Full disclosure: I am not exactly what you’d call “qualified” to write about Justice John Paul Stevens’s public lecture on Tuesday, October 11th. I was definitely there.

Looking at the Cannon Club application, we expected to find a boring series of blanks waiting to be dutifully filled out; we were greeted instead by an ambiguous little document that contained, yes, several boring blanks, but also plenty of intriguing blanks that deserved some unpacking.

It all begins with the fourteen page Panhellenic Recruitment handbook that arrives in your inbox shortly after registration, a process in which some very enthusiastic girls in the basement of Dod take a picture two inches away from your face. The packet outlines the schedule of the coming week which ...

As I enter the dark-and-slightly-dingy room that is Forbes Blackbox, my mind is suddenly assailed. Suddenly assailed by the age-old tales of up and coming bands that I picked up from Wikipedia in ye olde days of high school (when free time existed). Maybe it’s my penchant for old ...

Dayve Hawk, the man behind Memory Tapes, must have a penchant for cassette tapes. His previous material was released under the aliases Memory Cassette and Weird Tapes, a pair of confusingly alike band names. One thing is clear though: Hawk has supreme talent for producing songs that chillwave and glo-fi ...

It could be a small fold in his shirt, making an indentation that the light can’t reach which could make that one small spot in the lower third of his back stand out just a little purpler than the rest of his already-quite-purple shirt.

Last night there was an enormous raccoon prowling through the dumpsters in Wilson. The girl I was walking with recoiled, but I was sympathetic—ever since I joined the free food listserv I often feel like a nocturnal creature rummaging through a dumpster. It is inconsistent but rewarding.

“Don’t go over there,” my friend advised. “It gets weird and religious.”

Over the last few months, whenever I told people where I was going to college, I would more often than not encounter an uncomfortable situation. While never unimpressed, my acquaintances would frequently feel the need to recognize the esteem of the institution by downplaying its reputation. This would generally take ...

Random, impromptu pop music blares from the sound system as the 2015 Clash of the Colleges commences: an unnamed administrator with a mic attempts to pump up a crowd of dazed freshmen; above, President Tilghman and co. look on as members of the Class of 2015 are hurled into an ...

Princeton peaked at new levels of saccharine-sweet this past Friday, April 29th. Some of you woke up at 4:45 AM to watch William and Kate’s Royal Wedding (4:45? why?!). And some of you wandered haplessly into Frist intending to get pizza for lunch, only to find an elaborate cake-building show in full swing.

It was a quiet room. That was really the only description I could come up with. I toyed with the idea of the room being calm, maybe civil or peaceful. But mostly it was just quiet. No one did much; even the clapping was very polite.

“The hellest job,” Mike Souza says, was making 20 super-thin cigar-shaped nuclear target cells in his glassblowing shop in the basement of Princeton’s Hoyt Laboratory.

Last Sunday, I spoke with one of my dear friends about God. We were walking down some path strewn with magnolia petals, as the sun finally shone through the trees, talking about the trees, the breeze, the news.

For the last few weeks, black and white posters for a fashion show called “Fashion Speaks” have found my hallway. I tried to walk by it quickly, trying to hide the quick flit of my eye towards the peppery posters.

The cover of last week’s issue of the Nassau Weekly featured the face of Tony Kadyhrob, a 68-year-old man recently accused of trying to entice local college students into his car. Kadyhrob’s story would’ve been a minor one, had his mugshot not come out the way it did: to the collective delight of the Internet, it looks a little like Christopher Walken.

Students are immersed in yellow-orange light, treadmills and Precor machines hum, and light rock plays quietly in the background. There is constant movement.

At one point during their set at Terrace F. Club this past Saturday, Das Racist announced that they would not playing “Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell,” the song many in the audience had come specifically to hear.

Imagine you are at a party on another planet. You have a guidebook about alien behaviors. (It is far less comprehensive than the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.) The first alien you meet is female. You introduce yourself, as the guidebook suggests. Her skin turns a pinkish tinge. She ...

Sometimes, you forget: there are people out there who do absolutely brilliant, incredible things. Even at achievement-filled Princeton—especially at achievement-filled Princeton—greatness, which is a level below the place I write about, can become benign and unimpressive. Talent becomes the norm and is hardly exceeded; it becomes rote.

I consider myself a functional narcoleptic. (It’s undiagnosed, no offense to all you diagnosed non-functional narcoleptics). If I have a 10:00 AM class, I wake up at 9:10, shower, dress, take a ten-minute nap, then dash out the door.

I looked for library jobs and I looked for babysitting jobs but I found neither. Instead I landed a spot as a Recreation Supervisor for Princeton Intramural Sports (IMs).