Many of you chose to avoid United 93 for various reasons. The trailer, some suggested, was manipulative. The lack of concrete information, it was said, means that no one should try to tell an incomplete story. The movie, my friends whined, will undoubtedly exploit the men and women who died that day, and should be shunned because of it. Now, there are indeed legitimate reasons not to see United 93. It is perhaps more difficult to watch than any recent American release – not due to the violence, which is sparse and effective, but due to the intense dread that settles into your stomach as you watch dozens of people prepare for what will most certainly not be an ordinary Tuesday
by Justin P.B. Gerald on
The Daily Princetonian is bad. We all know that. Their machinations have caused a great deal of trouble for those of us who enjoy spending time at various eating clubs, and, to put it bluntly, their staff either doesn’t know how to write, or is robbed of any talent by the publication itself. Accordingly, simply listing terrible stories of theirs would be redundant, so I have given this semester’s most uniquely awful articles their own awards. Without further ado, this is… The Worst of the Prince.
by Justin P.B. Gerald on
Well, he’s done it again. On Wednesday, April 5, Eminem filed to divorce his wife, Kim Mathers, after only three months of marriage. This is a recurring pattern in Eminem’s career. The couple first married in 1999 and split in … Read More
by Jordan Reimer on
Apparently contemporary fiction is suffering from an infusion of effeminate, lazy, timid and predictable male writers. Or at least that’s the impression I get from the Canadian-based publisher Raincoast and the sprinkling of various reviewers who are championing former Nassau Weekly editor Nathan Sellyn ’04’s literary debut Indigenous Beasts as a “daring collection of fiction” from “a bold, young writer whose work is masculine, energetic, and shocking.” For the record, I have no idea what a “masculine” piece of fiction could be, beyond containing a bunch of tough-guy male characters (but, then again, so does a lot of gay erotica).
by Branden Jacobs-Jenkins on
I’m angry for my brother’s television set with its lumpy men. He is supposed to be excited for my visit. He likes his rehab friends, two of them play chess under the ping pong table, feet sticking out arbitrarily. I … Read More
by Elizabeth Looke-Stewart on
Amore e Mona Lagia e Guido ed io Possiam be ringraziare un Ser costui Che n’ha partiti, sapete da cui? Nol vo’ contrar per averlo in oblio. Poi questi tre più non v’hanno disìo; Ch’eran serventi di tal guisa in … Read More
by Guido Cavalcanti on
Bill O’Reilly is obsessed with how long it takes a murder victim to die. In his novel – that’s right, his novel – we find out, for example, that “the soft tissue gave way quickly and the steel penetrated the correspondent’s brain stem. Ron Costello was clinically dead in four seconds.” Or, “Lance Worthington couldn’t feel the razor-sharp box-cutter blade slice through his throat…. it was exactly two seconds before he lost consciousness.” Some deaths come even quicker: “A slab of sizzling white hot metal fell directly on his head. Death for Shannon Michaels came one second later.”
by Jacob Savage on
A French damsel and I decided to take a train To New York to see the Gates and be at play. You were late to the Dinky and had to book It to meet me by the stop to pause, … Read More
by Max Kenneth on
At dawn she sneaks blood oranges From the grange- Land, and the seeded pulp and the climbing (where the farmers’ fence is Rough) have painted orange- Red her picking arm. For several Mornings now I’ve seen her range Her pickings … Read More
by Anonymous on
We were sixteen when they evacuated the gymnasium in the middle of the English exam (anonymous bomb threat, year after Columbine). I was writing on Roethke – not the poem we’d read in class and most everyone agreed told the … Read More
by Maggie Dillon on
In the French, tu me manques – you are missing to me. You are missing to me, to my body, to my arms which starve on air, to my eyes which dream up the shape of you in everything. You … Read More
by Fiona Miller on
Sig loves me. He’s sitting at the counter, eating a bagel right now, but I know he’s thinking about me. Today, like every Sunday, he sits all day here in this café where I work. A man across the coffee … Read More
by Rory Weisbord on