Editor's Note
This is the last Mirror under my watchful eye, and what better topic to cover with my last little soapbox than the one I'm most passionate about -- flair (see below). It's been fun, Dartmouth. You stay classy!
Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of The Dartmouth's archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query.
61 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
This is the last Mirror under my watchful eye, and what better topic to cover with my last little soapbox than the one I'm most passionate about -- flair (see below). It's been fun, Dartmouth. You stay classy!
The Election of 2008 was an epic one. I'm referring, of course, to its length. Here are the words that have been ruined -- maybe permanently -- by politicians and pundits over the past year: maverick, hope, change, hockey mom, lipstick. Images of moose cadavers, bloodying Alaskan soil, have been seared into my brain, along with crowds chanting "Yes we can" in a monotone that would make Leni Reifenstahl proud.
Our generation has been pounded with anti-drug, anti-smoking rhetoric for as long as we can remember. My first exposure was in Kindergarten, when my teacher put in a VHS about "Just saying no" and then went outside for a Virginia Slim. Signals have been mixed ever since. Sure, cigarettes might give me lung cancer, but they also look so cool! From James Dean to Don Draper, asking for a light has been shorthand for, "I'm awesome, and by the way, let's get out of these clothes."
On the second evening of my Orientation Week, a wise man in Zeta Psi (whoa, I'm dating myself) revealed "The X" to me. For those of you who aren't in the know, "The X" is a wonderful visual aid that shows the relative 'worth' of a Dartmouth student according to gender and year: women start high freshman year and drop down, men start at the bottom but only see their cache rise. And so, as a young freshman girl, I already knew what awaited me -- hag-dom in three short, increasingly wrinkled years.
From the minds that brought you "Gardening on Salvia" comes the long-awaited sequel: "Editor's Note on NyQuil." Yep, it's that time of year: leaves are turning, midterms are starting, and immune systems are flying south for the winter. Oh look, a shiny objeh -- [snoring].
In honor of Yom Kippur, this week The Mirror turns its eyes on the guilt that plagues us all. When I told my mom about the theme she said, 'What does guilt have to do with Yom Kippur?!" Exactly, Mom. Exactly. And f*ck you for breast-feeding me until I was 5.
Professors. You see them in the lecture hall or seminar room. Occasionally, you'll bump into them in the library between classes. You never see them in frats. So what do they do when they aren't listening to us bullshit our ways to inflated grades? Well, in addition to being smarter than all of us, some of them are better people than us too. I guess you can't win.
Omigawd hi! How ARE you? How was your summer? Where were you -- wait, New York, right? Or was it DC? Oh yeah, mine was fine. Not much, worked for Lehman for a bit. Oh yeah, the '12s? Worst class ever. No question. When we were freshmen we were so much sweeter. I bet these kids haven't even heard about the Defenestrator. Man, they're never gonna' be cool. So what classes are you takin -- Oh wait, hold on... Omigawd hi! How ARE you?...
Goodbyes are always hard, something I was reminded of when some this week's writers, namely the seniors on The Mirror staff, kept Blitzing me with their writer's block woes. Of course, my original idea was to publish a roast of the Class of 2008 -- all of the graphics would have been in flames, and it would have been beautiful. Ideas of conceptual art were brainstormed: We could tell you to make the issue into an effigy of that senior boy who never Blitzed you back and burn it, and maybe, in a gesture of fond farewell, scatter its ashes over the Green -- the symbolic death of college. But despite its lack of avant garde brilliance, ultimately it was decided that giving our seniors a platform to bid the campus adieu would be more appropriate.
If Robinson Hall is an apartment building, The D and the DOC are like neighbors. When they have barbeques, the smell makes our mouths water. When they have dance parties on the Robo lawn, we pretend we're too busy to join them. And when people show up naked, covered in green paint to hand in their Croo applications, we hold the door.
It's May, which means the thesis is making hundreds of seniors miserable across campus and is beginning to have its way with juniors, too. For overly ambitious underclassmen, researching topics and sucking up to advisors can never start too soon.
As much as we love Hanover, we also love to get the hell out of here. Studying, volunteering, eating snails -- anything to leave our tiny campus and see the world.
Oh hey, 12-page Mirror. What's up? You're looking pretty fine these days. No, don't blush -- sure, you might have gained a few pages, but I like some curves on my paper. Gives me something to hold onto, know what I mean? You know what, we should play pong some time.
Towards the beginning of March, The New York Times ran an article that introduced a new word to many Americans: Drunkorexia or "self-imposed starvation or bingeing and purging, combined with alcohol abuse" ("Starving Themselves, Cocktail in Hand," Mar. 2). Sound familiar?
When I read stories like last Sunday's New York Times piece "Sex in the Ivy League," basically about how Harvard students are too uptight and take themselves far too seriously, I once again thanked my lucky stars that I go to Dartmouth, the Ivy League of Croos, gratuitous streaking and Animal House. Let's be honest, we don't only party harder than the rest of our Ivy bretheren, we laugh harder too. The perks of a 13% acceptance rate -- clearly more class clowns or, like, fun people.
I have spent countless hours listening to songs for that perfect "next track" in the many mixes I've compiled over the years. It's only gotten easier; stupid younger me used to have to hover over a two-tape cassette player, ready to stop recording at the right moment, and now it's just drag and drop. Sometimes I think we take the mIx tape for granted, but then sometimes a friend throws on a CD that is just so perfect for the moment and the mood that my faith in the saving power of music and humanity's redemption is restored.
While looking through The Dartmouth's archives in preparation for this issue, I came across an interesting sentence in a Verbum Ultimum from April 1969. Discussing the overwhelming student participation in a referendum on reopening faculty discussions of the U.S. Armed Forces Reserve Officer Training Program, the Editorial Board of long ago wrote that the turnout "dispelled the common notion that has existed on this campus for as long as we can remember: that of the apathy of the Dartmouth student."
This issue's topic -- architecture on campus -- holds a special place in my heart. Right next to the place where I store this happy memory:
This week The Mirror crawled into the deepest darkest corners of campus looking for Dartmouth's most compulsive perfectionists. We didn't have to look too hard because they're f*cking everywhere.
Okay, I might not have much on the Gossip Girl, but you don't have to go to school on the Upper East Side to have some celebrities of your own to watch. These days, a bunch of us at Dartmouth are looking to see where the next up-and-coming "Big Man on Campus" is. Others, however, are looking to the past and saying campus infamy will never be that good -- or that ragey -- again. Joanna Paterson (page 4-5) analyses the Dartmouth phenomenon of "Campus Icon," flair and all.