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.
There's something about being on a TV set that incites disillusionment. Up close, sets are two-dimensional, three-walled artifices that are too colorful and sterile to be lived in. When you're standing on set with four cameras, two boom mikes and 15 crew members staring you in the face, the whole enterprise suddenly seems less like magic and more like a sham.
When a coworker of mine gave me the idea for this column, he did so with the stipulation that I use the line "Bill Belichick is playing chess while every other NFL coach is playing checkers." Now I can't endorse that statement in good consciousness; it undersells the brilliance of the man who is clearly the best, most intelligent, most cunning, most daring, most fashionable coach in modern professional sports.
There are five movie posters hanging in my room back home. Three of them are of romantic comedies. I've received a number of comments from friends who come to visit. "Dude … you have a poster of ‘When Harry Met Sally' … you know that, right?"
When Doug Flutie addressed the campus on Tuesday night as part of Tufts' Lecture Series, he discussed several of his experiences as a quarterback in the Canadian Football League. One of them in particular stands out. He talked about a play in which he tried to twist out of the grasp of an opposing defensive end, spun around to his blind side and turned directly into a brutal helmet-to-helmet hit laid on him by another defender that split his own helmet in two.
Ah, Thanksgiving. A holiday combining two of our top three favorite things: family and gravy. Yet our third favorite thing, movies, is inexplicably absent. It makes no sense! Other holidays get their own movies. We could spend weeks rattling off Christmas movies; even Hannukah has Adam Sandler's "Eight Crazy Nights" (2002). What a "farkakte" movie that was! Halloween films get horror, and you can always count on a couple of romantic comedies in the middle of February. Even the relatively obscure Groundhog Day got the 1993 eponymous, existential comedy starring Bill Murray.
The arrival of her memoir, "Going Rogue," further reinforces the fact that Sarah Palin refuses to go away. The folksy, not-even-one-term governor from Alaska has absolutely captivated a large number of American conservatives; Sarah PAC, the political action committee Palin created in January 2009, raised upwards of $730,000 in just five months, presumably to support a Palin 2012 presidential bid.
In last week's column, I reflected on some current trends in the music industry and ended by lamenting the imminent demise of the album. This week, in order to prove just how out of touch and behind the times I am, I'd like to address another worry I have about the changing tides of the music world: I don't think we've made enough room for live music.
Emoticons are a phenomenon I have never quite been able to stomach. Nothing bodes worse for a potential friendship with me than a smiley face with a wink or a disjointed heart that has mathematical significance. It usually goes something like this: I am making plans with someone via text message. We decide to meet in Davis at 7. I say that this sounds good to me, and this is the reply I get:
Perfection. This weekend was all about it. And I'm not talking about the Indianapolis Colts or the New Orleans Saints.
