My past several months on Princeton’s campus have been defined by chocolate. During the week leading up to Dean’s Date I may have personally made the C-Store run out of chocolate covered peanuts.
There is good reason to be excited about Dean’s Date. On May 10th, after all the computer cluster bickering ceases and the papers are handed in, you would be well-advised to take a walk to the Record Exchange and pick … Read More
“No one thinks of Spotify as a means to immortality. But so long as the platform exists, a sort of permanence is granted. Our long finished playlists will become fuel for Discover Weekly long after we’re gone. We become eternal tastemakers, unconsciously curating mixtapes for future listeners.”
But reversion to infancy is normal in Ricky’s Candy, Cones & Chaos. “I had a kid in Morristown just standing with a rat in his mouth,” Jeff calls out to a couple perusing the gummy rodents. “Just standing there, the whole head in his mouth, gnawing on it. It’s this big!” He waits for me to look up. “This big!” he cries, holding his hands a foot and a half apart. “You get to see stupid things because people get stupid in here. You pick up just about everything.”
Like its preternaturally attractive star Keira Knightley, the new adaptation of “Pride and Prejudice” is very beautiful. Unfortunately, good looks are about all that Ms. Knightley and the film have going for them. This movie, the most recent addition to … Read More
In his Baltimore basement, Edan has carved his name across the forty-year span of rock and hip-hop. “Rock and Roll” melds Velvet Underground and Black Sabbath into feedback-frayed banger that would play comfortably in Queens circa ’88, or the Filmore East circa ’68. This kind of mad-scientist approach embodies the best of rock and roll.
It takes an impresario to found a Russian movement. But for a moment’s continued interest in the present, a queer and inexplicable slavophilia must appear to have its dance with history. And now, 15 years after the fall of the … Read More
Five months ago, I fell in love with a nine-year-old boy. His name was Oskar Schell, and he was cheeky, and he was perceptive, and he was caring, and he wrote to Steven Hawking thinking he would get a personal response, and he was a pacifist, and he was in an incredible amount of pain. I knew I loved him when he said, “Sometimes I think it would be weird if there were a skyscraper that moved up and down while its elevator stayed in place…Also, that could be extremely useful, because if you’re on the ninety-fifth floor, and a plane hits below you, the building could take you to the ground, and everyone would be safe…”
Saying goodbye to the dirtiest of my dirty pleasures hasn’t been easy. Especially since I am a relatively clean (and some would say highly self-disciplined) person. And so my recent farewell to Entourage, HBO’s eight-season series on the glories of … Read More
You are a brand. The sun-drenched, chrome-filtered frames of your Instagram feed; the captioned albums on your Facebook profile. Your six-word Twitter bio, clever without pretension.
Ask the average American boy what he wants to do when he grows up, and you’re likely to get answers such as “I wanna be a firefigher,” “an astronaut,” or “the president.” Spanish boys prefer “bullfighter,” and Italians will likely say “F-1 driver.” Florent Masse, a precocious Frenchman extraordinaire at the tender age of five, confessed that he wanted to be Gerard Depardieu.
