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(08/14/97 9:00am)
As I read through Eric Del Pozo's "Some Words on Words ..." [The Dartmouth, August 8, 1997] I couldn't help but feel proud as he intoned the emotional power of language, of the myriad complexities it presents to us. While parts of his argument are resonant, I feel that his definition of "language" comes up somewhat short. Del Pozo's statement that "Organic chemistry has never made anyone feel anything besides sleep deprivation" certainly seems a "groundless attack ... for myopic comedic value," but more importantly reflects a misunderstanding at its core -- he sings only the praises of verbal language. True, there exists a proclivity in our culture toward equating language with words, but this association, while seductive, is tenuous at best. Conversely, John Garber's well-informed response [The Dartmouth, August 12, 1997] touches on the fact that the symbols and terminology used to illuminate chemical reactions are considered universal, therefore functioning as a language in its own right. I would like to expand this notion.
(07/31/97 9:00am)
Theme music.Voice-overdisclaimer: Names have been changed to protect the innocent. The situations and people portrayed in them are real. (Flashy credits. Theme music ends.)
(07/17/97 9:00am)
This term, in addition to fumbling through columns for this newspaper, I've been working on writing short stories for English 82, the fiction course. Each time I sit down to a session at the word processor (just after I crack my knuckles and rip out clods of hair) I can't help but ask myself all of those philosophical and rhetorical questions that go along with being a writer, such as "What is good literature?" or "What makes one writer great as opposed to another?" and, most importantly, "How the hell am I going to make this story work?" Usually within an hour my fingertips begin to fire away. Soon, I have a humble offering for critique in class.
(07/03/97 9:00am)
I started my Tuesday morning fresh with column ideas, all of which seemed to vanish the moment I picked up The Dartmouth and read through Justin Carrino's comment on "Love, Dartmouth Style" [July 1, 1997]. (Let's face it: he's right about the preponderance of talk about love and romance among college students.) I, too, see the "common-law marriages" and the one-night stands taking place. Appalled by the idea that romance doesn't exist on the Hanover plain, I want to abandon my usual wacky prose, get serious for a moment and take it upon myself to help all of you "simple creatures" attract the wonderful, driven women we see around us every day on this campus -- so here are my patented, guaranteed-success Five Steps to better romance (to be taken with a grain of salt):
(06/25/97 9:00am)
I was wandering around campus this week-end in search of a campus dining establishment that was open for business when I happened to overhear a conversation. My eavesdropping skills being what they are, I will piece together the crux of the chatter here:
(05/21/97 9:00am)
I've heard the low, echoed, fatuous moans of freshmen blending with the collective tearing of envelopes, punctuated by heavy sighs as their hazed eyes swerve to the words "Hinman" or "McLane" stamped seemingly in blood upon their fall housing assignments. I wish that I could relate to my fellow students in this dire hour, or even empathize with them. But this year, I've lived in the River Apartments, and with little discomfort. I have almost no cause for complaint -- in fact, I've felt pleasantly pampered all term. My days have been filled with quiet nights and still quieter mornings; long naps in my single bedroom; even happy, Norman Rockwell-type evenings taking turns baking and cooking with my neighbors in our kitchens. Unfortunately, there's an evil mist lingering around 202 Maxwell these days. Not long ago, I was roused from a particularly delicious slumber by the phone ringing.
(05/15/97 9:00am)
This past Sunday I chowed a $1 Whopper meal with three friends, courtesy of the East Wheelock Cluster. I must offer my admiration and thanks to the powers-that-be who made my stomach tingle with delight that fine evening; however, I was just as shocked as the rest of the milling throng in Brace Commons when it was announced that there were five Whoppers with no special sauce, and five Whoppers ... gulp ... without meat. This idea, naturally was so that peace and harmony could prevail between five lucky vegetarians in the cluster and the rest of us savage flesh-rippers. Common sense tells us, obviously, that a vegetarian is not ever going to show up to an event serving Whoppers. So, given the fact that there was considerably more demand than there was supply, five carnivorous students got to choke down that Whopping special sauce on a bun. Then, when the announcement was made, it began.
(05/07/97 9:00am)
As the weather continues to warm up and students studying on the Green continue to strip down (some more so than others), your eyes probably wander to the same place that mine do -- the mountains beyond. The leaves are sprouting, summer is around the corner, and suddenly it's a good thing to be outdoors. Every day that it's sunny out, I wonder about what it would be like to be on top of one of those mountains in the distance. I can't really explain why, but let's pretend that I can so you'll keep reading.
(04/08/97 9:00am)
Everyone's said it at one time or another: "I wish I had some time ALONE!" During the week before the start of Spring term I was traveling through Austria solo, in search of this elusive state of contented solitude we all seem to chase and cherish. The overwhelming bustle of my Hanover homecoming enticed me a few days ago to flip through the tattered pages of my trusty journal, and I chanced upon the large chunk penned over those glorious five days. I was surprised by the things I learned about myself. Up to this point my yearning for "quiet time" had become a quasi-obsession. Time alone, in my own view, had become a sort of Golden Fleece; this spring break, flying by the seat of my pants (without toothpaste!) unaccompanied through decaying Old World cities evinced itself as a romantic ideal within my grasp. Here was my chance, at long last, to focus solely and positively on self-discovery. I would devote the space in my journal for these few days to a "better understanding of self." Or so I thought.
(03/26/97 11:00am)
"I let you know in the last letter about a little mixup with Father Floozie," my mother writes. "I promised you a hot scandal -- so sit down, relax, and read -- this news is smoking!"
(10/22/96 9:00am)
There hasn't yet been a good, trashy column about dating at Dartmouth yet this fall. I have been fascinated with the subject ever since matriculation, and I have been counting the days until I could get my nickel's worth on the topic printed in The Dartmouth. Hurrah! Here's my nickel!
(10/11/96 9:00am)
A few days ago, I was having lunch in Collis with my friend Natalie. Usually our conversations ramble on at a breakneck pace, but this particular lunch date seemed sluggish. From the look of her bleary eyes, her entire face was ready to splash down into her bowl of Spicy Vegan Low-Fat Ginger Curry Taboule Surprise at any moment.