Alice Unchained: Laterrr
Is that the Dawson's Creek theme song I hear echoing in the distance? Oh-ehm-gee, this must be my last column! I was kind of teary-eyed at first, but I've decided it's a good thing that I've been fired.
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Is that the Dawson's Creek theme song I hear echoing in the distance? Oh-ehm-gee, this must be my last column! I was kind of teary-eyed at first, but I've decided it's a good thing that I've been fired.
It's that time of the term again! Our houses, teams and improv groups are all forcing us to suspend our inhibitions and search for a costar for our future "Fall Formal OMG!" Facebook photo albums.
Once upon a time, I was "that girl." You know that girl who I'm referring to -- that girl who thought being girly was for girly-girls? That was me. When I was a kid, I oiled my baseball mitt every night, then I put it under my pillow, said my prayers (to The Bambino) and went to bed. I stored all of my Topps collectors' cards in air-tight plastic sleeves and would never trade a mint condition Bo Jackson for a bent Ken Griffey Jr. in a million years. I played H.O.R.S.E. at recess and wore my unwashed, inside-out, backwards Dennis Rodman jersey to school every day there was a Bulls game. I was hailed by my teammates for making the biggest hockey tape ball in the history of the Gold Mites, and I had a trophy shelf full of glittering bronze. Sports were my life.
I have been told that there is only one way to get a relationship started here at Dartmouth, where dating is pretty much dead-zo.
Wednesday's police blotter, complied by Dane Schlossberg '07, described several incidents of lawlessness that went down in Hanover this Homecoming. Unfortunately, Detective Schlossberg had to work within a word limit and was therefore forced to exclude a handful of reportable events from his blotter. Anxious to avoid the task of inventing original material this week, I volunteered to run the Po-Blot overflow in my column.
Novack, Wednesday, 9:15 a.m.: Ladies and gentlemen, it has already been one of those weeks. I'm sure you understand. Rush has totally hijacked my brain (or whatever's left of it after two years of membership at Delta Delta Destruction). I'm over-committed, under-caffeinated and I have about one hour to write this column -- one hour dissected into tiny five-minute fragments and scattered across my so-busy/so-important/so-sorority-rushed schedule.
My roommate calls me "The Squid." I don't mind the nickname because I think it makes me sound like some badass super-villain. Unfortunately, the only thing close to a super-power that I have is an amazing ability to single-handedly destroy everything that crosses my path with misplaced blots of "Pilot Precise" pen ink. Not a very badass power.
Take off those water-skis, people! Summer's out for school! The sun has set on 06X and a new term is rising as fall drops his knickers to take a colorful dump on our freedom. As I attempt to gaze out the sawdust-caked window of my brand-new suite in beautiful McGlaughlin, I notice that the leaves on the trees are already turning purple and spelling out messages begging me to put on that gas mask because these carpet-glue fumes are seriously tripping me out. Or is it the nearly-dry paint? (You're invited to the "No Booze Necessary" party here this weekend. 109 Thomas. Safety and Security will be baffled.)
DDS has been dished a lot of beef lately by our student bod. Among other things, people are unhappy about the 2006 Topside spending reforms, frustrated by the 2,006 people in the pasta line at Collis, and fearful of a surprise attack by Homeplate's vicious Chipwich Monster. In this time of crisis, I'd like to invite my fellow Dartmouth diners to calm down, grab one of those new Novack latts, and join me on a little tour of the less riot-inducing aspects of DDS. Hopefully you will leave with a new appreciation for Dartmouth's fine dining experience.
Once upon a time, there was an only-child named "Me." I was a happy little girl, content to hang out on my own, to play flip-bottle by myself and to boot on my rattle without being judged by any cradle-crampin' siblings. I had the playground convinced I'd been the coolest kid in the womb and no tattletales were around to expose me as a thumb-sucker.
