two things. First, I wouldn't return with an affected British accent, an ambiguously metro Euro−wardrobe or a haughty attitude about how everything works better in the United Kingdom. It doesn't, by the way.
The holiday season is a prime time for movies. There are only a few things to do during frosty, December nights: warm up in front of the fireplace with some hot cocoa, sing Christmas carols (or the Adam Sandler "Chanukah Song," 1994) at your grand piano and go to the movies. You could also expose yourself and run around the Res Quad for all to see, but that's for one night only. Naturally, we opt to head to theaters, and whether we're looking for a family comedy, a holiday heart-warmer or an action-packed picture, we love watching films during winter break. Fortunately for film fanatics like us, this year appears to have some fantastic flicks in store, so quit decorating that tree, put down that dreidel and head over to the cinema!
This semester was unlike any other semester I've experienced at Tufts. I did research for professors, I only took three classes, I applied to jobs and thought about my life after college. I began my first real, serious college relationship and I lived off campus with some good friends. In my eyes, everything went well.
The physics of the greenhouse effect, says former Director of the Center for History of Physics of the American Institute of Physics Spencer Weart, are "so basic" that the question shouldn't be whether the effect would occur, but rather, "What on earth would make it not happen?" One doesn't need to be a physicist to understand that releasing pollutants into the air is not a good thing. Public discourse during the run-up to the United Nations Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen that began Monday has been terribly misguided — there should be no question that global climate patterns can be distorted by pollutants. Rather, the important question for the United States is why it should make overtures for the Europeans while developing nations like China, India and Brazil are conveniently given a free pass in the face of a global problem.
It's 10 p.m. on a Wednesday night. Do you know what your roommates are wearing? If you are in college, chances are it's a bizarre mix of stripes, spandex and old T−shirts so eccentric hipsters would pay $3.75 for them at the Salvation Army. When I walk into my house, I never know what I'll find. Sometimes I am greeted by a crowd of classy−looking adults in real pants, shirts that fit and maybe even eyeliner. More often, however, I discover potentially crazy people on the couch, buried under a pile of blankets that I later identify as a combination of oversized sweatshirts, camp T−shirts, thermal leggings, men's underwear, animal sweaters, headbands and furry socks. I am no exception — once I am in for the night (and sometimes when I'm not) I can usually be found wearing at least three different patterns and often no pants. I put on several of my dad's old flannels at once plus T−shirts that have never seen the light of day, patterned boxers, striped knee high socks and my footies, which I believe normal people refer to as mukluks.
As much as I might hate to admit it, I'm one of those people who would be easily overwhelmed by meeting a celebrity. If, say, Carrie Underwood approached me and asked me a question — which I'm fairly certain happened in my dream last night — I imagine I would turn into a drooling, blithering idiot. I mean, I was pretty star-struck when I saw David Hyde Pierce in "Spamalot."
Let me take you back to 1976, when two guys named Steve (Jobs and Wozniak) founded the Apple Computer Company, the NBA merged with the ABA, "Rocky" came out in theaters — and Philadelphians soon had a statue celebrating a fictitious character played by Sly Stallone — and Jimmy Carter was elected President. Oh, and Fred Savage was born. As you can see, it was a very good year.
Students often compare Thanksgiving Break to Spring Break, but the two couldn't be more different. Thanksgiving happens during that awful, stressful transition from midterm recovery to finals mode. It's usually grey and rainy and cold. Spring Break is a brighter time when the threat of finals dims under the shadow of blossoming trees and Spring Fling. But this Thanksgiving was more of a transformative period than I thought it would be.
Neither of my parents understand the subtle advantages of sending a text message instead of just making a phone call. I've tried to explain why it's easier to just ask a blunt question instead of making small talk or how it sometimes feels awkward calling someone you don't know well.
I'm drawing battle lines. In the war between realism versus escapism, the latter seems to always win handily when it comes to the general public's cultural preferences, at least on the commercial front. Box office receipts and television ratings overwhelmingly support the fact that we, as a whole, prefer crap with questionable entertainment value over movies with more "challenging" or "difficult" subject matter. Quality is apparently irrelevant; it seems that even if one film is vastly superior to the other, we'll still go for the cheap laughs or corny romance. But why?
Start a bonfire, break out the monotonous chants and go see a Rastafarian Shaman, because Tufts University is cursed.
