There’s nothing as acutely dissatisfying as the knowledge that somewhere, many people are having sex, and you are not one of them. That’s not the only reason why gay Ivy Leaguers flocked en masse to Princeton for IvyQ, the annual LGBT conference, but it was certainly one of them. IvyQ’s stated mission is to “create a pan-Ivy community of lgbt students and allies equipped with the skills to examine their identities” and “value those of others.” But it is better summed up in the conference’s keynote speech: “Have fun, make friends, and get frisky.”
Recently, the Daily Princetonian reported that a senior had been arrested for possession of marijuana and prescription drugs. In the article, the arrested student was named, meaning that his legal troubles are now fully Google-able.
Things I collected during freshman year: friends (best, close, good, former), extracurricular activities, hook-ups, enough books to confidently shelve a small library, a GPA much lower than the one I had in high school, a battered but resilient sense of self-worth, a battered but resilient liver, and maybe some small amount of knowledge. All of this was great, except for one thing: I had no free time whatsoever.
One day, not long after competing in the USA Mathematical Olympiad, thirteen-year-old Greg received a letter from a premier New York trading firm moving $8 billion in equities a day. They had noticed his excellent performance at the Olympiad, and wanted the middle school student to keep their name in mind. Included with the letter were a Frisbee and a deck of cards.
Every suburb is defined by its city. At least, that’s what my southern California suburban experience was defined by, the glowing metropolis over the hills, alluring and enigmatic as Faye Dunaway in “Chinatown.” Los Angeles tells the story of itself … Read More
In the third episode of Netflix and Marvel’s new superhero show Daredevil, a man crushes in his enemy’s face by repeatedly smashing it with a bowling ball.
At this point, it’s quite possible that my computer has better taste in music than I do. Every week it presents me with a wonderfully diverse playlist, everything from unfamiliar artists to classic tracks from before I was born to deep cuts from bands I already like.
The event was titled “My English Major and My Career,” and if you could get past the clunkiness, I suppose the name was probably meant to be reassuring—the suggestion being that having the former doesn’t preclude you from having the latter.
In a filmmaking era when movies are increasingly designed, focus-tested, and audience-approved to please, “Bone Tomahawk” is strangely refreshing for refusing us our simple pleasures.
