Dear All,
Sometimes we make mistakes. Most of the time they are small– like forgetting to wipe before we get in the shower or eating too much at dinner. Sometimes, however, these mistakes are rather large. Like having sex with an ex-significant other when extremely drunk or putting ...

I opened my eyes. I saw hints of a cloudless sky through the canopy, and the sounds of tropical birds filtered into my ears. I was drawing a blank. I tried to stand up, but the world was spinning. Somewhere behind me an engine sputtered and died. Gradually I started remembering what happened. I remembered swerving to miss a strange jungle creature that had darted out into the dirt road, going off the track, thinking damn, I am about to hit this tree, then squeezing my eyes shut a split second before the collision.

<i>That I spent the first 13 years of my life living with a Jamaican woman is always striking to those who best know me. Seldom, I suppose, is the topic broached in casual parley. So when I reveal I have a Jamaican accent, I am often faced with guffaws ...

Allies, Enemies, and Non-Combatants,
It is with great fanfare and pleasure that we bring you this, the third issue of our tenure as Editors-in-Chief. This week you’ll find a portrait of former Senator Majority Leader Bill Frist ’74, an analysis of the “Education City” in Qatar, musings on Dan ...

Dearest Nasslings:
Welcome to Starbucks Coffee™ Presents: the Nassau Weekly’s Corporate, Consulting, Crass Consumer Culture Issue. We’ve made a wonderful friend from Seattle with a bone-crushing handshake, and boy-oh-boy if we aren’t rolling in it this week.
Now served up: a rich, steamy Triangle Club exposé penned ...

The Tour
“There’s so much to see and to do in New Jersey!” The Triangulites belted out the lyric from the Princeton Triangle show. New Jersey! Yeah! Except, we were in North Carolina! And we have sung the damn song thousands of times in the past week.
Too bad ...

The political mood in Cairo reflects the weather. Dull with spotty showers and windy. Things are chilly and one should probably wear a scarf when one exits a building. However, while America has its love affair with Barack Obama and the audacity of his Hope, Egyptians have resigned themselves to ...

A heroic moment in American oratory two Sundays ago, when our President rose before Congress, wiped away his crusties and spoke for longer than five minutes without utterly destroying another facet of American life. Bush emphasized his legacy as one that is pro-dream and anti-totalitarianism, urging us to consider the warning of “the late terrorist Zarqawi”: “We will sacrifice our blood and bodies to put an end to your dreams, and what is coming is even worse.”

A sigh of relief in Washington as former Republican congressman and present director of the Office of Management and Budget Jim Nussle declares that there is little reason to worry in the short-run about our deficit, which is expected to grow to 400 billion dollars by the time President Bush ...

As an exercise, imagine the entire Facebook network as a real world, in some temporal place. In this world, the human being is replaced by the personal homepage of Facebook; in place of bodily organs and anatomical processes are substituted “about me” sections and a wall for public posts.

To an unbeliever, most Christian thinking, beginning with the proclamation of the cosmic kingship of an executed Palestinian carpenter, must seem like an insane, if touching, attempt to rationalize tragedy and failure. Yet the history of my romance with the greatest of all composers concretely and compellingly illustrates the ancient Christian doctrine that God’s Providence brings good out of every evil.

So most of my summer wasn’t all that exciting. I taught at a private school in rural Massachusetts, and mostly I just went to the pool and told annoying kids to shut up. But one weekend I went into Boston, and a friend and I cruised around on a ...

<p> I was eagerly leafing through a recent issue of the Economist magazine when I stumbled upon an article entitled "Presumed Guilty" that brought me to a full stop. The article concerned a new book, Until Proven Innocent, by Stuart Taylor and K.C. Johnson, and its subject, the Duke ...

It was a dark and stormy night in a town that knows how to keep its secrets. The pavement was slick with forgotten promises and the air rank with dissolution and ambiguous morality.

Something bizarre is happening in the heart of the Village. Across the street from NYU’s ugly high-rise dorms and vintage-clad students, quite a different crowd is gathering. On the corner of Mercer and Waverly, middle-aged women with dramatic make-up and grand shawls that cover their shoulders just-so stand in ...

Gene Robinson, the first openly-gay Episcopal bishop, came for a visit a few days ago. He led a service in the Chapel Sunday night, and lectured in McCosh the following afternoon. Posters went up advertising these events. I thought I’d go say hi. It’s a strange thing, meeting ...

