Happy Thanksgiving
It's November, three Thursdays have already passed, the smell of pumpkin pie is in the air (figuratively speaking, of course, unless you're on crack), so you all know must time it must be ...
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It's November, three Thursdays have already passed, the smell of pumpkin pie is in the air (figuratively speaking, of course, unless you're on crack), so you all know must time it must be ...
Well, friends and neighbors, I've just returned from a hearty weekend spent milling about in the frozen flatlands of upstate New York at a little out-of-the-way liberal arts funhouse known as Hamilton College, and my cynicism has been absolutely sapped. Having briefly experienced the misery and tedium of a place other than Dartmouth, my sturm und drang has been positively squelched. I'm a new man.
The tabloids are fond of making political predictions every time a President commences a term in office. They usually dig up Jeanne Dixon or some other New Age hack to deliver a simultaneously vague and convoluted assessment of what the stars and planets portend for our political leaders. Therefore, in the grand tradition of The National Enquirer and The World Weekly News, I give you my astrologically-inclined sign-by-sign predictions for the second term of Arkansas' Favorite Womanizer, Bill Clinton.
Did you hear? The Big Green beat Harvard 6-3 this weekend! Thank merciful Heaven for that!
The vultures are coming to Dartmouth.
Oh Dartmouth, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways ...
I know that you're probably expecting some querulous harangue in this week's column, but if you are, prepare to be relieved. Instead, I give you a paean to those unsung heroes of Dartmouth College: the Troubleshooters.
I'll be honest -- I wasn't going to write about the Presidential campaign. No, I figured I had far too many trivial complaint columns still needing to be voiced: the lack of sandwiches at the Collis Cafe, the fascistic parking policy of the College, the inherent weirdness of Tai Chi ... well, you get the point.
I was sitting in my room last night, a half-smoked Camel Filter casually dangling from my lips, wrapping up the evening's reading of "Richard III" for the next morning's Shakespeare class, listening to some Smashing Pumpkins album "Mellon Collie and the Infinite Pretentiousness," I think feeling rather Edgar Allan Poe-esque, when I heard a knock on the door.
Welcome first-year students!
Maybe it's because of the spring, another pollen-infested spring that brings with it the bane of allergies, and maybe these allergies have started to affect my brain like they always do, but I think I've had just about enough of critical theory.
After a long weekend of mediocre revelry and occasional insanity, a friend and I sat down outside the Hop on a fine rainy Sunday morning. I was satisfied with my French bread pepperoni pizza, although the pepperoni may have been ersatz, and the French bread was not French at all (perhaps it hailed from Luxembourg). Nevertheless, I anticipated a thoroughly enjoyable meal.
Friends, there is nothing quite like the experience of staying up all night, is there?
Down at the smallest, tiniest, most infinitesimally diminutive level of existence, way down past the flies and the crumbs, past the amoeba and the blue-green algae, past the cell and the molecule, past, even, the beloved endoplasmic reticulum, there dwell the mighty elementary particles.
It doesn't take a genius to look around this country and see that something has gone horribly awry. The past 25 years have produced a steady decline in every clever statistic you can shake a sociologist at -- we are a nation experiencing atrophy, a mass of overweight cynics with short attention spans and no savings.
The other day I was talking to a friend of a friend who had just been tapped to join Casque & Gauntlet, Dartmouth's Senior Society for rock 'em sock 'em swank hipsters or some such thing.
Have you ever noticed that all words are defined by other words? There is not a single word in any language whose meaning can be expressed without the deployment of other words that are subject to the very same linguistic limitation. Language, therefore, is a void.
Strolling through the Hop on a fine Thursday afternoon with a couple of good friends, perusing the form letters from the College that comprise the day's Hinman box content, wondering if, in fact, I should join the Sub-Committee on Intra-Campus Interrelational Human Affairs, one of my companions suddenly stops in his tracks.
Welcome back, Leave Termers!
In his novel "White Noise" Don DeLillo observes the omnipresent static of modern life, the hum of refrigerators and microwaves and gargantuan shopping centers, all of which coalesce into an ineffable yet subtly oppressive atmosphere which lends the novel its title. Dartmouth has its own version of this phenomenon, the unceasing din one might call "Green Noise."