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Okay, so obviously there isn’t actually a new pope. That was a stupid joke combining my name with “hope.” This article has nothing to do with the Catholic Church, its leadership or any allegories written by Oxford dons lambasting its values and practices (Although did you hear they’re making a miniseries of the “His Dark Materials” trilogy? Isn’t that wildly exciting? No? Just me? Okay). So here’s what this post is actually about: Living in New York City—the City That Never Apples, The Big Sleep—has given me a different perspective on life at Dartmouth. Now that I am “beyond the bubble,” things up at school just don’t seem quite as, well, important.
I know that astrology is controversial, but most of us have at least peeked at our horoscopes online or in an issue of Cosmopolitan (hahaha, I made a joke). We’ve all been asked what our star signs are, and we’ve all had to endure being sorted into yet another box: Wow, so unpredictable, as per usual, Gemini! Or, in my case: Jeez, you’re such a Cancer! (Make of my Zodiac sign what you will, but I think I’m generally pretty tolerable.)
Amidst all of the plights and struggles of today’s student body in the wake of the “Moving Dartmouth Forward” initiative, we should not forget why the administration chose to changeeverything in the first place: Dartmouth’s decision to open education to women in the 1970s. It seems obvious that the matriculation of women, beginning in the fall of 1972, has sent the College downhill in so many ways, causing thepatriarchy old traditions to fail.
Although I know next to nothing about hockey, I was sent on assignment by my editors to liveblog my experience at the Dartmouth Men’s Hockey game against Quinnipiac last Friday. I was to give a "fan’s-eye perspective" of what was going on (I am using a very loose definition of “fan”). Over the course of two and half hours there was cheering, singing, booing and cursing. Basically, how all sporting events should be. Here’s a minute-by-minute rundown of the major goings-on at Thompson Arena's student section:
I woke up a little late on Sunday. Okay, more than a little late. I woke up and it was lunchtime, the later end of lunchtime. But I woke up with a smile on my face because I knew I was about to order takeout from Big Fatty's BBQ. Ten minutes later I was on the phone, and I said something I thought I would never hear myself say: "I’d like a Fatty Daddy to go, please." Aside from my fear that someone overheard me asking for something called a Fatty Daddy, I knew it was going to be a good afternoon.
If you're anything like me, you’re only reading this article because you saw the words "King Arthur Flour." Don't lie to yourself – you know it's true. KAF is happiness. KAF is love. KAF is life.
As TV’s Alison Brie once bitingly said, "Well, well, well, Harvey Keitel." Entering my second month in the city, I find that I’m missing Hanover more and more. My homesickness was massively exacerbated by the Geisel-authored snowball fight blitz (It’s hard to have a snowball fight when all the snow is entirely liquid, to use the Bristol stool chart’s terminology).
Everyone knows that a theme can make or break any social event. Many of our tried and true tails themes have recently begun to lose their luster, so here aresome alternatives to seven of Dartmouth's most worn-out tails themes.
Tennis Balls: Because Princeton is sooo much preppier than us, right?
’17 #1: “Are you doing math?”’17 #2: “No, I’m doing conspiracy theories.”
Dear 9L Professor,
We may have avoided the twenty-six inches that hit the Mid-Atlantic this week, but there’s snow way to avoid the truth that a blizzard in Hanover is inevitable. Blizzards make possible the Dartmouth winter fun we all love to fail at: skiing, snowball fights and trying to identify people behind big furry hoods. But with the news of an impending snowstorm also come 1) panic and 2) a boatload of questions you don’t have the answers to. Luckily, you have Google for that:
I feel very lucky to be a writer for Dartbeat, because it gives me a chance to prove I’ve got my finger on the pulse of current pop culture. That is why I’ve chosen to share with you a lyrical analysis of Smash Mouth’s 1999 hit “All-Star.” While the lyrics are likely burrowed into your subconscious, you probably haven’t realized that, under scrutiny, the song is a cautionary tale about finding meaning in the pursuit of instant gratification.
It’s been an eventful year in the world thus far. I won’t bore you with the details, since I hope you all read the news, but trust me — 2016 has been lit.
Picture this: It is a fine Tuesday evening. You have just returned from a two-hour workout at the gym. You feast your eyes on a delightful quinoa spinach tofu salad from Collis and a steaming cup of antioxidant-packed tea. While snacking on your holistic protein supplement, however, you suddenly realize that you accidentally finished all your homework the night before. The horror! In a tizzy you look around your room: Your laundry is done, your bed is made, your shelves have been de-cluttered. A single tear rolls down your cheek. You feel lost and devoid of purpose.
Sorority recruitment may be over, but the Dartbeat team never stops living young and wild and free. Our hobbies include writing hard-hitting gif lists, blowing snow from our hands and waving playfully from atop staircases.
It was a slow day at Sunrise Buffet in Lebanon. How slow? Only one other table was occupied, and sitting there was a single employee cutting the ends off green beans. I didn't mind, though. The lack of patrons gave me free reign over the buffet. I felt like a king.
The Oh Hellos—Bitter Water
As small as the Dartmouth campus is, sometimes we still yearn for some quiet alone time. Campus is crawling with hidden rooms, tucked away study spaces and cozy alcoves perfect for escaping the bustling Hanover street(s?). Whether you're hiding from the weird hookup that won't stop flitzing you or in need of a study session (Week 3 midterms, whaaat?), here are the six best places to hide out on campus:
What is sociopathy? After consulting “the literature,” I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been using the term "sociopath" all wrong. Turns out that kid who bumped into me in the stir-fry line probably isn’t a violent sociopath.