Hampton University, glorious HBCU academic institution of heartland Virginia, shudders under the dominion of The Force. “What is The Force?” you may ask. It is not, in point of fact, anything associated with the brawny arm of government oppression, nor has it anything to do with white Virginians taunting Hampton ...

Harvey Philip Spector might have fallen in love with Veronica Yvette Bennett on some late night in a recording studio, sometime around 1962. There were probably cigarettes smoked and fleeting glances exchanged. Most tempting to imagine is the two coming together over the music they made—lovely, cavernous music that ...

“Hey, what’s with that guy?” I laughed, gesturing to a deeply tanned, middle-aged man who is dancing with two shady-looking Vietnamese women, one over six feet tall. We’re next to a small bar in the backpacker district of Ho Chi Minh City. The six-footer clawed at the man ...

I've finally begrudgingly admitted to myself that I am a bad writer. I'm particularly bad at writing dialogue, which I suppose underscores that I am a horrendous conversationalist, by which I mean I am hopelessly self-involved. I find this particularly unfortunate, because I regularly come up with ideas ...

The first stop was, logically, Hall 5, probably the best hall of the convention and the home for current video game titans Microsoft and Nintendo. Microsoft’s entry into the video game market is a recent development to this writer who remembers the days of debating whether Genesis or Super ...

Soon our hour of traveling past fields of grain and windmills in the plains of Saxony came to an end, and we arrived at the Leipzig Central Train Station. It was time to get to the Convention Center. At first I opted to follow the fat kid (the first one ...

We were ripped off, as usual, as the three of us stepped out of the taxi and into a steamy, puddle-filled section of Hanoi. Adam, a towering Beta from Long Island, wasn’t too happy. “Fifty five thousand fucking dong! Fuck that’s like four dollars. I knew we shouldn ...

It is not often that I feel like a cultural alien. My formative years, which afforded me the priceless opportunity to forge a fine intellect and noble character, were instead spent imbibing cable TV, movies, magazines and every significant album in the rock and rap canons. I therefore know the weight and nuance of the associations borne by words such as &#699;Nascar&#700; and &#699;Cristal&#700; and can deploy them to well calibrated effect. In the past year, however, I have felt myself socially crippled when faced with jokes, insights and analogies that hinged on understanding of the nature and habits of a human type known as &#699;The Hipster&#700;, a type with whom I was only vaguely acquainted.

When I stepped into the René Magritte exhibit at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, I stepped into a Magritte painting. The artist in many of his paintings depicted the ultimate “common man,” pudgy and ambivalent in bowler hat, overcoat, and cane. But Magritte placed this man in surreal ...

In an episode of The Simpsons, Ned Flanders goes mad. Lashing out wildly at every person in the town of Springfield, Flanders' acid tongue finally rests on Lisa Simpson, the town know-it-all. "And here is Lisa," Flanders snaps, "Springfield's answer to the question nobody asked." If you would like ...

Or rather, your notion of the face in Baudelaire is evasive.
Poetry’s stock has fallen; that of the novel, the short story—that of prose—has risen. The New Yorker and The New York Review of Books have run articles addressing the former and latter, respectively. But you survey ...

Last month, senior music major Steve Eaton presented his thesis composition. The performance was broken into two sections. In the first, the audience sat in typical fashion, facing the musicians as they played. The last piece of the first section was two minutes long. The song consisted of one chord, played once and sustained over the duration of the piece. The movement of the song was all in the flux and change of the chord as the wavelengths gradually distended, warped, and eventually faded.

Last Thursday afternoon at about 4:10 I might have had one of the worst moments in my Princeton Career thus far. It was raining. It was two and a half weeks until my marathon and I couldn’t walk without limping on the quad I had pulled three weeks ...

I am a Polonophobe by origin, tradition, and right. My ancestors on my mother’s side of the family, Swabians and Hungarians, come from the plains of the Neckar and the Danube, and probably looked at anything north of the latter and east of the Oder with much suspicion. My ...

Jean Baudrillard was a poor philosopher and a poorer sociologist. As a writer, he was inconsistent and cracked-out – as much inclined to the output of turgid rivers of prose clotted with effluvial jargon as he was to effervescent plunges of galvanic insight. As a theorist, he was one of the ...

I remember perspiring heavily the first time I spoke to him. I had seen him before, tugging at tree branches at two in the morning, lumbering uneasily outside Princeton’s Firestone Library. His eyes had an emptiness that terrified me. He seemed to move as though in a zombified stupor, his arms reaching forward to coil themselves around the nearest prop or pole. His feet seemed to fall behind. I had seen Paul, the Wikipedia Man, inside Firestone before.