Editor's Note
The Mirror's too cool for calendars, I guess.
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The Mirror's too cool for calendars, I guess.
I admit that I feel a little regret about highlighting a website that deserves to have less traffic, not more attention, but B@B is fun to read about and interesting to analyze. Whatever, I'd like to think we're setting the story straight and on the record too. Take that anonymous haters.
Because it's Winter term probably a lot of you are already away from campus, so we're getting off-campus updates from Emily Hirshey on her off-term in New York and news from Lauren Rosenbaum in Nairobi.
Okay, that might be due to a potential case of the flu, but my blitz inbox (or my trash folder is at least...) is overly full of financial information and friends keep making indignant remarks about what parts of the Dartmouth lifestyle we will soon be missing. I'm personally praying that Late Night stays the same. The name will just become a cruel joke if it ends any earlier.
Classes at Dartmouth seem to have tougher requirements, but those standards also vary widely: from the courses that force so many to drop the pre-med track to the overfilled distributive lectures.
The New Year is always a good time to look back and reflect on your life. And because we've all just returned to campus this week, either from a term abroad or just the long holiday break, it's an excellent opportunity to look at our school with open eyes. To me, Hanover looks essentially the same, but it's always snowier than I think possible and I forget that it's dark just about all the time.
So a girl walks into a bar in London. I mean, a pub. A girl walks into a pub. I mean, a girl tries to walk into a pub while also attempting T9 texting on a foreign phone and ends up walking into a glass door. Man, new phones are hard. A girl gives herself a concussion.
Dartmouth's campus is so small that every step out of the way is a mile, and that mile is doubled when you're drunk, impatient to get somewhere, cold, or all three. Though the last two options are not likely to happen in the middle of this heat wave we're experiencing, there is too much to do in these last weeks of sophomore summer to waste any extra time walking. We need to savor every second.
Considering that I asked for an extension for this article and that my experience with technology involves watching a fan slowly dry out an entire cup's worth of coffee spilled into a rental computer (who knows what was wrong with my regular one), I am probably not the most organized or the most tech savvy student on campus. But for those of us who have trouble remembering what day it is, let alone what classes or meetings we have attend or what time that paper is due, trying to keep some level of organization is that much more important.
We all joke about living in the "the Dartmouth bubble" in which all sorts of social norms about things like dating and drinking become deeply skewed. The way we speak is clearly no exception. The geographic isolation of campus lends itself to the creation of our own slang the abnormality of which we only notice when friends come to visit and only understand half of the words in any given conversation.
Keystone can only take you so far.
At the College, where The Dartmouth's own headlines have trumpeted news of the third annual PRIDE Week this past week, this week's Mirror asks, 'How has being a part of the LGBTQA community at Dartmouth changed in the past few years, and where is the community headed in the coming years?'
So I'm a clumsy person, that's definitely true. However, I take no responsibility for the times I've slid in front of Wheeler residence hall, trying to take a short cut up that grassy hill. Let me tell you, that white steel thing is much more slippery than it looks.
Let me start this off by saying that I'm a huge fan of the Hop quesos. A crispy tortilla filled with tomatoes, salsa and oozing cheese: it's by far one of my favorite foods at Dartmouth.
Here's a short list of things I was warned not do in Mexico before leaving for the Spanish Language Study Abroad program:
By Eve Ahearn
I walked down Mass Row, past the Gold Coast, Baker Library and the Fayerweathers, trying to find someone smoking a cigarette to interview for this article. I saw no one. Every time I passed somebody, I started to talk to him or her, only to see that the light was just a reflection from a cell phone; what seemed to be a motion toward the lips was merely nervous nail-biting. I thought this was college: Where are all the smokers?
Listen Emily, (and this goes out to all you other Jews on campus) I get your point. I have a Jewish mother, too. My rebuttal? Try having a Jewish mother to nag you and an Irish-Catholic family on your father's side, and see if you can get through the day without being broken into two pieces by overwhelming waves of guilt.
Ye ignorant, crummy, egotistical, good-for-nothing, lop-eared, chicken-heartened nurslings, lay aside your milk bottle to Read! Learn! Obey! The Delta Alpha Rules for 1916."
"Something subtle, unsaid, something -- well, evil -- something which nags a sense of awe and respect and fear, hides with the lichen covered rocks on the storm-swept summit and lives in the sighing fir trees which carpet the slopes and crowd the valley." So begins the description of Mount Moosilauke in an unidentified handwritten account of the Doc Benton story in the DOC archives in Rauner.