You Can Go Home Again
Yes, Franky, you can go home again. You just can't get there from here. Home has to come to you, and that can happen.
Yes, Franky, you can go home again. You just can't get there from here. Home has to come to you, and that can happen.
After seeing the post-convention polls putting him 17 points behind and momentum clearly going against him, Al Gore must have felt desperation.
I'd like to take this particular column as an opportunity to recognize an oft-overlooked segment of our society.
To the Editor: In Tuesday's edition of The Dartmouth, a story read, "For the first time ever, this fall seniors will have the option of selecting off-campus housing owned by the College through the Office of Residential Life" The Foley House, located on the corner of Maple and West Street has been a College owned, off-campus residence for over 20 years.
During the recent Class of 2002 Family weekend, my family came up to Hanover to visit with me and to get a better sense of what my life at Dartmouth College is like.
Life. We're in it. For the long haul. It's what we do. We get up in the morning, shower -- most of us -- dress neatly -- some of us -- and trudge/bike/drive/ into the day. Life.
Much to the amusement of my family and friends, I recently became a legal resident of New Hampshire.
I have found a very moving force in the world, in my life. And for the first time ever, I feel the need to convert others to my way of thinking, to reverse the often-innate repulsion of country music that most of you probably hold and convince you to take a chance on the Dixie Chicks. For those totally in the dark, I should explain that the Dixie Chicks are a huge country music sensation.
Some Dartmouth students say that New Hampshire winters are nothing compared to those in Michigan and Minnesota and Maine.
Welcome to college, folks. Everything you need to know about pursuing a degree in higher education will be blitzed to you, at least 25 times a term, by well-meaning people who haven't yet figured out that everyone has read those forwards that tell you why college is like kindergarten, that teach you how to convince your roommate you're a walking psychopath and that remind you that a dorm is a real-life manifestation of everything Dante wrote about. The most useful thing that I can tell you about Dartmouth is do not settle for anything.
It was so appropriate that I was blitzed this summer and asked to write a column for the freshman issue of The D.
If you'd asked me two years ago whether I would join a sorority in college, I probably would have given you the standard, skeptical, "Me?
Welcome to the rest of your life. Sounds dramatic, huh? It is. You are at a milestone in your life.
Before I came to the rolling green hills of New Hampshire, I was like any other incoming freshman -- not of age, anxious and, of course, spectacular in bed.
Nothing's worse than a dry, pretentious college kid. Well, okay, there's the college kid who finds that his summer job consists of writing articles about small town politics, choosing from such impressive issues as "should we open the '7-11' 24 hours a day?" or "can we put stools at the bar in the Chinese restaurant?" Not to say that this is my job.
Before I get to the column proper, let me say that I am appalled at the Republican annointee's choice for a running mate.
After all the hoopla created as much by the press as the campaign, presumptive GOP nominee George W.
Yes, it was inevitable. A sequel to the popular, yet controversial column that ran at the end of '98 Fall term was unavoidable: there are many things on this great green globe that deserve immortalization here.
I broke my arm late last week but I vowed to make every attempt not to let it ruin my Tubestock weekend.
Books are caskets, vainly walled against decomposing time: knowledge eternally embalmed. Lightly pressing the 1-inch wooden frame covered by thick, ornate, faded lambskin, the heavy, brass clasps snap open.