As students at one of the most prestigious schools in Hanover, we should all strive to be well-mannered. It has come to my attention that we lack guidelines for how to do so under some of the unique circumstances that Dartmouth life presents. Fret not, friends. I have dug up the following Etiquette Man(ners)ifesto to provide a few tips for how to charm your peers and not make them want to whoop you for checking Facebook on that blitz terminal. Read on, and be schooled in the ways of the polite.
Dear Prospective Student: Welcome to the hands-down tied for ninth best place on Earth. By now, you may or may not have been "dung" by that college you foolishly attempted to dirty rush, and it's time to realize that Dartmouth is the right house for you. Be proud. The size of this year's applicant pool expanded thanks to Global Warming and "Grey's Anatomy," and you are part of the sweet clique that was tapped to join our uber-exclusive scene. "Dimensions of Dartmouth" has been carefully planned to make this upcoming, identity-defining, earthquake-inducing decision of yours as informed as possible. This column has been planned to brainwash you into joining our forest-engulfed cult.
Over Spring Break, I had a bit of a crisis. No matter how much ginkgo bilboa I funneled, I could not remember some of the most basic details of my youth; like what my crush was wearing on the first day of school in fourth grade, what he was wearing on the second day of fourth grade and where I buried that hamster-packed time capsule I'm supposed to dig up this year.
I believe it was the renowned entrepreneur Charles Edward Cheese who once said, "Birthdays are for suckers." Twenty-five years ago, this cheese-whiz caught onto the fact that society is full of money-shredding twelve-and-under year olds, most of whom were born at one point or another. Cheese realized that he could convince parents that birthdays should be honored with ticket-spewing, pepperoni-padded, token-choking fun and that this "fun" would make him rich, and everyone would be too intimidated by his gold coins to give him a hard time about how he refuses to come out of that frightening mouse costume.
Ladies, gentlemen, freshmen, etc.: Welcome back to Dartmouth. Spring is in the air, Main Street's Goth Bench is blooming, the Froyo Machine is chirping, and I'm happy to report that the Green is, well, on its way to being greenish. Old Man Winter still hasn't shown up for our annual beating -- word is he finally croaked. Hopefully he won't surprise us with a miraculous resurrection this Spring. That would be pretty unoriginal.
In high school, many of us were constantly preoccupied with SATs, ACTs, GPAs, WNBAs, N*SYNCs, etc. We served the community and participated in all kinds of quirky activities for the sake of the biggest self-call of all time: the college application. Back in those days, we were lame.
"Guest-Host Relationships" in great literature/bard-songs are go-to topics to bring up for discussion when you're trying to score points in any Classics or English class here at Dartmouth. Our notion of Guest-Host responsibilities has been informed by the experiences of pairs like Odysseus and King Alcinous, Huck Finn and the Grangerfords, Martha Stewart and Alderson and Sinbad and Phil Hartman. I'll briefly summarize the typical duties of each role, for you Econ majors out there who aren't familiar with the term "xenia" and haven't seen the film "Houseguest." (Now that's what I call tragedy -- I'm sure it's at Videostop.)
"The Morning After." Cue: Elliot Smith's "Say Yes," please. Okay, now dim those lights. This is gonna be deep, peeps.
Back in the day, Old Dartmouth was badass. Winter Carnival was a helmet-free weekend of ski jumps, keg jumps and jumps out of frat windows. Booze ruled and rules drooled in those golden days. Alas, we now find ourselves in a (nearly) defenestrator-free age of slush, wristbands and consequences. In the spirit of the misbehaving weather, I propose that for one weekend out of the entire year, we ditch the regulations and re-embrace our heritage of ridiculousness. In case Hanover continues to act like Honolulu, I thought I'd suggest a few "harder" alternatives to the events scheduled to go down this weekend. (GO!)
My dad has always claimed that college is like the "junior high" to grad school's "high school." I was never entirely sure what he meant by that until I went to the Richmond Middle School dance last week. I hadn't been to a middle school dance since tenth grade, so I was pretty stressed out about what to wear in order to fit in with the popular kids. (I wore my sweater on backwards and inside out ... apparently that was appropriate.)