The Gospel according to Matthew
Last weekend was pretty much the quintessential Dartmouth weekend.
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Last weekend was pretty much the quintessential Dartmouth weekend.
With the exception of the time my friend Sally and I accidentally drove a four-wheeler off a cliff in Lake City, Colorado we managed to throw ourselves off and remain mostly unharmed, but the ATV ended up at the bottom of the mountain, crushed like a beer can I have never been more afraid for my life than during the story I am about to tell you.
"Questions of Interpretation of Abstract Art" was pretty much the wackest class I have ever taken at Dartmouth. Of course, it was my freshman seminar during my freshman Fall. So needless to say this was not a particularly sane time in my life, but this class was not helping matters.
When I am alone on a long run in the rain in May, heading out through Norwich, up past Maple Hill and down past Bradley Hill; when the pavement ends, and I pass those sad cows at Goodrich Four Corners (not people, cows); when, after miles of trying to visualize my legs (not legs, life) like a train on the tracks, I catch sight of Baker Tower between a crease in the hills, away across the river: This is happiness, for me.
Nothing means summer is coming more clearly than the voice of Joe Castiglione, the announcer for the Boston Red Sox. To me anyway. At home in Maine, his narration of the game's rhythm has been the background music in every setting, season after season. In the car on the way to everywhere, but even in our living room, when my Dad is too exasperated with the poor reception our television gets with its bunny-ears antennas.
I had previously decided to write this week's column about the 10 things I love most about Dartmouth College, and I returned home this afternoon to do just that.
Since the theme of the Mirror this week is "Censor yourself!" I would like to tell you about the day I decided to stop doing exactly that.
"Your drawing," said the woman with a shaved head, after several minutes of silent contemplation, and paused again. "Is beautiful," she continued, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her long robes. "It is beautiful in how completely pathetic it is."
Every four years the Winter Olympics roll around, to remind us all of something we try to pretend does not exist: figure skating. We watch, horrified, as each outfit gets more hideous, the death-spirals get too real, and, as the judges reveal their scores, all dignity finally disappears. Watching Evan Lysacek sob after winning his gold made me want to sick Tonya Harding on him.
St. Billy was the son of an important political family from Ohio. He was everything a prince should be: handsome, polite, bright and blond. But somewhere along the lines after Billy left Ohio for Washington, D.C., things went wrong. Two years later, when he was 20, his parents were afraid he had died. Billy was living on the streets of DC, spending each night with strange men, completely addicted to crystal meth.
Hush, internet, don't tell my mom, but: last week I got a tattoo.
To the troglodytes of Bored@Baker,
It is the most beautiful day in October, the autumn of my sophomore year far too beautiful to be going to class. I field a call from a boy I met the previous week and in another few minutes I am jumping into his sports car and speeding off through the falling leaves and into Vermont. His frat's golden retriever is in the backseat; we head for the fire tower. It's like a music montage from a bad movie: speeding down back roads, then racing each other up the trail; stopping to kiss and then sprinting ahead again, the trees all ablaze.
I am barreling down the perfectly straight and perpetually deserted last leg of Highway 285 in southwestern Colorado. After the dreaded speed-trap ghost town of Saguache, (pronounced "Sasquatch" by East Coast brats working on a ranch for the summer) you can floor it all the way to Monte Vista. The odometer is hovering around 100 mph. I haven't slept in 48 hours.
Lights slowly rise. Many dancers stage right: school of fish, school of fish, pirouette. Solo dancer, stage left: coy. One hand snakes out, freezes. Circle. Now square! Suddenly rushes towards school of fish. In center of school: spin, pirouette! Fingers flutter, twinkle toes! Sleep with everyone! Crash suddenly to floor. Assume fetal position. Cut lights.
This is a swirling, cloak and dagger tale; a story of secret societies, campus celebrities and media tycoons. This is nothing less than the death of conservatism at Dartmouth, and the birth of the Lone Pine Revolution.
Religion and spirituality at Dartmouth, huh? The most religious person I have ever known at Dartmouth was a drug dealer. He was a two-sport recruit and converted to Catholicism. I used to watch him blow lines at 6 a.m. and then I'd sleep in as he'd be off at 8 a.m. to drive some elderly people to their doctor's appointments in Manchester, as community service for the Catholic student association, or whatever.
Flashback to late one afternoon this autumn, just before classes began. I'm returning from a half-hearted run, hungover and full of thoughts. I pass that zen garden on Huntley Street, which I do often. Though I've never stopped, this time I do.
Blah blah blah Animal House blah blah. Where the f*ck is Human House. I want to go to there. Hiccup.
An affiliated female student who lost her virginity through sexual assault by a fraternity brother, and then couldn't convince her friends, or herself, that there is anything else to do here but go back to hanging out in his basement.