“Where are the lesbians?” was the question that gave birth to this article. It was raised at a Nass meeting by one of our editors, and not one person in the room was able to offer insight. That the question would was even asked is in itself an issue. Why do so many Princeton students tell me they do not see a strong gay/lesbian/bisexual (various individuals preferred each term) women’s culture? At a school our size, how was there this seemingly hidden population?
for L. When you left me here to rot aboveground—preferring a disintegration undersoil, solo—they did not publish the story in the paper, this being in poor taste, your being far too young to die, the Star-Ledger style guide answering the … Read More
Earl Sweatshirt looks so young. His baby face bears a sparse mustache I associate with high school boys trying to prove they’ve hit puberty, and he’s swallowed by an oversize Yankees jersey. Maybe it’s just because I’m so close to the stage, and to other people he seems older than his nineteen years.
I am to have this gold when you die. To buy ink for poems crumpled on the carpet purchased with your cancer. You’ll make nothing as a writer. But my materials are cheap. Each verse I write about you merely … Read More
David Foster Wallace is not here. In the absence of a physical body there is an idea, that of two Davids. It’s brought to life by biographer D.T. Max and author Jeffrey Eugenides, sitting in front of a rapt audience in the James Stewart Theater. The concept of two Davids—the sincere, troubled one and the manipulative, self-aggrandizing one—is one that the real men onstage constantly return to.
It was my first night drinking since February. I’d decided to take a break from alcohol for all of March—now that I have the freedom to buy my own alcohol legally, I don’t feel as compelled to jump at it when offered. But mostly, I just wanted to see if I could make it for a whole month.