Through the Looking Glass: The Great Ashley
(05/07/15 11:29pm)
Ashley was a green light I never expected.
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Ashley was a green light I never expected.
Fashions come into style all the time, and they often go out of style just as easily — the hairstyles you’ll find in a quick leaf through the 1988 College yearbook confirm that in a heartbeat. Other changes at the College, though, are not quite as easy to spot with the naked eye. Here, we take a closer look at changes to how students have communicated over the years, what the most facetimey spots have been and how the job market has evolved.
This is an age of brevity. Mounting time pressures shorten the day, and communication has become increasingly instantaneous and concise. In-person meetings become email threads, email threads become texting conversations and even written text often devolves into Emoji soup. On this campus, even the world “email” is clearly one syllable too long.
Late night,
Scene: Production night for The Mirror. Hanover sleeps.
$845 — The price of Canada Goose Citadel fur-trimmed down parka
How can I be trendier?
It would have been impossible to imagine what this place would be like, what it would mean to call Hanover home. The opportunity to attend a school like Dartmouth, as many will undoubtedly remind you, is an incredible thing. Yet, it seems students often fall into one of two traps — that of either relentless complaints aimed at the College or the unquestioned glorification of College tradition with no critique. And while our time here may be full of friendships, formals and seemingly endless midterm weeks, the true prize of the College is the strength it can give you to go out into the world and have confidence in your ability to make a difference.
Fear not, student body. Yak away about your professors’ in-class jokes and the long list of things you’d rather do than sit through one more lab. Your instructors aren’t going to downvote your posts — they probably won’t read them. When I asked some of the youngest faculty on campus if they frequented Yik Yak, the most common response I received was “What?”
It would have been impossible to imagine what this place would be like, what it would mean to call Hanover home. The opportunity to attend a school like Dartmouth, as many will undoubtedly remind you, is an incredible thing. Yet, it seems students often fall into one of two traps — that of either relentless complaints aimed at the College or the unquestioned glorification of College tradition with no critique. And while our time here may be full of friendships, formals and seemingly endless midterm weeks, the true prize of the College is the strength it can give you to go out into the world and have confidence in your ability to make a difference.
The dance floor is crowded — it’s a Friday night after all. I wind my way around raised arms, shaking booties and that one person trying to twerk on the wall in the corner. Covered in the sweat of 20 different strangers, I finally reach the stage at the back of the room. The DJ stand would be the best view in the house, except for the fact that about 10 students have stood up on the edge, jumping and screaming along to the music. Jun Oh ’16, who’s controlling the music for tonight, holds on to his equipment for dear life as the table bounces to the beat.
I first hopped on a blue line bus in front of the Life Science Center on a Friday afternoon.
At some point this weekend, I overheard Mikayla Delores-Burt — one of my associates — stumble over the last word of Sir Mix-a-Lot’s most famous line with hilarious results: “I like big butts, and I cannot die.” One can only dream up the sort of Sophoclean figure who would have cause to utter this tragic complaint, struck with the affliction of an all-consuming predilection for engorged booty, protracted through the ages by immortality — a fate to rival that of Tithonus no doubt. Alternatively, one can imagine Zeus slamming Heinekens with Ares after he’d just finished canoodling Io or Europa or any other of his many mortal maiden conquests, high-fiving and slurring, “Bro! You already know about me, bro. I like big butts, and I cannot die. Let’s go father some improbable monsters with lots of different animal parts and drop them into Thebes. How about it ya jamoke?”
What a week. Writing this column in the midst of crises in Baltimore and Nepal, this all feels silly. And yet here we are.
If last week Charlie and Maddie were just entering the delicate phase of a partnership, this week saw a gargantuan struggle for the reins of power in the back corner of Robinson Hall.
What’s the next dancing sensation now that twerking is out?
19 — The age of Alia Sabur, the world’s youngest college professor
It could take 10 weeks, six months, maybe two years. That’s the thing with mental health — you can never predict with certainty when, how or even if healing will take place.
Like many of us here, I rage every Saturday. Once 6 p.m. rolls around, I grab dinner with a couple of my friends and then head off for a series of escapades, often stretching into the wee hours of the night. In the interest of transparency, however, I should let you know it is not me, per se, who is raging, but rather my level 12 dwarf-barbarian — he wields a greathammer, name of Einar.